The Keeper’s Warning

The city of Rivervale had a way of keeping its secrets—shadows crept into every corner, as though the very walls knew things they had no intention of sharing. The streets twisted in strange angles, guiding those who wandered into places they’d never meant to go. And Clea Trask, despite her skills as a thief, was no different from the others. She had no choice but to follow the whispers of the glass shard that still burned in her pocket.

But it wasn’t just the shard that haunted her now. It was the dream.

She’d spent the past two nights awake, unable to shake the feeling that something—someone—was reaching out to her. It wasn’t just the woman on the cliff anymore, though she was there, her cold eyes staring back at Clea with an expression that bordered on warning. No, it was something else, something deeper, a presence that made the hairs on the back of Clea’s neck stand at attention.

That’s when she decided to return.



Clea didn’t know what she was looking for, but she knew she had to find it. If she could just get back to the Glass Tower, maybe the answers would reveal themselves, or at least the way to stop the dreams. She couldn’t risk losing her mind to visions of fire and forgotten memories.



The streets were quieter in the early hours, the mist creeping low around the cobblestones, and the air was thick with the scent of wet stone. Clea made her way toward the heart of the city, where the tower stood—a gleaming spire that seemed to pulse with some unseen rhythm.

As she approached the tower, the strange hum of energy in her bones began to intensify. The air was alive with a crackling tension, like the entire city was holding its breath. She reached for the shard in her pocket, and it pulsed once more in response. It had become a part of her now, its presence inescapable, like an extension of her own body.

But before she could take another step, a figure stepped out of the shadows. The man was tall, cloaked in layers of dark fabric that seemed to absorb the light, making him appear less human than something otherworldly.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the man said, his voice as cold as the mist that clung to the city. “The Glass Tower is not a place for the curious, nor for thieves.”

Clea’s heart skipped a beat. She instinctively took a step back, but something inside her pushed her forward. “I’m not just here to steal something,” she said, her voice steady despite the unease spreading through her. “I need to know what’s happening to me.”

The man’s eyes were the color of storm clouds—shifting, unsettling, like they held a thousand untold stories. “You’ve already been marked by the tower,” he said softly. “There’s no going back now.”

Clea narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”

He tilted his head slightly, as if the question amused him. “I am the Glass Keeper. The one bound to the tower. The one who keeps what should never be free.”

The words sent a chill down her spine. “What do you mean, ‘keeps what should never be free’?”

The Keeper glanced toward the tower, his expression unreadable. “The glass is not a gift—it is a prison. And the creature it contains is far older than anything you could imagine. You’ve cracked the seal by taking that shard. Now, it is awake, and it will come for you.”

Clea’s pulse quickened, and the shard in her pocket pulsed in response. She could feel the weight of its power pressing against her chest. “What creature? What’s inside the tower?”

The Keeper’s lips thinned. “A being who existed before the first river was carved through the earth. A creature who can bend time itself. It was locked away long ago, sealed in the glass, to prevent it from unraveling the world."

Clea’s head spun. “And I’ve... released it?”

The Keeper nodded slowly. “The moment you took that shard, you broke the seal. The tower was never meant to be approached by outsiders, not even by those who think they can steal from it. Now, you must decide whether you will try to fix your mistake—or whether you will let the creature return and rewrite the world as it wishes.”

Clea swallowed hard. “Fix my mistake? How? How do I stop it?”

The Keeper’s eyes narrowed. “The creature’s power is tied to the tower’s heart. Only by destroying the tower can the creature be trapped again. But be warned—destroying it comes with a price.”

Clea felt the weight of his words sink in. “What price?”

The Keeper’s gaze softened for a fraction of a second, but only long enough for Clea to see the sorrow there. “Time. Time will not be kind to you. And you will never know if your actions were enough.”

Before Clea could respond, the Keeper turned and began walking toward the tower, his steps slow, deliberate. “Come,” he called without looking back. “There is little time left.”

Clea hesitated, her mind racing. But the dreams—the fire, the scream, the face that haunted her—drove her forward. She had no choice but to follow him. The tower awaited, and so did the answers.

And the creature was waiting for them both.