The train hissed and lurched to a stop, steam billowing into the air as metal ground against metal. Silas Ashcroft — once Aldric, once Elias — gripped his worn leather suitcase, the weight of his past lives pressing heavier than the luggage in his hands. The crowd surged toward the exit, and Silas moved with them, eyes darting around the station. The thick air reeked of oil and soot, and the constant hiss and clang of steam-powered machines echoed through the cavernous space.


    He glanced down at the certificate tucked under his arm — a testament to ten long years spent mastering the art of prosthetics. The ornate lettering spelled out "Silas Ashcroft, Certified Prosthetic Engineer," a title he’d earned through relentless work. His gaze lingered on the name.


    "Hmph. Three names now," he muttered. "Aldric, then Elias, and now Silas. How ironic." A bitter chuckle escaped his lips.


    As he stepped onto the platform, the sky loomed heavy with dark smog, the faint glow of the sun barely piercing through. Factories churned endlessly in the distance, their towering chimneys belching clouds of black smoke into the air. The rhythmic clatter of machinery was ever-present, like the heartbeat of the city itself.


    Two figures stood at the edge of the crowd, waiting. One was a tall, middle-aged man with a long brown mustache, his posture stiff and formal. Edgar Moreau — the Ashcroft family butler and his new guardian. Beside him stood a girl, delicate in frame, holding a mechanical sparrow perched on her hand. The bird’s brass wings shimmered faintly in the dim light.


    Silas approached. Edgar bowed slightly. "Welcome, young master. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. You’ve grown into a fine young man."


    Silas barely nodded in response, his attention shifting to the girl. Clara. His new sister. She was his age, eighteen, with dark hair pulled back into a loose braid and sharp green eyes that studied him carefully. The mechanical sparrow chirped softly, its tiny gears whirring with each movement.


    Clara''s gaze lingered on him. "You’re from the Southern Borderlands, aren’t you?" Her voice was soft but carried a curious edge.


    "Yeah." Silas hesitated. His first time meeting her, and he was already on edge. She stared at him for a moment longer, then looked away, stroking the sparrow’s metallic head.


    They walked through the city in silence, soft rain pattering against the cobblestones. Silas kept his eyes on the alleys they passed — narrow, winding paths where shadows lurked and pipes hissed steam into the night. Gas lamps flickered to life one by one, casting a pale orange glow over the wet streets. Dirty-faced children huddled in corners, their thin frames barely clothed against the chill.


    One boy caught his eye — pale, with sunken cheeks and wide eyes that mirrored a familiar kind of pain, He saw himself in him, should I say he precisely saw Elias in him. Silas hesitated, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a handful of Ironbits — the heavy currency clinking softly in his palm — and knelt down, pressing the coins into the boy’s trembling hands.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    "Here. Don’t waste it."


    The boy blinked, eyes wide, then clutched the money to his chest and scurried away. Silas stood, ignoring Clara’s curious gaze.


    As they turned a corner, a rusted lamppost came into view. Half-hidden beneath layers of grime was a strange symbol: a gear with an eye etched into its center. Silas frowned.


    "What’s that?" he asked.


    Edgar barely glanced at it. "Just old graffiti. Don’t mind it."


    But Silas couldn’t tear his eyes away. The symbol felt… wrong. The longer he stared, the colder he felt.


    Finally, they reached the Ashcroft estate — a sprawling manor perched the side of the city, its dark stone walls looming against the night sky. The windows glowed faintly from within, condensation fogging the glass. As they entered, warmth washed over him. The faint smell of tea and rust lingered in the air.


    Edgar bowed. "Master and Miss Ashcroft are away on business. I’ll fetch them shortly. Clara will show you to your room."


    Silas nodded. "No problem."


    Clara hesitated, then let out a soft chuckle. "So, you’re my brother now. I always wanted one, but… well, Mom and Dad couldn’t have more kids." She shrugged. "Anyway, welcome home, Silas."


    He forced a smile. "My pleasure."


    As they climbed the stairs, Clara glanced over her shoulder. "They say the city has eyes."


    Silas frowned. "What do you mean?"


    She hesitated. "The lamppost symbol. It means someone’s watching."


    Before he could respond, she slipped away, her sparrow’s tiny gears whirring softly in the dark.


    His room was spacious but cold. A large bed sat against one wall, its dark red cover neatly folded. A study table stood near the window, papers stacked neatly beside a gas lamp. The bookshelves lining the far wall were filled with tomes on engineering and mechanical design. Pipes ran along the ceiling, connecting to ornate gas lamps that cast a dim, flickering light.


    Silas set his suitcase down and approached the mirror. His reflection stared back — blond hair falling over his eyes, his suit slightly wrinkled from travel. As he stared, a familiar sensation crawled up his spine. His breathing quickened.


    The orphanage. The betrayal. The hands around his throat.


    His vision blurred. He stumbled back, gripping the edge of the table. The faces of Elias’s friends flashed before him, twisted in jealousy and rage. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms.


    No. He forced himself to breathe. That’s not me. Not anymore.


    Pushing the memories aside, he stripped off his travel-worn clothes and dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers. His pistols rested in the suitcase — sleek, custom-made firearms of his own design. He ran a hand along the cold metal, taking comfort in their weight. In this world of steam and gears, he had no magic. These guns were his power.


    That night, he dreamed.


    He stood in the mountains, wind cutting through him like a knife. Niko’s house was up ahead — the bastard who dared attack my people. A girl, no older than five, played outside, her laughter soft in the cold air.


    Aldric’s voice, loud and crueler, barked out, "Where’s Niko?"


    The girl froze. "I… he’s inside."


    He burst through the door, blade drawn. Niko stood at the workbench, perfecting a mana crystal for healing. Aldric’s voice — rang out. "You think you can cross me and live?"


    Niko turned, eyes wide with fear. "They aren’t ‘your people.’ You’re a thief, Aldric. You steal, you kill, and you pretend it’s justice."


    Aldric raised his sword, fury boiling in his veins — but the scene shifted. Blood splattered across the walls. A woman screamed. The little girl from outside stared at him, her eyes hollow.


    Silas woke with a gasp. Sweat drenched his body, his heart hammering in his chest. He pressed a trembling hand to his face, trying to steady his breathing. The past clung to him, cold and suffocating.


    Outside his window, the city stirred awake, steam hissing through the pipes as dawn painted the sky in hues of rust and ash. Silas sat on the edge of his bed, staring into the darkness.


    Ruthless bastard Aldric…. Tragic murdered child Elias…. Son of Ashcroft Silas…


    What am I now?