In its golden years, Lockheart Manor was known far and wide for being the epitome of Victorian opulence. The Estate was filled with twinkling chandeliers, extravagant furniture, and a special blue wisteria that grew nowhere else in the land. Wisteria vines wound around every wall while petals hung overhead like second ceilings, filling the Manor with a sweet, but somewhat strange scent. Lady Elara Ravenscroft, the world’s most celebrated Chronomancer, would throw extravagant galas and soirees under her beloved blossoms, using her time magic to keep the champagne chilled long into the night. 

The Manor was also filled with cats. Dozens of them. They lounged on the grand piano, hunted birds in the gardens, and perched atop the high rafters. During the Lady's galas, these cats were pampered with saucers of cream and adorned with frilly lace ribbons, beloved by all who attended.

But no amount of luxury can keep out the sounds of a warring word. News from the borders grew dark. The laughter in the ballroom began to thin, and the champagne began to taste bitter. Letters arrived in the night. Ominous letters, bearing the unmistakeable crimson seal of the Crown. The Great War was approaching Lockheart Manor.

Lady Elara could not bear to watch the world she loved crumble. So, one fateful night, Elara cast one final spell. As her guests raised their glasses in toast, she pulled Lockheart Manor straight out from the stream of time. A thick, blue Mist rose from the gardens, swallowing the gates and sealing the estate into a pocket of timelessness. When the spell settled, the big folk were gone. Lady Elara had vanished as well, leaving behind only a lingering scent of wisteria.

Life, however, is stubborn. The mice of Lockheart did not perish when time stopped. As timelessness descended, the magic sought a place to go, and in an unexpected turn of events, it found a home in the mice. Their pulses began to tick-tick-tick as their tiny hearts were transformed into clocks, allowing them to continue living in a frozen world. The mice became the Minikin.

The Minikin were not entirely alone, either. The cats could not handle the Manor’s magic; their souls were too wild. Instead, they transformed into spirits. They are friendly enough, but fickle, forever trying to remember what it felt like to live.

Only Bartholomew, Lady Elara’s primary familiar, remained whole. He was made immortal years ago, so the spell did not affect him. Bartholomew sits upon a throne of cushions in the drawing room, flicking his tail in boredom and occasionally sharpening his claws on the wisteria vines. He allows the Minikin to live, provided they pay the Tithe: shiny trinkets scavenged from Elara’s study, the finest treats from her enchanted pantries, and entertainment in the form of large music ensembles. Should the Minikin’s offerings fail to amuse him, he grows restless, wreaking havoc throughout the Manor.

But the Manor is winding down.

The magic that keeps the rooms warm and the pantry full is beginning to fray, and each day, the Mist presses a little heavier against the glass windows. As Lady Elara’s enchantments slowly unravel, the Minikin are left to patch the holes with whatever they can find.

And in those dark corners, they’ve started discovering the things that were left behind… notes scribbled in the margins of old spellbooks, letters Elara never got to send, strange diagrams… Each discovery draws the Minikin closer to the truth of that final night and the price Elara paid to stop her world. Only by uncovering her secrets can they hope to answer the question: What truly happened to the Chronomancer of Lockheart, and can the clock ever be started again?