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He does not know how long he has been at his post, how many endless mornings and nights he has rung in with his anvil.
Then again, does it matter how many days pass, when he is the one who forges those days?
The majority of Ferrix knows him only as the Time Grappler, and he sees no issue with that. The minutes bend to his will, the hours fly like sparks from the end of his hammer, the dawn arrives and departs at his bidding and his alone.
That rule changes for no-one . Certainly not for the Imperials. For all their self-righteous tyranny, not even the Empire can keep time itself in chains.
He knows his job well enough. What starts out as the end of time for Maarva Andor will finish with the beginning of a new day. And not even he, who makes the days, knows what that era will bring.
The passing of time on Ferrix lies solely in his hands, in his hammers. He chooses when the day will start, and when it will end. And now, time gets faster and faster as metal strikes metal with increasing fervour, heralding the fall of one rule and the rise of another.
He only allows himself a moment of inward satisfaction after his boot collides with a faceless stormtrooper, sending the soldier toppling backwards off the tower before he even has a chance to raise his blaster.
After all, the clock is ticking. There is much work to be done.