Conversations on Science, Culture and Time
The Final Lantern
The Watchman moved through the town at a pace that didn’t disturb the mist. The hour was late, but not entirely still — distant shutters clicked in the wind, and somewhere a bell had lost count of the hour and was tolling vaguely in protest. He passed beneath it without looking up. Lantern by lantern, he paused, reached for the wick, and gently extinguished it with a practiced motion that felt older than his hands.
The dog walked beside him — a border collie, black and white, eyes bright with a memory the man no longer had. He carried no lead, needed no instruction. He simply walked where he walked, stopped where he stopped. Once, he barked at a familiar alley, but the Watchman only frowned and moved on.
He didn’t know the town’s name. He didn’t know his own. But he knew which lanterns to put out.
The Unweaving
The frost deepened with every step. Trees wore it like lace, and the very air began to hum — not with life, but with memory. This was Oracle ground now, and the world knew better than to misbehave under her gaze. Ambrose had met her once before. Not officially. Not under Guild sanction. It was decades ago, during the Warden Schism, when entire villages vanished and no one could decide whether to classify it as sabotage or an atmospheric phenomenon. He’d found his way into the Oracle’s threshold by accident — or perhaps by invitation poorly disguised as coincidence. They'd argued, naturally. Not with shouting, but with precision. She questioned a choice he had made involving a tethered soul and a corrupted clocktower. He, in turn, accused her of confusing detachment with wisdom.
She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t needed to. Every word she spoke seemed to arrive already proven. Ambrose had walked out of that meeting with a headache, an unsettled ego, and the distinct impression that she hadn’t disliked him — merely catalogued him. Like a particularly verbose contradiction in a dusty footnote. He hadn’t planned on ever seeing her again. But somewhere, in a quiet and professionally inconvenient corner of his mind, he’d always wondered how the next conversation might go.
Splinters of Regret
The vial fell — a crystalline sigh rather than a crash — and for the space of a heartbeat nothing moved. But then a lavender mist boiled outward, curling across the floorboards like seawater meeting sand. The hanging lamps dimmed to guttering embers; every glass surface in the shop reflected a different, earlier moment, as though time itself were trying on alternate histories. Miles felt the Warden‑sigil on his palm ignite. The scent of marshfire and peat overwhelmed him — Tarnwood, again, with its chorus of half‑born shadows. He braced against the shelf, muttering a grounding charm through clenched teeth.
Tobias stumbled back, thread‑sense reeling under a storm of unmoored memories. Crimson strands winked in and out of being overhead, ready to snag on anything solid. He flicked his fingers and silver filaments leapt from his spool, weaving themselves into a hurried lattice that tried — vainly — to coax order from the chaos.
Shadows of the Oracle
“Hmm,” murmured Tobias, frowning as he tucked the spool into a hidden pocket of his cloak. “We both felt that rift, after all. If something’s tampering with the Boundary, it’s not some idle hobby. They must be dabbling in powers they don’t understand.” He flicked his gaze downwards as a blunt-nosed bulldog waddled into the room. Cecil, his jowls quivering with each breath, seemed eternally unimpressed by the concept of cosmic threats.
[…]
Thus prepared, they set out. Horses had been borrowed from a taciturn stablehand who asked no questions—Tumbledown’s sort-of watchers were generally given a wide berth when they came round with that certain gleam in their eyes. The morning was crisp, and the air carried the faint perfume of wild herbs. As they rode over the softly undulating hills, Tobias and Miles occupied themselves with idle observations and the occasional jibe. They travelled in watchful silence for a time, hooves thudding against packed earth. At length, Tobias cast Miles a sidelong glance, jaw set.
Rumbles in Tumbledown
[…] Rifts were rare—accidents in the natural order of things. Most inhabitants of Tumbledown wouldn’t recognise one if it glowed pink and started yodelling, but Tobias was no ordinary inhabitant. He set down a scroll he’d been perusing (something about an obscure centuries-old wormwood ale recipe) and pressed his palm to the damp cobblestone. A faint whisper of energy played across his fingertips […] that hum in the air felt more like what he’d first suspected. He exhaled slowly, torn between apprehension and a strange flicker of excitement. Rumours of a rogue artisan had reached him in hushed tones—someone dabbling in intangible bargains, weaving regrets and memories like a tapestry waiting to unravel. Could this fledgling rift be tied to that meddling?