Silas jolted awake, his heart pounding, the echoes of his dream lingering in the cold air. The room felt suffocating, shadows pressing in around him as his mind raced. Who am I now? The question burned in his thoughts.


    Knock. Knock.


    Knock.


    The sudden sound made him jump. His breath caught as he turned toward the door.


    "Broth…" A soft voice hesitated from the other side. "Brother… are you awake?" Clara’s tone was shy, almost unsure. "Breakfast is ready. Mom and Dad are waiting… they want to meet you."


    Silas ran a trembling hand through his hair, composing himself. "I’ll be down in a minute."


    "Right," Clara said softly, her footsteps fading down the hall.


    Silas pushed himself off the bed and went to the wardrobe, pulling out a clean white shirt, black trousers, and a long dark coat. After a quick shower, he dressed, tightening the silk tie around his neck with practiced fingers. He grabbed a small black hat, adjusting it in the mirror. The man staring back at him looked polished, almost regal, but the shadows in his eyes told a different story.


    —


    The dining room was a masterpiece of quiet opulence. A long mahogany table stretched beneath a grand crystal chandelier, its surface gleaming with fine Velmorian porcelain, crystal goblets, and polished silverware. High-backed chairs, upholstered in deep emerald velvet, stood like sentinels around the spread, while heavy velvet drapes pooled at the base of tall windows. Against the far wall, an ornate sideboard held crystal decanters and silver trays, their surfaces catching the candlelight. A marble fireplace crackled softly, chasing the morning chill from the air.


    At the heart of the table sat a golden-brown roast pheasant, its skin glistening under a glaze of herb-infused butter. Beef Wellington rested nearby, its flaky pastry cradling tender fillet, while tureens of creamy oyster stew and steaming turtle soup released wisps of savory steam. Bright dishes of buttered asparagus, peas in mint sauce, and honey-glazed carrots framed the feast, alongside crisp Yorkshire puddings and platters of delicate finger sandwiches. For dessert, a grand trifle stood layered with sponge cake and jewel-bright berries, crowned with a peak of whipped cream.


    The Ashcroft family sat waiting, their eyes shifting toward the staircase as Silas descended. He moved with quiet confidence, his black suit immaculate, blond bangs nearly covering his sharp eyes. The long coat draped elegantly over his frame, and the soft click of his boots against the polished floor drew attention.


    Victor Ashcroft, his new father, smiled warmly. "So that’s what an Ashcroft breakfast looks like?" Silas asked, amused. "It’s… heavy."


    Victor chuckled. "Clara mentioned you skipped dinner last night, so we prepared a proper meal. Thanks to Edgar, of course."


    Edgar, standing quietly behind Victor, bowed. "It was the chefs, sir. I merely gave the orders."


    "Of course, of course," Victor laughed.


    Selena Ashcroft, Victor’s wife and Clara’s mother, gestured to an empty chair. "Come, sit. You’ve got both dinner and breakfast to catch up on." She laughed softly, her voice warm.


    Clara sat quietly, watching the exchange. Her sharp green eyes flicked between her parents and Silas, a small smile playing at her lips. Silas slid into the chair, glancing around the room. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the richly patterned wallpaper, and the aroma of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air.


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    "Now eat," Victor urged. "You don’t want to waste away, do you?"


    Silas picked up his fork, cutting a tender piece of roast. As the meat melted on his tongue, the rich flavors exploded across his senses, warming him from the inside out. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. Bite after bite, the warmth of the food settled something deep in his chest — a quiet reminder that, for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t alone.


    As he ate, his gaze drifted to Edgar, who held a folded newspaper under his arm. Silas’s eyes narrowed. There, printed in bold ink, was the same symbol he’d seen on the lamppost: a gear with an eye etched into its center.


    Clara’s words whispered in his mind. "The city has eyes."


    His grip on the fork tightened. Fear and curiosity stirred inside him, but he forced himself to stay composed. He’d dig into that later. For now, he played the part.


    "So," Selena asked, her tone casual, "how were your studies?"


    Silas kept his voice low. "They were… fine."


    "Good." She sipped her tea, then added with a smirk, "Maybe you can teach Clara about prosthetics. She’s useless when it comes to her studies. Never goes to school properly."


    "Mother!" Clara pouted, crossing her arms. "Now that you’ve got a new son, I guess I’m just the useless one, huh?"


    Selena laughed softly. "Of course not, darling. You’re my one and only daughter."


    Clara huffed, turning her head away. "Hmph."


    The Ashcrofts laughed quietly, the sound soft and comforting. Silas watched them, a strange warmth settling in his chest. For the first time in years, he felt the flicker of something… different.


    Family.


    ---


    After dinner, Silas retreated to his room, stepping out onto the small balcony. The city stretched before him, a maze of brick and steel. Chimneys belched dark smoke into the sky, blending with the evening haze, while the rhythmic clatter of horse hooves and the creak of carriage wheels echoed through the streets. The distant hum of machinery rumbled like a heartbeat beneath the city, steady and unrelenting.


    He shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his coat. His clothes felt tight. Maybe they didn’t get the measurements right, he mused. He’d need to visit a tailor.


    Grabbing his hat from the table, Silas placed it atop his head and made his way downstairs. As he crossed the grand entrance hall, he noticed Clara standing near the door.


    "You skipped school?" he asked, brow raised.


    Clara glanced at him, then shrugged. "I always do. Schools are boring. I want to be free. I want to see the world."


    Silas tilted his head. "So… you like traveling?"


    A bright smile crossed her face. "Yeah. Sure, I do."


    "But where are you going?" she asked curiously.


    "My clothes are a bit tight. I’m heading to the tailor."


    Clara’s eyes lit up. "The market, huh? I’ll come with you!" She grinned mischievously. "Besides, you don’t even know where the tailor is, do you?"


    Silas sighed and nodded, silently accepting the company.


    —


    The market was alive with noise and color. People bustled through narrow alleys lined with wooden stalls, shouting over one another to peddle their wares. The air was thick with the mingling scents of freshly baked bread, sizzling meats, and damp cobblestones. Merchants waved discount coupons for local restaurants, while beggars sat quietly by the roadside, their hollow eyes watching passersby.


    Some faces in the crowd wore the ease of luxury, their clothes pressed and shoes polished. Others moved with the weight of struggle, pale and worn, clutching at what little they had. The city was alive — vibrant yet broken.


    Silas and Clara walked side by side, silent. The awkwardness between them lingered, each unsure how to bridge the gap. Silas glanced at her from the corner of his eye, searching for a topic. His thoughts drifted back to the strange symbol on the lamppost, and he finally spoke.


    "Earlier… you said someone was watching. What did you mean?"


    Clara hesitated, her gaze flickering away. "I heard it in the market," she said quietly. "Some old man was rambling about it — said the sign is watching us. That it’s the eye of Ashport."


    Silas frowned. "The eye of Ashport?"


    She shrugged. "That’s just what I heard."


    A chill ran down Silas’s spine. The symbol had felt eerie at first, but now… now it gnawed at him. Seeing it in the newspaper this morning had only deepened the unease. He’d need to find out more.


    —


    They arrived at the tailor’s shop, a modest building tucked between a bakery and a clockmaker. Bells jingled softly as they entered. The shop smelled of fresh linen and chalk dust, with rolls of fabric stacked neatly against the walls. An elderly tailor, spectacles perched on his nose, greeted them with a nod.


    Silas handed over his measurements and offered payment, but the tailor waved him off. "We’ll take the money once the job’s done, sir."


    "Alright. Thank you." Silas gave a small nod of appreciation.


    —


    As they walked back, Clara chatted away, filling the silence with random thoughts and questions. Silas answered with quiet nods and the occasional "yes." His mind was elsewhere.


    In his hand, he turned over a Bitsee coin, feeling its worn edges. The face of a bearded man wearing a crown stared back at him, the words "Republic of Windmere" engraved along the rim. He flipped it over, revealing two stalks of grain framing the number 1.


    Windmere’s currency was called Ironbits. There were seven notes: 1, 5, 10, 20, 50, 100, and 500 Ironbits. Each Ironbit was worth two Bitsees — small, copper coins used for daily transactions.


    Bitsees had been introduced by Sir Grerad I during the colonial wars of 1773, when families struggled to afford even the simplest goods. Heavy Ironbits had become impractical for the lower class, so the king minted Bitsees to ease trade for the poor and middle class.


    But not much had changed for the lower class. Even now, the divide between the rich and the poor remained sharp. When Sir Grerad II ascended the throne in 1802, he banned Bitsees above 20, claiming it would stabilize the economy. In truth, it only made life harder for those at the bottom. Now, the highest Bitsee has only 1, 2, 5, 10, 15 and 20 coin, 1 Ironbit equal to 20 Bitsees.


    Silas turned the coin over once more, staring at the bearded king. The weight of history felt heavy in his palm.


    As Clara rambled on about market gossip, Silas walked silently beside her, thoughts swirling. The city had eyes. The coin was old, the system even older. And somewhere in these streets, something unseen watched.


    He clenched the Bitsee tight in his fist.


    Something wasn’t right in Ashport.


    And he was going to find out what.