Keaton Reed grew up in a small clock shop, in a busy city. Grey eyes and pale skin blended into the dreary greys and browns of his father's worktops and grandfather clocks. A dull blonde was all that separated him from the cluttered workshop. He had inherited his father's nack for clockmaking, his room clustered with cracked desk clocks and half constructed pocket watches. His time and money was mostly placed into furthering his experience in the craft, and he was quickly consumed by the light ticking that filled his home. He soon found that his clocks would become unsynchronised which would let out a frantic OCD as he scrambled to fix the disharmony. His time at his desk left him without many close connections, but this never seemed to bother the poor boy, whom lay content knowing his ever expanding collection had been fully polished and sparkled.

Keaton's sheltered youth kept him from many of the hardships of the outside, and he soon became very afraid of what strayed beyond the cold but welcoming workshop he came to know as home. Whenever he left, whether for school or out of other requirements, he found his lips held together by fear, his hands kept behind him, tied by invisible restraint.

Keaton first discovered magic when he came home to a mess of ticks and tocks, his household ravaged by a sweeping disharmony. His panic led him to fall in despair, and cover his ears from such disgraceful sound. But, upon removing his hands from his head, after what seemed like an eternity, the sound was one. Normality restored. The problem seemed to have solved itself. Mere days later, a small envelope confirmed his father's suspicions. He had inherited both his love for clocks, and the magical prowess of his understanding father.