The Blackwood mansion stood like a fortress against the storm, its towering spires piercing the heavy gray sky. Rain lashed against the windows, the wind howling like a wounded animal. Inside, the air was thick with tension, the kind that made Estalia's chest ache and her hands tremble. She stood in the center of the parlor, her violin case clutched tightly to her side, her dark wavy hair clinging to her face in damp strands.
"You will marry him, Estalia," her father said, his voice as cold and unyielding as the marble floors beneath their feet. Gregory Blackwood was a man of precision, his words as sharp as the scalpel he wielded in the operating room. "The Harringtons are an influential family. This is an opportunity you cannot refuse."
Estalia's heart pounded, her fingers tightening around the handle of her violin case. "An opportunity for whom? For me? Or for you?"
Her mother, Eleanor, stepped forward, her elegant figure silhouetted against the firelight. She was a woman of sharp angles and sharper words, her beauty as calculated as the blueprints she drafted for her architectural designs. "Don't be ungrateful, Estalia. This is what's best for you. You're not like your siblings. You don't have their… talents. This is your chance to secure your future."
The words cut deeper than Estalia cared to admit. She had always been the ordinary one in a family of extraordinary people. Her older brothers, Alexander and Julian, were prodigies in their respective fields—Alexander a renowned physicist and Julian a rising political figure. Her younger brothers, Lucas and Oliver, were already making names for themselves in engineering and medicine. Even her sister, Isabelle, though younger, was a prodigy in mathematics, her brilliance celebrated at every family gathering.
But Estalia? She was just a girl who loved her violin and dreamed of a life beyond the walls of her family's expectations.
"I don't want to marry him," Estalia said, her voice trembling but firm. "I want to live my own life. I want to study music, to play my violin, to—"
"Music?" her father interrupted, his voice dripping with disdain. "Do you think music will put food on the table? Do you think it will earn you the respect of society? You're not a child anymore, Estalia. It's time to grow up."
Estalia's eyes burned with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. She looked at her siblings, who sat silently on the plush couches, their faces unreadable. None of them spoke up for her. None of them ever did.
"You don't understand," she said, her voice breaking. "You've never understood me. None of you have."
Her mother sighed, a sound of exasperation that made Estalia's stomach twist. "We're trying to help you, Estalia. You're not like the others. You need this."
"I don't need this!" Estalia shouted, her voice echoing through the room. "I need you to see me. To see who I am, not who you want me to be!"
Her father's face darkened, his jaw tightening. "Enough of this nonsense. You will marry Edward Harrington, and that's final."
Estalia's chest heaved, her hands trembling as she clutched her violin case. She looked at her family, at their cold, unyielding faces, and felt something inside her snap.
"No," she said, her voice low but steady. "I won't."
Without another word, she turned and ran from the room, her footsteps echoing on the marble floors. The sound of her parents' voices followed her, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.
The storm outside was relentless, the rain soaking through her clothes as she fled down the cobblestone streets. Her violin case banged against her side, a comforting weight amidst the chaos. She didn't know where she was going—only that she couldn't stay.
She found herself at the clocktower, its silhouette looming against the stormy sky. The British Royal Library was housed within, a place she had always loved. It was where her grandfather, Alaric Blackwood, had worked as a curator before his death. He had been the only one who understood her, the only one who had encouraged her love of music.
The doors were unlocked, as if waiting for her. Estalia stepped inside, the warmth of the library wrapping around her like a blanket. The air smelled of aged paper and wood polish, and the faint hum of the clocktower filled the silence. She made her way to the back of the library, where a small, unassuming door stood hidden behind a bookshelf.
She had always been curious about that door. Her grandfather had once told her it led to a place where time stood still. She had thought it was just a story, a whimsical tale to amuse a child. But now, with her heart pounding and her mind racing, she reached for the handle.
The door creaked open, revealing a narrow staircase that spiraled downward into darkness. Estalia hesitated, her hand tightening on her violin case. She thought of her family, of the life they had planned for her. She thought of her violin, of the music that had always been her escape. And she thought of her grandfather, of the stories he had told her about a place where time stood still.
She took a deep breath and stepped through the door.
The staircase seemed to go on forever, the air growing colder with each step. Estalia's breath came in shallow gasps, her heart pounding in her ears. At last, she reached the bottom, where a faint light glowed in the distance.
She stepped into the light and froze.
The room was unlike anything she had ever seen. The walls were lined with clocks of every shape and size, their hands ticking in unison. A large, ornate desk sat in the center of the room, covered in maps and strange artifacts. The air hummed with energy, as if the room itself were alive.
"Where am I?" Estalia whispered, her voice trembling.
"You're in the Clocktower," a voice said, soft and melodic.
Estalia turned to see a man standing in the shadows, his figure tall and lean. He stepped into the light, his face illuminated by the glow of the clocks. He was older, with silver hair and kind eyes that reminded her of her grandfather.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The man smiled faintly. "My name is Alan. And you, my dear, are in a place where time has no meaning."
Estalia's breath caught in her throat. "But… how?"
Alan stepped closer, his eyes studying her with a mixture of curiosity and sadness. "You've always been different, haven't you? Not like the rest of your family. They couldn't see it, but I could. You have a gift, Estalia. A gift that brought you here."
She shook her head, her mind racing. "I don't understand."
"You will," Alan said, his voice gentle. "But first, you must make a choice. You can go back to the life you left behind, or you can step through that door." He gestured to a small, unassuming door on the far side of the room. "But be warned—once you step through, there's no turning back."
Estalia's heart pounded as she looked at the door. She thought of her family, of the life they had planned for her. She thought of her violin, of the music that had always been her escape. And she thought of her grandfather, of the stories he had told her about a place where time stood still.
She took a deep breath and stepped toward the door.