The clock struck eleven. Silas sat alone in his dimly lit room, the soft ticking of the wall clock filling the silence. His gaze drifted toward the bed, where the stack of newspapers Edgar delivered rested beneath. With a sigh, he pulled them out and placed them on the floor.
In the corner of the room, a grayish gas pipe snaked along the wall, leading to a meter. Silas turned the cog, and a soft hiss of gas filled the air. He walked to his study table, where a movable gas lamp was connected to the pipe with a long, narrow tube. After a few clicks of the ignition, the lamp sputtered to life, casting a warm yellow glow that painted long shadows across the walls.
He spread the newspapers across the floor, arranging them in order by date, and started scanning the headlines.
"Ashcog Factory Attacked by Unknown Assailants — Guards Fend Off Intruders."
Silas’s eyes narrowed. A month ago. Northern side. He remembered seeing the Ashcog name before, but now that he was looking for patterns, things felt different.
His gaze flicked across the pages, searching, and then he saw it again. That same strange symbol — a gear with an eye etched into its center — discreetly printed alongside the headline.
His breath caught in his throat. The symbol only appeared on articles connected to the Ashcrofts… but why?
“No… maybe they’re against the Ashcrofts,” Silas murmured, rubbing his temple.
Three months of records, and only certain articles carried the symbol. He jotted notes into his notebook, mapping out the pattern, but then something odd caught his attention. One newspaper bore the symbol, but none of its articles seemed connected to his family.
His eyes darted across the page.
"Low-Class Protests Over Bitsee Ban Escalate."
"Gas Explosion at East Side Wine Bar Kills Five."
"Train Station Transitions to Ironbit Payments Only — Bitsees No Longer Accepted."
His brow furrowed. "They’re phasing out Bitsees… but why?" He tapped his pen against the notebook. Ironbits were worth more, and with Bitsees slowly being pushed out of circulation, the lower classes would be left struggling to keep up.
“It’s a slow squeeze,” Silas muttered. “They can’t ban Bitsees outright — that’d cause outrage. But if you make Ironbits the only accepted currency, you push the poor out of the system.”
Another article caught his eye:
"Yelena Church Attacked by Cultists — Motives Unknown."
Silas frowned. The Yelena Church wasn’t politically powerful. Why target them?
Finally, his eyes landed on the last article:
"Colonial Wars Become Topic of Debate Among Common Folk."
Silas rubbed his chin. "The wars ended ages ago… why would they be discussed now?" His mind raced.
The symbol’s appearance in this newspaper didn’t make sense at first — no mention of Ashcroft or Ashcog. But then it clicked. Every event mentioned here destabilizes the republic, either socially or economically. Could this be the work of a group trying to sow unrest… or a warning of what’s to come?
Suddenly, a faint creak echoed from the hallway. Silas stiffened, holding his breath. Slowly, he turned the lamp toward the door, casting shadows through the crack beneath it.
Nothing. Just the house settling.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He exhaled, rubbing his face. "I need sleep… but not tonight."
Pulling his chair closer to the papers, Silas’s eyes lingered on the gear-and-eye symbol. His fingers traced its outline, and he made a silent promise.
“I’ll figure out what you mean… no matter what.”
The gas lamp flickered, shadows dancing across the walls. Silas leaned over the papers, his pen scratching against the notebook, as the clock ticked quietly into the night.
—
The warm glow of the gas lamp flickered across Silas’s face as he leaned closer to the old newspapers, eyes scanning each line with the precision of a machine. The stack of papers spread before him like a puzzle waiting to be solved. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, rubbing his temples as his gaze fell upon the symbol again — the gear with an eye etched in its center.
Why does it only appear in articles about the Ashcrofts… or Ashcog Industries?
He picked up another newspaper, its edges yellowed and brittle. “A month ago…” Silas muttered under his breath, running his finger across the headline.
"Ashcog Factory Attacked by Unknown Assailants — Guards Repel the Intrusion."
He frowned. “An attack on Ashcog… but why?” His eyes drifted to the corner of the page where the symbol lurked once more.
Was it a warning? A signature?
Silas stacked the papers neatly, his mind racing. “Edgar only managed to find three months’ worth of records,” he murmured. “If this has been happening longer, then I need to dig deeper.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll need to search the Ashcroft library.”
The estate''s library. An ancient place, rarely visited. It held records stretching back centuries, filled with dust and secrets. He grabbed his oil lamp, its glass humming faintly as the flame danced within, and stepped into the hallway. His footsteps echoed softly against the polished wooden floor, each creak of the boards making him pause.
The library door stood tall and foreboding at the end of the hall. Silas pushed it open, the hinges groaning in protest. The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and wood polish. The shelves stretched high, crammed with books whose spines whispered tales long forgotten. Shadows curled in the corners where the lamp’s light dared not reach.
Silas walked deeper into the library, eyes scanning the shelves. Titles blurred past him until a familiar word caught his attention.
"The Tale of Colonial Wars" by Gyros.
His heart quickened. He carefully pulled the book from the shelf, its leather cover cold against his fingers. The weight of history settled in his hands. Without another thought, he turned and made his way back to his room.
Once seated again, Silas placed the lamp beside him, the soft yellow light illuminating the pages. He opened the book, its spine crackling softly, and began to read.
---
“The Colonial Wars began in 1765, a time when continents waged war for resources. Windmere, rich in iron and precious metals, became a target for foreign powers. Among them was a man named Armstrong Ashcroft.”
Silas’s breath caught. Ashcroft?
“Armstrong Ashcroft hailed from the western continent. He led a vast army into Windmere, seeking to claim the republic''s wealth for himself. But his conquest was not one of diplomacy. It was one of fire and blood.”
Silas’s fingers tightened around the book. The pages painted a gruesome picture — Armstrong’s forces descended upon Bloom City like a plague. Cannons tore through homes. Soldiers pillaged and slaughtered without mercy. Women’s screams filled the night. Children wept over the lifeless bodies of their parents.
But the horrors did not stop there. Ashcroft’s soldiers had done worse than kill. Entire families were torn apart, not just by blades but by acts so vile that Silas had to pause, bile rising in his throat. The accounts of women being brutalized and robbed of their dignity filled the pages. The soldiers left scars not just on the city, but on the very souls of its people.
“This… this can’t be my family.”
But the words did not lie. Armstrong Ashcroft had bathed Bloom City in blood. And the Windmere Republic? They had done nothing. They watched as the city burned, only emerging when the slaughter was over. Then came the treaty.
Armstrong Ashcroft was allowed to mine the city’s iron in exchange for a hefty tax. The very ground that had soaked up the blood of innocents was stripped bare for profit. Ashcroft built his fortune on bones and ore, founding Ashcog Industries to fuel the republic’s railway expansion.
Silas felt sick.
He read on, the words blurring before his eyes. Bloom City, once a paradise of greenery and prosperity, had been reduced to soot and ash. The Ashcrofts remade it into Ashport, a city of industry and steam. The sky blackened with smoke. The earth trembled beneath the weight of machinery.
Yet, the people had not forgotten. Rebellions rose, only to be crushed beneath Ashcroft’s iron heel. Even the Yelena Church, once a symbol of hope, had sided with the Ashcrofts to quell the unrest.
His eyes narrowed. “The Yelena Church… they were attacked last month by some cultists.” He grabbed one of the newspapers again.
"Yelena Church Assaulted by Masked Figures — Archives Set Ablaze."
He read the article carefully. The assailants hadn’t stolen anything. They’d destroyed documents. Erased records.
What were they trying to hide?
As Silas pieced together the timeline, dots began to connect:
The symbols in the newspapers, always tied to the Ashcrofts.
The attack on Ashcog Industries.
The people’s whispers of rebellion.
The sudden resurgence of colonial war discussions.
“Someone is plotting against the Ashcrofts,” Silas whispered. “But who?”
His thoughts turned to Victor. The man who treated workers with respect. Who spoke kindly to the townsfolk. Could he really be part of this legacy of blood and iron?
No, Silas thought. Victor isn’t like that. He can’t be.
But another voice whispered in his mind. I act innocent too. But I’ve done terrible things. Who’s to say Victor isn’t the same?
Silas shook his head. He needed more answers. Tomorrow, he’d search the library again. Maybe even question some of the older townsfolk.
He glanced at his pocket watch. 2:58 AM.
Yawning, he packed away the newspapers and pushed the book under his bed. As he rose to blow out the lamp…
Tap. Tap.
Silas froze. The sound came from the window. Slowly, he turned, heart pounding.
A shadow.
The lamp’s glow quivered as he stepped closer, the light pooling against the glass. He squinted into the darkness. For a moment, he swore he saw a figure standing there — still as a statue, watching.
“Who’s there?” Silas called, voice low. The shadows shifted. Then, in an instant… they were gone.
He stood motionless, gripping the lamp until his knuckles turned white. The clock ticked quietly behind him, each second stretching into eternity.
Finally, he exhaled. The window was empty. But sleep would not come easily that night.
—