The clock in the distance began to chime. The gears of the Abyss turned faster. The Tragedy of Sablier was not over. It was only beginning.
“Contractor?” Oz’s voice was a rusted thing.
“Maybe I was never meant to exist,” he said, his voice steady. “But I’m here. And I’m not a key. I’m not a doll. I’m Oz. And I’ll decide my own ending.”
On his fifteenth birthday, the clock lied. pandora heart oz
The first time he summoned her fully, he learned the cost. He felt the cold creep of the Abyss into his own heart, the whispers of the dead slithering behind his own thoughts. The more he used her power, the less human he became. He was a door, and each battle left it a little more ajar.
“Oz?” Gil’s voice cracked. “It’s been… ten years.” Alice was a Chain, a monstrous being from the Abyss, but she was also a broken thing. She had no memories. Her only clue was the name “Oz Vessalius” whispered by the very Abyss that had imprisoned him. Their contract was not one of power, but of mutual hunger. Oz would help her find her lost memories, scattered like glass shards across the world. In return, her power—the reality-warping might of the B-Rabbit—would be his chain to swing.
The chime was a discordant scream of metal, a sound that vibrated in his bones. The air split open, not with fire, but with a thousand red roses—thorns, petals, and all—exploding from the gilded seams of reality. From the rift, crimson hands, long and spindly as a spider’s legs, reached out and seized him. The nobles screamed. His father did not. His father only watched, a strange, terrible relief in his eyes. The clock in the distance began to chime
The ceremony was a gilded cage of nobility and forced smiles. His father, Duke Vessalius, watched him with eyes that held not pride, but a weary verdict, as if Oz was a document he’d long since stamped Insufficient . Oz, ever the performer, masked his loneliness with a charming grin. He had his loyal servant, Gilbert, at his side and the bubbly Ada a few steps away. For a fleeting moment, the illusion of happiness felt real.
And the boy who was never born would finally learn the truth: some chains are not meant to be broken. They are meant to be carried—together.
“I’ve found you,” she said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. “My lost contractor.” It was only beginning
His father’s hatred was not irrational. It was the horror of looking at your son and seeing a monster’s lullaby. Gilbert’s undying loyalty was not just friendship. It was the penance of a soul who had once served the man who committed this sin.
It pointed a dissolving claw at Oz.