Nox's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

Nox carried the thickest book from the library to the memorial stone. The pages described bindings—threads of magic that connected the caster to their victim. If those threads still existed, they might lead back to the person who did this. Nox set the book on the ground and studied the carved names again. Twelve transformations meant twelve possible bindings. The stone felt cold under Nox's palm. No warmth. No pulse of magic. Just dead rock and dead names. Nox pulled away and closed the book. The statue had given what it could. Time to search elsewhere. The clock tower stood at the edge of the square, taller than any other structure nearby. Its stone walls wore sheets of ivy that climbed toward the broken clock face at the top. Nox stared up at the frozen hands. They pointed to numbers worn smooth by years of rain and wind. The clock had stopped working long ago—maybe before the transformations began, maybe after. Either way, it had watched. It had been here when those twelve names were carved. Nox moved closer and pressed against the base of the tower. The stones felt different than the memorial—warmer somehow, like they held onto daylight longer. The tendrils spread across the surface, searching for cracks or hidden marks. Nothing. But the height meant vision. If Nox could reach the top, they could see across the whole area. They could spot patterns in how people moved through the streets below. The hunt needed eyes above, not just shadows below. Nox began to climb.