The clock struck nine fourteen. Dinner had ended, and the Ashcroft family now gathered in the grand living hall. The crackling fireplace cast flickering shadows against the dark wood paneling, while the low hum of conversation drifted through the room.


    Silas sat quietly, his body stiff and uncomfortable. He’d never experienced a gathering like this before. In his past life, "family meetings" were nothing more than strategy sessions — planning how to rob a wealthy merchant or ambush an unsuspecting traveler. The warmth in this room, the casual laughter… it felt alien.


    His thoughts spiraled into regret and unease until a voice pulled him back.


    "Silas," Victor’s voice broke the silence, his tone gentle but firm. "It’s been almost a day, and you haven’t once called me by my name — let alone ‘Father.’"


    Silas shifted in his seat, unsure how to respond. "It’s just…"


    Before he could find the words, Clara cut in with a dramatic sigh. "Geez, give him a break, Father! Let him get used to things first."


    Victor frowned, rubbing his chin. "Well, maybe he isn’t used to you, but we met him occasionally while he was in college." He paused, then added, "Silas, why don’t you come with me tomorrow?"


    Silas blinked, caught off guard. "Why… why, sir?"


    Victor chuckled softly. "Tomorrow is the opening ceremony for Ashcog’s new train station. I want you to handle things there."


    Silas hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to be in charge of some ceremony. Still, he gave a reluctant nod.


    Ashcog.


    The Ashcroft family''s legacy. For centuries, they had driven Ashport’s industrial revolution. Victor’s father had pioneered the city''s steam railways, weaving tracks through every district, and Victor himself had expanded the empire — introducing airships, factories, and cutting-edge steam technology. Ashport wasn’t just a name. It was a tribute to the Ashcrofts, the city’s beating heart.


    Victor believed Silas had inherited a sharp mechanical mind. Maybe that’s why he wanted his son to represent the family. But Silas felt none of that pride. Just pressure.


    The weight in his chest grew heavier. He pushed back his chair, standing abruptly. "Excuse me," he muttered, leaving the room.


    Victor reached out as if to stop him, but Selena placed a hand on his arm. "Clara’s right," she whispered. "Give him time."


    —


    Silas climbed to the roof. The cold night air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. The moon hung low, silver light spilling across the city, reflecting off the metal towers and endless steam rising from the streets.


    He gazed up at the stars, feeling small beneath them. "The moon here is so small compared to my old world…" he whispered.


    Memories flooded back. His past life. Aldric.


    A town named Albolia. Rich, prosperous, and perfect for a man like Aldric to prey on.


    A wandering family of three had caught his attention — a father, a mother, and their daughter. They performed in the streets, dancing and singing, earning their coin from awed spectators.


    But it wasn’t the coin Aldric wanted.


    The woman was mesmerizing. Blonde hair cascading down her back, sparkly brown eyes, and a smile that could make a man forget his sins. When she danced, time itself seemed to pause. The crowd would stand breathless, forgetting their troubles, lost in the sway of her body and the grace of her movements.


    They had made good money in Albolia. Too good. When Aldric heard they were leaving, he gathered his men.


    "That bastard’s loaded," Aldric growled, tossing a knife into the table before him. "His pockets are heavy, and so will ours be."


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    "But Boss…" one of his men hesitated. "I heard the guy’s an A-class mage. Sure, we could take the woman and kid hostage, but he’d roast us alive before we got close."


    Aldric hummed thoughtfully, tapping his temple. "Bring the illusion stone."


    Another lackey scoffed. "Boss, that thing’s one-use only. We went through hell to get it. You really wanna waste it on some street performers?"


    Aldric’s eyes darkened. "Who said anything about wasting it?" He leaned forward, voice low and deadly. "The stone will buy us just enough time to get close. No matter how powerful a mage he is, they’re all the same — fragile up close."


    The men shifted uneasily. They knew Aldric wasn’t after the money. His eyes gleamed with a darker desire.


    —


    Tap… tap… tap.


    The soft patter of footsteps.


    "Silas… Silas…"


    He heard his name, distant at first, then louder. A hand shook his shoulder.


    "Silasss!"


    Silas snapped awake, rage burning behind his eyes. "You dare oppose my decision!" he roared, his hand flying to Clara’s throat.


    Her eyes widened in terror. "S-Silas?"


    The fog cleared in an instant. His hand froze inches from her neck, trembling violently. He staggered back, clutching his chest, heart racing. Sweat poured down his face.


    Clara stared at him, breathless. "What the hell was that? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."


    "I…" Silas gasped, trying to steady himself. "I’m sorry. I was… somewhere else." He rubbed his temples, his body shaking. "My childhood… it wasn’t good. I got lost in it for a moment."


    Clara’s expression softened. "It’s okay, dummy. You scared me." She hesitated, then asked gently, "Do you… want to talk about it?"


    Silas ran a hand through his hair, laughing bitterly. "No. Not tonight."


    She nodded, stepping closer. "Alright. But I’ll be here… when you’re ready."


    For a moment, neither spoke. The stars twinkled above, distant and silent. The moon cast its pale light over Ashport, illuminating the darkness below.


    And Silas sat there, staring into the night, wondering if redemption was even possible for a man like him.


    —--


    The gas lamps hissed softly, their amber glow casting shadows across Silas’s room. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, but sleep eluded him. The memories still clung to him like a cold mist. He turned over. Again. And again. Hours passed. Eventually, exhaustion dragged him into restless slumber.


    —


    Morning.


    Sunlight spilled through the window, warming his face. Silas stirred, squinting against the light. The city was already awake, the distant hum of steam engines and carriage wheels filling the air. With a groan, he sat up, rubbing his face before freshening up and heading downstairs.


    In the dining room, Victor sat at the head of the long table, engaged in quiet conversation with a stranger. The man was stout, dressed in a gray suit that strained against his large frame. Round glasses perched on his nose, and his balding head gleamed under the morning light. He paused mid-sentence when he saw Silas enter.


    "Ah, Silas!" Victor gestured toward him. "Come, meet Brian Christ."


    Silas gave a polite bow. "Good morning, sir."


    Brian squinted at him, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "You look familiar… Have we met?"


    Silas tensed slightly. "I don’t believe so."


    Brian chuckled. "Just teasing, lad." He shook Victor’s hand. "I’ll see you at the ceremony, sir."


    Victor nodded, and Brian made his exit. As Silas sat down, Edgar leaned toward him, sensing his unspoken question. "Your mother left early today," Edgar whispered. "She had a case to attend to."


    Silas nodded quietly, pouring himself some tea. As he dipped a piece of bread into the cup and took a bite, Victor raised an eyebrow. Clara, descending the stairs, paused mid-step at the sight.


    Victor cleared his throat. "Ahem. Silas, why not have some eggs? And perhaps juice?"


    Silas blinked, realizing his mistake. Dipping bread in tea — Elias’s habit. Not his. His grip tightened around the cup. "Childhood habit… sir."


    Victor frowned but let it slide. Silas lowered his head, the taste of bread and tea turning bitter in his mouth. I’m not him anymore… he reminded himself. I can’t be.


    —


    After breakfast, Victor reminded Silas of his promise to attend the station’s opening ceremony. Silas reluctantly prepared himself, stepping outside as the carriage wheels clattered against the cobblestone street.


    "Wait!" Clara called from the front steps. "Take me too!"


    Victor shook his head. "You’ve missed enough school."


    Clara pouted but conceded. "Fine. But bring me back something cool!"


    Silas climbed into the carriage, Victor following close behind. The streets bustled with life as they passed. Factories hissed with steam, gears and pistons churning. Workers poured into the streets, newspapers tucked under their arms. Silas stared out the window, lost in thought.


    Victor’s voice pulled him back. "I was saying… you should handle the new station, Silas."


    Silas hesitated. "I… don’t think I’m cut out for that."


    Victor sighed. "I won’t force you. But I can’t trust anyone more than my own Son." He leaned back, a soft smile crossing his face. "You love prosthetics, don’t you? When we get home, I’ve got something to show you."


    Silas didn’t reply. He only nodded.


    As they passed through the markets, people recognized Victor and greeted him warmly. Silas watched in silence. Despite his wealth and influence, Victor walked among them without guards or pretense. He treated the people like equals. Strange… for someone so powerful.


    —


    The train station loomed ahead — a marvel of steel and glass, freshly painted banners waving in the wind. The crowd was massive. Newspaper reporters snapped photos, their leather-bound cameras clicking away.


    As Silas stepped out of the carriage, a long red carpet stretched before him, flanked by silver chains and short metal poles. Security guards in red-and-black uniforms stood at attention, rifles resting against their shoulders.


    "Gustav!" Victor called, greeting a group of ministers. Silas trailed behind, eyes darting across the crowd. He hated this attention.


    Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw her.


    A woman glided toward them, the crowd parting in her wake. She wore a long white dress that flowed around her ankles, her pale shoulders bare beneath the morning sun. Her wide-brimmed hat tilted to one side, casting a shadow across one eye. Blonde hair cascaded down her back, and her blue eyes sparkled beneath the brim. Her lips curled into a perfect smile.


    "Hello," she said, her voice soft and melodic. "I’m Sara. A stage actress." She dipped into a graceful curtsy. "I wanted to personally thank the Ashcroft family for sponsoring my recent performance. It meant the world to me."


    Silas hesitated, trying to read the room. He bowed stiffly. "It was… our pleasure, ma’am."


    Sara smiled. She opened her mouth to say more — but Silas wasn’t listening anymore.


    His eyes locked onto something.


    High above the station, a dark silhouette moved behind a window. The figure stood perfectly still, face hidden beneath a hood. Slowly, deliberately, the man raised his hand and pressed it against the glass.


    Etched into his glove was a symbol.


    A gear. An eye carved into its center.


    Silas’s breath caught in his throat. His blood ran cold. He’d seen that symbol before — painted on the lamppost back at the estate.


    The city was watching.


    "Silas?" Victor asked, frowning. "Are you alright?"


    Silas tore his gaze away, forcing a nod.


    "Y-yeah. I’m fine."


    But he wasn’t.


    Somewhere, hidden in the shadows, they were watching. And Silas had the sinking feeling that whatever was happening… had only just begun.


    —