The basement of the old church reeks of mildew and turpentine.
As I follow Claire down the last wooden step, the kerosene lamp sways overhead, stretching our shadows into twisted vines. Peeling wallpaper reveals a faded religious painting: a saint holding a burning cross, standing atop a finned monster—its eyes scraped blurry by a blade, yet still bearing a faint resemblance to the Stellar Whale.
"About time."
The speaker is a man in overalls, a copy of Principles of Steam Mechanics spread across his knees, its cover stained with oil. When he looks up, I notice a brass eyepatch over his left eye, etched with the Temporal Guild's emblem. "I'm Old Hawke, the mechanic. Fix the Owl Society's 'astrolabe.'" He raps a metal cabinet in the corner. "Bloody thing's been acting up—needles spinning like a drunk."
Claire lays the Remnants on an oak table, the lamp casting a dim yellow glow over its pages. "This is Mr. Lin Che, our new recruit. A potential Stargazer." She gestures to a woman in the corner. "Miss Isabelle, a former noble orphan. She communicates with 'Vision Pigeons'—a breed that senses Void ripples."
Isabelle looks up, her bustle bone-white, a wilted blue rose pinned in her hair. "The pigeons brought three messages yesterday." She pulls three yellowed notes from a brooch. "One from a dock fisherman, claiming 'moving constellations' hovered on the horizon. Another from a mill child, saying machines wove 'snake-patterned cloth' at midnight. And the last…" Her voice drops. "From a nurse at St. Mary's. She swears corpses chanted the 'Eclipse Liturgy' in the morgue."
I clutch the Remnants in my pocket. The pages burn suddenly.
"Mr. Lin, try this." Old Hawke pulls a brass device from the cabinet—like an oversized pocket watch, its face etched with zodiac signs. "Modified astrological compass. Catches stellar anomalies within five kilometers. Put your hand on it—"
The moment my palm touches the metal, the compass convulses. Its needle spins wildly before slamming into "Void Sun," letting out a shrill buzz.
"As expected." Claire takes out her silver hexagram badge; the sapphire at its center glows. "Stargazer blood activates stellar artifacts." She turns to Isabelle. "The Vision Pigeons reported the eclipse index rose 0.03% last night."
"0.03%?" Old Hawke freezes. "It took a month to hit 0.01% last time. At this rate—" He yanks off his eyepatch, revealing a bloodshot eye. "Thirty years fixing steam clocks, never seen this. Last week, I found a black tendril jammed in City Hall's gears. Hard as iron, but it reeked of rotting fish."
Isabelle's blue rose trembles, beads of moisture seeping from its petals. "My pigeons are feverish." She strokes the wilted bloom. "They stare southeast when they eat. There… there are eyes there. More than the Whale's scales."
Silence settles over the basement.
I glance at the Remnants. Where the compass's vibrations had jostled the pages, new blood writing has appeared: "Void Sun will eclipse, Whale opens its eyes. Stargazer must grasp the orbit, find the 'Anchor.'"
"Anchor?" Old Hawke repeats. "The Remnants mention it—nodes linking reality and the Void. The last Stargazer used one to seal the Whale during the Fog Disaster. But he went mad, muttering it was 'in a crack of time.'"
"A crack of time?" Isabelle frowns. "My grandfather's diary said the same. He was Temporal Guild's chief. On a foggy night in 1873, the clock tower's mechanisms reversed. Time crumpled like paper—could that be the Anchor?"
Claire suddenly stands, crossing to an old pendulum clock in the corner. Its pendulum is still; the face reads 11:55. "This is the Owl Society's 'Baseline Clock,' anchored to the church's foundation stone." She adjusts the pendulum, metal screeching in the silence. "If the eclipse index hits 1%, this clock stops. Reality erodes. We'll become 'living corpses'—like the dock workers."
I recall the mad sailors from three days ago. Their eyes clouded, muttering "Whale eats stars," until they were chained to asylum beds, nails gouging five deep grooves in the wood.
"How do we find the Anchor?" I ask.
When Claire turns, her brass bangles flash. "The Remnants say: 'Stargazer must mirror the stars with their own flesh.'" She flips to the last page, showing a masked figure holding a star chart. "We need the 'Stellar Ritual.' But it requires seven 'Astrological Relics.' We have the compass and badge."
Old Hawke taps the metal cabinet. "I've got half a moonstone gear. Salvaged from a broken steam clock. Glows with the moon's phases."
Isabelle pulls a velvet box from her bustle, opening it to reveal a broken silver whistle. "A pigeon whistle. Keeps Vision Pigeons lucid, briefly."
"Five more to find." Claire's voice darkens. "The key one is a 'Source Fragment'—a shard of the Old Gods, stabilizes the orbit." She meets my gaze. "The last Stargazer visited the Red Theater's underground vault before vanishing. It holds—"
Ding—
The clock chimes.
We freeze. The Baseline Clock's pendulum has started swinging, its chime muffled, as if underwater.
"It's midnight," Old Hawke stares at the face. "But it's only 10:47."
Isabelle's Vision Pigeon bursts from her hair, circling the basement with sharp, panicked cries.
The Remnants' pages flutter wildly, settling on a map drawn in gold dust: the Red Theater's vault, entrance beneath the third stage plank.
"Go." Claire grabs the Remnants. "The eclipse index might hit 0.05% tonight. We're out of time."
As I follow her up the stairs, Old Hawke calls after me: "Mr. Lin! Stargazer's power isn't born—it's learned! Think! Your past life's occult studies—any records of the 'Stellar Ritual'?"
The fog outside has thickened.
I press a hand to the Remnants against my chest. Its warmth seeps through my shirt, like a living pulse.
Above Beren Port, seven stars align slowly, pointing toward the Red Theater.