Kael had always hated that clock.
It ticked too loudly, ran two minutes fast, and had a crack slicing across its glass face like a scar on a blind man. Every time it struck the hour, it sounded like a mechanical goose choking on its last breath. But his aunt refused to throw it away.
"It belonged to your father," she always said, in that tone that turned every conversation into a guilt trip and every object into a memorial.
Kael glared at it now, sprawled across the creaky old sofa, a math textbook open on his stomach and completely ignored. The clock struck five. He winced. So did the ceiling.
His younger brother, Ren, was on the floor beside him, building yet another impossibly elaborate house of cards. It was his third attempt today. The first two had collapsed when their neighbor's sonic toothbrush went off through the paper-thin walls.
"You know it's going to fall again," Kael said.
Ren didn't look up. "I adjusted for the vibrations this time."
"Right. You're a genius, Ren. When the house of cards revolution happens, you'll be emperor."
"At least I'm not failing math."
Kael opened his mouth, paused, then grunted. Fair enough.
There was a knock at the door. Three sharp raps, followed by a long pause, then two more. Aunt Mara's signature knock.
Kael sat up reluctantly. His body ached in a way that made no sense for someone who did nothing all day. Just before he reached the door, it opened anyway.
Aunt Mara walked in like she always did—tired, overworked, and carrying a bag that had clearly been through several wars and a minor apocalypse.
"Food," she said, holding up a grease-stained takeout box like it was the Holy Grail.
Kael grabbed it before she could change her mind. "Bless you, Aunt of sustenance."
She gave him a dry look and ruffled Ren's hair, which caused a card to wobble dangerously. "Try not to burn the apartment down while I shower. Again."
"That was once, and it was the toaster's fault."
"It was a banana."
"It looked like a toaster."
She walked off without another word.
Kael popped open the box and nearly cried. Actual meat. Not the synthetic protein cubes from last week. Not bean loaf. Real, greasy, artery-destroying meat.
Ren leaned in. "Is that… chicken?"
Kael pulled it away. "Back! This is sacred. Go eat air like the rest of the peasants."
Ren pouted. "I helped clean the fan."
"And I carried emotional trauma for both of us. We all suffer."
He handed over a leg. They sat in silence, the kind only shared between people who'd survived shared poverty and government-issued rice packets.
Then Ren said, "Have you ever wondered if Dad had a sigil?"
Kael nearly choked. He looked at Ren sharply, but the boy's eyes were serious.
"What?"
"A sigil," Ren said, chewing slowly. "I mean, everyone gets tested at school, but what if he had one? What if that's why he disappeared?"
Kael frowned. "He didn't disappear. He died. The bridge collapse, remember?"
"Yeah, but… they never found the body."
Kael sighed. "Because the river swallowed it. We've been over this."
Ren didn't respond. His fingers picked at a loose thread on the carpet.
Kael leaned back, staring at the cracked ceiling. "Sigils are rare, Ren. One in ten thousand rare. We're barely scraping rent. If we had sigil blood, someone would've noticed by now."
Ren was quiet.
Kael didn't like that quiet.
He finished the chicken leg, wiped his fingers on his shirt, and stood up. "Want to go through the junk box?"
Ren looked up. "The attic?"
"Yeah. You've been weird all day. Let's see if we can find Dad's ancient potato cannon or whatever he used to build."
Ren's face lit up.
The attic was barely a crawlspace. It smelled like forgotten memories and old socks. Kael pulled open the hatch, and they climbed the narrow ladder with the precision of two people who knew exactly which rungs would collapse under pressure.
The attic was filled with old tech parts, broken frames, weird tools, and boxes with labels like "Kael's teeth" (which Kael tried not to think about).
They dug through the junk for half an hour.
And then Ren found it.
It was a small metal box, no larger than a shoe. Locked. Old. Strange grooves lined its sides, not like hinges or screws, but like veins. It pulsed slightly under the light. Not enough to be certain. But enough to wonder.
Kael took it, turned it over. No handle. No keyhole.
"Think this is a sigil relic?" Ren asked.
Kael rolled his eyes. "It's probably a glorified lunchbox."
Then, the box clicked.
He froze.
The grooves on its surface shifted slightly. A faint hiss echoed in the space, like something breathing after a long time. It was subtle. Kael could've blamed it on the wind.
But it wasn't wind.
He opened the box.
Inside was a single piece of obsidian, polished and smooth. When the light hit it, tiny patterns shimmered just beneath the surface—like circuitry, or veins, or writing that didn't belong in this century.
Kael touched it.
And the world lurched.
Not the attic. Not gravity. Not anything normal.
His thoughts convulsed.
He saw flickers. A city made of silver arches. Towers rising into clouds of fire. People with light in their chests. Screaming. Silence. Endless silence. The feeling of falling up.
Then it stopped.
Kael dropped the obsidian. It didn't shatter. Didn't even chip. It simply lay there, quietly humming with something ancient.
"Kael?" Ren's voice was faint.
Kael blinked. Sweat soaked his shirt. His pulse thudded like a war drum.
He stood slowly, chest heaving.
"Okay," he whispered. "That's new."