《Clockwork Lies: The Silent Conspiracy》


 Prologue

    Aldric¡¯s vision blurred. The cold seeped into his body, numbing him. Why¡­ why am I lying here? His breath shuddered. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ cold¡­¡±


    Then it all came back. The fight. The betrayal. The pain.


    ¡°Those bastards¡­ Leon Guild¡­¡± he whispered, his voice barely audible. He remembered Edric¡¯s face twisted with rage, the flash of a mana-coated sword plunging into his chest. The icy pain of the blade still lingered. So¡­ that¡¯s what happened.


    He chuckled bitterly, each breath more ragged than the last. ¡°Fools¡­ fighting for those women. Love is worthless. Power¡­ absolute power is the only truth.¡± His thoughts grew hazy. ¡°I would¡¯ve made Fairyland my utopia¡­ and they called me a villain.¡±


    His fingers twitched in the pooling blood. ¡°I wasn¡¯t a villain¡­ I just¡­ wanted what I deserved¡­¡±


    The world faded, the cold claiming him as darkness swallowed everything.


    ---


    But then¡­ his eyes opened again.


    Distant voices, faint and angry, drifted through the darkness. The steady tick¡­ tick¡­ of a clock echoed softly ¡ª no, not steady. It faltered, uneven, like a heart struggling to beat. Aldric blinked, his gaze searching the shadows. There, in the gloom, an old pendulum clock loomed, its rhythm broken.


    ¡°So that¡¯s why¡­ the sound isn¡¯t right¡­¡± he murmured. His voice was different. Softer. Younger.


    He pushed himself up, limbs trembling, each movement sluggish and unfamiliar. The wooden floor creaked beneath him. Narrow windows lined the walls, their glass coated with years of dust. The iron frames were rusted, the air stale. He stumbled toward one, wiping the grime away with a trembling hand.


    His reflection stared back at him.


    ¡°What¡­?¡± His breath caught in his throat. A child stared at him ¡ª pale, fragile, no older than seven. His neck was bruised, faint finger marks wrapping around his throat like a phantom¡¯s grip. Aldric touched his own neck, feeling the tender flesh. ¡°Who¡­ who is this?¡±


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    His heart pounded. The face was unfamiliar, but the fear in those eyes felt real. ¡°This¡­ this isn¡¯t me.¡± He pressed his hand against the glass, staring at the reflection. ¡°I¡¯m not a child¡­ I¡¯m twenty-five¡­ I died. I¡­ I died.¡±


    Memories surged. An old woman¡¯s voice echoed in his mind ¡ª a shaman, cackling with madness as he slit her throat. ¡°Curse rebirth,¡± she had whispered with her dying breath. ¡°May you wander in darkness, reborn in the shell of the innocent.¡±


    ¡°Was¡­ was she telling the truth?¡± Aldric¡¯s voice trembled. ¡°Am I cursed?¡±


    He turned toward the door, its heavy frame locked from the outside. A flicker of light caught his eye ¡ª a candle resting near a gas lamp. He lit it with shaking hands, the flickering glow casting long shadows across the room. As he moved, he saw it ¡ª a large mirror, cracked and forgotten.


    He stepped closer, the candlelight illuminating his new form. Memories ¡ª not his own ¡ª flooded his mind. A child¡¯s cries. A dark figure looming over him. Pain. Then¡­ nothing.


    Aldric stared into the glass. ¡°This child¡­ he was murdered.¡±


    And now, somehow, Aldric lived again ¡ª in his body.


    The candle trembled in his hand. ¡°What¡­ what the hell happened to me?¡±


    The memories of a poor child came in.


    The boy¡¯s name was Elias.


    He was born into darkness, abandoned as a baby and left at the gates of the Greythorn Orphanage ¡ª a cold, crumbling building where the walls whispered secrets and the air reeked of rust and mildew. The orphanage was no place for a child to grow, yet Elias found warmth not in the stone halls but in the company of other forgotten souls.


    He was small, quiet, and kind-hearted. Even as the older kids pushed him around, Elias never fought back. Instead, he made friends. There was Mira, with her fiery red hair and a laugh that could light up the dark. Jonas, the clever one, who always found ways to sneak bread from the kitchens. Felix, the tallest of them, a protector who swore they¡¯d leave this place together someday.


    They weren¡¯t just friends. They were his family.


    Life in the orphanage was harsh. The matron cared little for the children, leaving them to fend for themselves. Meals were scarce, punishments harsh, and the nights cold. But Elias endured. He shared his food when others went hungry, took blame to shield his friends, and dreamed of the day they¡¯d all escape to a better life.


    Then, one day, a wealthy couple arrived. They moved through the orphanage like ghosts, quiet and observant, their eyes searching for something ¡ª or someone. When their gaze fell upon Elias, they smiled. The next day, the matron summoned him.


    He¡¯d been chosen.


    Elias was overwhelmed. The couple wasn¡¯t just rich ¡ª they were kind. They promised him a home filled with warmth, food, and love. He wanted to be happy. He wanted to believe. But when he ran to tell his friends, their smiles were forced. Their congratulations sounded hollow.


    Everything changed after that.


    Mira stopped talking to him. Jonas sneered when he passed. Even Felix, his protector, grew distant. The nights were colder. Whispers followed him through the halls. They called him a traitor. A liar. They accused him of abandoning them for a life of comfort while they rotted in the orphanage.


    He tried to explain. He begged them to understand. ¡°I¡¯ll come back,¡± he promised. ¡°I¡¯ll tell my new family to adopt you too! We¡¯ll all get out!¡±


    But they didn¡¯t believe him. Or maybe¡­ they didn¡¯t care anymore.


    The night before Elias was meant to leave, his friends came to him. For a brief moment, hope surged in his heart. They smiled again ¡ª the way they used to. They said they wanted to play a game, one last time. He followed them into the dark, beneath the old clock tower.


    That¡¯s when they grabbed him.


    Hands closed around his throat. Fingers dug into his skin. His pleas turned to choked gasps as he struggled, eyes wide with disbelief. ¡°Why¡­?¡± he rasped. Mira¡¯s face twisted with rage. Jonas whispered, ¡°If you¡¯re gone, maybe they¡¯ll choose us.¡±


    Felix? He looked away.


    The darkness closed in as Elias¡¯ body grew still. The clock¡¯s une


    ven ticking was the last sound he ever heard.


    Elias was forgotten.


    Until now.

 Prologue II

    Aldric stumbled through the darkness. His breath came in ragged gasps, the air cold and stale against his skin. The old orphanage creaked around him, its shadows long and silent. Somewhere behind him, the broken clock ticked unevenly, its rhythm jarring against the pounding in his chest. He shoved against the door once more ¡ª the wood groaned beneath his weight, hinges shrieking as the lock finally gave way.


    He tumbled into the hallway, the floor cold beneath his bare feet. The air felt lighter out here, though the weight of what he¡¯d just experienced pressed heavily against his mind. His hands trembled. That boy¡­ Elias. The memories of his life clung to him like a second skin. The warmth of friendship, the cold sting of betrayal. The choking darkness. Aldric could almost feel the phantom fingers around his throat.


    As he stumbled forward, a soft light spilled through the narrow windows. Dawn. The sun crept over the horizon, its rays glimmering against the soot-stained glass of the clock tower. The orphanage stood silent, its children still asleep, oblivious to the strange resurrection that had taken place in the shadows.


    A distant sound broke the silence ¡ª the soft rumble of carriage wheels. Aldric turned toward the sound, eyes narrowed against the rising sun. Standing at the gates were a man and woman, their silhouettes framed by the morning light. He recognized them instantly, even without Elias¡¯ memories.


    The couple. The ones who had adopted him.


    They greeted him with warmth and concern, though Aldric barely heard their words. He was still lost in the echoes of Elias¡¯ past. For the first time, he felt the sharp sting of pain and betrayal from the other side. Until now, he had only ever caused pain ¡ª never felt it. A faint, unfamiliar sensation stirred within him. Regret. Not overwhelming, not absolute¡­ but present.


    He let the couple take him, barely registering the ride through the city¡¯s winding streets. They spoke softly to him, trying to comfort the fragile child they believed him to be. Aldric simply nodded, silent and distant. When they reached the train station, they explained he wouldn¡¯t be coming home with them just yet.


    ¡°There¡¯s a place for you,¡± the man ¡ª his adoptive father ¡ª explained. ¡°A school in the southern city. You¡¯ll learn everything you need to survive in this world. We¡¯ll visit whenever we can.¡±


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    Aldric didn¡¯t argue. He didn¡¯t care where they sent him. He only wanted to understand this new world, its smoke and steam, and perhaps¡­ himself.


    ---


    The southern city was a different beast entirely. The sky was choked with smog, towering smokestacks spewing steam into the air. Gears turned endlessly in the factories, their rhythmic churning a constant backdrop to life. Technology ruled here. Machines powered everything ¡ª from transport to medicine ¡ª and those who mastered the craft were revered.


    In the sprawling halls of the Institute of Mechanical Arts, Aldric immersed himself in the study of machines. Prosthetics fascinated him most ¡ª the intricate clockwork mechanisms that could replace what the body had lost. He spent hours in the workshops, his hands stained with oil and soot, perfecting delicate joints and flawless metal plating. Each creation felt like a quiet rebellion against the fragile body he now inhabited. If his body was weak, he would master steel.


    But Aldric didn¡¯t stop at machines. He pushed his body as hard as his mind, seeking out combat instructors. Guns became his obsession ¡ª not the bulky rifles of the city guards but sleek, efficient pistols. He learned to draw and fire faster than the eye could follow, each shot hitting its mark with deadly accuracy. In the alleys behind the workshops, he honed his aim, the sharp crack of gunfire echoing through the night.


    Yet even that wasn¡¯t enough.


    In the city¡¯s underbelly, Aldric found another kind of teacher ¡ª a retired soldier who taught him the art of close combat. The man¡¯s methods were brutal. Every lesson left him bruised and bleeding, but Aldric endured. He learned to move with precision, to strike without hesitation. His body became a weapon, each muscle trained to react without thought.


    But no matter how much he learned, the memories lingered. Elias¡¯ memories. His betrayal. His death. Aldric buried himself in his studies, crafting new inventions and perfecting his pistols. The workshop became his sanctuary, the clang of metal and hiss of steam drowning out the whispers of the past.


    As the years passed, he built more than just machines. He built himself.


    He crafted twin pistols, sleek and deadly, each piece custom-made to fit his hands. Their barrels were engraved with intricate patterns, delicate scrollwork etched into the steel. They became an extension of him, a perfect counterbalance to his mechanical skill.


    His reputation grew, both in the workshop and in the alleyways. Some whispered about the cold-eyed boy who never missed a shot. Others marveled at his inventions ¡ª clockwork limbs that moved with the grace of flesh and bone. But no one got close. Aldric kept himself apart, a shadow moving through the smoke-filled streets.


    Letters from his adoptive parents arrived often. Occasionally, they visited, but Aldric kept his distance. He learned about their daughter ¡ª Clara. She was his age, though they had never met. The letters painted her as kind and clever, beloved by her parents. Aldric felt nothing. He wasn¡¯t their son. He was a stranger in borrowed skin.


    By the time ten years had passed, Aldric had become a master of his craft. His prosthetic designs were leagues ahead of his peers, his pistols deadly works of art. He had become something new. Something dangerous.


    Then, the summons came. His education was complete. It was time to return.


    As the train rattled along the tracks, Aldric watched the smoke-filled horizon. The southern city faded behind him, the world stretching out into endless iron and steam. For the first time in a decade, he would face the home he¡¯d never known.


    He didn¡¯t feel excitement. Or fear. Only a cold, quiet resolve.


    The past had shaped him. The future waited.


    And Aldric would be ready.

 1. Arrival

    The train hissed and lurched to a stop, steam billowing into the air as metal ground against metal. Silas Ashcroft ¡ª once Aldric, once Elias ¡ª 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 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª the heavy currency clinking softly in his palm ¡ª and knelt down, pressing the coins into the boy¡¯s trembling hands.


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    "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 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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?

 2. Family bonds

    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.


    ¡ª


    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.


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    "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 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.


    ¡ª


    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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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.


    ¡ª


    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.


    ¡ª


    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 ¡ª 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.

 3. Family bonds II

    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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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."


    ¡ª


    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 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 ¡ª fragile up close."


    The men shifted uneasily. They knew Aldric wasn¡¯t after the money. His eyes gleamed with a darker desire.


    ¡ª


    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.


    ¡ª--


    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.


    ¡ª


    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 ¡ª 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.


    ¡ª


    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.


    ¡ª


    The train station loomed ahead ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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.


    ¡ª

 4. Family bonds III

    The silhouette vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the faint imprint of that strange symbol burned into Silas¡¯s mind ¡ª a gear with an eye carved into its center. His chest tightened.


    ¡°What the hell is happening in this city?¡± he whispered to himself, eyes darting across the crowd. His instincts screamed at him to chase after the figure, but the sheer number of people made it impossible. Bodies pressed against him, the murmur of voices and the distant hiss of steam overwhelming his senses.


    Frustrated, Silas pushed his way back into the main office. He dropped into a chair, gripping the arms tightly. His mind raced. First the lamppost. Now this. He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. "Okay," he muttered under his breath, "I¡¯ll look into it when I get home."


    For now, he needed to focus.


    He stood, shaking off the unease, and made his way to the staff room. Inside, Victor sat at a polished oak table, speaking with three men dressed in formal suits. Their conversation hushed as Silas entered. Victor waved him over.


    "Ah, Silas! Come meet the ministers."


    The three men turned toward him, their expressions curious.


    "This is George," Victor began, gesturing to the man on the left. George was tall and thin, with slicked-back black hair and a sharp gaze. "Minister of Foreign Affairs."


    George nodded stiffly.


    "Harry," Victor continued, indicating the man in the middle. Harry had a round face and a perpetual scowl. "Minister of Law."


    Harry gave a curt nod.


    "And finally, Josh."


    Josh, the man on the right, leaned forward with a broad smile. He was younger than the others, with a thick mustache and a pair of brass goggles resting on his forehead. "Minister of Steam Technology. A pleasure." He extended his hand, and Silas shook it firmly.


    "Silas," Josh began, eyes glinting with interest, "I heard you¡¯re an engineer specializing in prosthetics. Why not work for me? We need young talent to push the boundaries of steam technology."


    Silas opened his mouth to respond, but Victor cut in smoothly. "Silas isn¡¯t interested in those things. He just wants to live his life without burdens."


    Josh raised an eyebrow but said nothing. George chuckled, swirling the wine in his glass. "Well, when the family is rich, the kids don¡¯t need to work, do they?" His tone was taunting, eyes glimmering with amusement.


    Victor laughed. "You¡¯re not wrong, George, but that¡¯s not the case here. Silas genuinely isn¡¯t interested. I even asked him to handle the new station, but he refused."


    Silas felt a quiet relief. For once, Victor¡¯s protective nature worked in his favor. He wasn¡¯t ready for the spotlight. Not yet.


    Clack.


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    The door swung open, and Edgar stepped inside. The butler¡¯s presence was as calm and steady as ever, his mustache neatly trimmed, his posture impeccable. He bowed slightly.


    "Sir. I was at the estate when one of the guards informed me you summoned me. Is something the matter?"


    Victor turned. "Ah, Edgar. No, nothing urgent. I¡¯ll be heading out with Josh to discuss the airship gas systems. I¡¯d like you to accompany Silas back to the estate."


    Edgar bowed again. "Very well, sir."


    Silas stood, eager to leave. As they made their way out of the station and into the waiting carriage, Silas turned to Edgar.


    "Edgar¡­ Can you bring me all the newspapers? Every single issue. Even the oldest ones."


    Edgar raised an eyebrow. "Every issue, young master?"


    "Yes. Don¡¯t miss a single day."


    Edgar considered him for a moment. "May I ask why?"


    Silas hesitated. "It¡¯s¡­ for research. Just bring them to my room."


    Edgar nodded. "As you wish."


    Silas leaned back into the carriage seat, staring out the window. The gears of his mind turned, much like the city itself. The symbol. The silhouette. The city was watching.


    And Silas was determined to find out why.


    ¡ª-


    They reached home. Silas climbed the stairs and went straight to his room, loosening his shirt buttons. He sat on the edge of the bed, exhaling slowly, trying to gather his thoughts. But something caught his eye.


    A yellow paper.


    It rested neatly on his nightstand. Frowning, he reached for it. The back read:


    "To Silas Ashcroft."


    No sender. Heart pounding slightly, he unfolded the paper. It was blank at first glance ¡ª no, not blank. In the center, a single sentence was scrawled in dark ink:


    "The clock ticks for those who involve themselves with Ashcroft."


    Silas stared at the words. His pulse slowed, oddly calm. "Ashcroft? Involved?" He muttered the words under his breath. "Are they referring to me?"


    Before he could dwell further, a knock came at his door. A guard entered, carrying a stack of newspapers.


    "Sir, Edgar sent me to deliver these."


    "Alright. Thanks."


    He slid the newspapers under his bed. "Tonight will be a little busy."


    ---


    It was nearing eleven when Silas heard soft footsteps outside. He turned toward the door. Clara.


    "You didn¡¯t go to school?" Silas asked.


    Clara stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, looking both annoyed and sad. "I was in school, but my sparrow stopped flying. I don¡¯t know what happened."


    Silas tilted his head. "Show me. I¡¯m a prosthetic engineer, after all. Maybe I can help."


    Clara¡¯s face lit up. "Really?"


    She handed him the small mechanical sparrow. Silas inspected it carefully, turning it over in his hands, listening to the faint click of its tiny gears. After a few minutes, he smirked.


    "Ah. I see what¡¯s wrong."


    Clara bounced on her heels. "Can you fix it? Can you?"


    He chuckled. "Yes. The spring gear in its left wing is broken. Bring me my bag ¡ª I¡¯ve got some tools in there."


    Clara dashed off and returned moments later, clutching the bag. As Silas opened it, something shiny caught Clara¡¯s eye.


    Twin pistols.


    Sleek. Classy. The metallic finish gleamed under the gaslight, each intricate gear polished to perfection. Clara gasped.


    "Let me see! Let me see!"


    Silas quickly tried to cover them. "Geez, why are you acting like a child? You¡¯re eighteen, you know."


    Clara pouted. "Don¡¯t you know? We girls are born abnormal. We act like this our whole lives."


    Silas burst out laughing. The sound surprised even him. He coughed, trying to regain his composure, but Clara only smiled wider. It was the first time she¡¯d heard him laugh so openly.


    "Did you make these?" she asked, eyes still locked on the pistols.


    "Yeah," Silas replied, carefully setting them aside. "They¡¯re custom-made. Only fit my hands."


    "Did you¡­ ever shoot someone with them?" Clara asked, half-teasing.


    Silas froze mid-repair. "Does my face say I¡¯m a murderer?"


    Clara laughed. "Why so serious?"


    Silas sighed, shaking his head. "What am I supposed to say to you?"


    The mood shifted. Clara grew quiet. "Hey¡­ what happened last night?" she asked softly. "You weren¡¯t looking well."


    Silas hesitated. He couldn¡¯t tell her the truth ¡ª that he wasn¡¯t the Silas they knew. That he was someone else entirely. Even if I told her¡­ there¡¯s no way she¡¯d believe me.


    But she waited, patient and trusting. After a long pause, Silas decided to tell her about Elias. Or at least¡­ parts of it.


    He spoke of bonds and betrayals. Of friends who once laughed with him, who turned on him once they learned he was adopted. He left out the darker parts, skimming over the worst of the pain.


    When he finished, Clara''s eyes were glistening. Without warning, she threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly.


    "Do you think they¡¯d still love you if you went back to help them?" she whispered.


    Silas tensed. Then slowly shook his head. "I don¡¯t know¡­ and I don¡¯t think so. I can¡¯t forget their eyes. They hated me."


    Clara held him tighter. For a moment, Silas stiffened, unused to the warmth. But then something shifted. His heart ached ¡ª not with pain, but with a strange comfort. A delayed effect. Someone was accepting him. Him. Not Elias. Not Ashcroft. Just Silas.


    A single tear welled in his left eye. He wiped it away before Clara could see.


    "Here." He handed her the sparrow. "It¡¯s fixed."


    Chirp. Chirp.


    The little mechanical bird sprang to life, fluttering its metal wings before perching on Silas¡¯s shoulder. Clara gasped in delight.


    "You did it!" she squealed, hugging him again. "Thank you, brother."


    Silas smiled. "My pleasure."


    As the sparrow chirped softly and Clara giggled, Silas allowed himself a rare moment of peace. But deep inside, a quiet resolve burned.


    Tonight, he had work to do.


    The city was watching. And Silas would be watching back.

 5. Unraveling The Gears

    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 ¡ª 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 a gear with an eye etched into its center ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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.


    ¡ª


    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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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 ¡ª 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.


    ¡ª

 6. Digging Into The Past

    Knock knock


    Knock knock knock


    Knock.


    "Silas, wake up! It¡¯s already about 12 in the morning ¡ª it¡¯s getting late." Selena¡¯s voice came from outside.


    Silas''s eyes opened slowly. "Morning¡­" he mumbled with a yawn.


    "It¡¯s not morning, Silas. It¡¯s almost noon," Selena replied.


    Silas jumped up and glanced at the wall clock. "It¡¯s this late? I must¡¯ve worked myself midnight," he thought.


    "Okay, I¡¯ll be right there!" Silas shouted back.


    Tap tap tap. Selena¡¯s footsteps slowly faded as she headed downstairs. Silas stretched, rubbed his face, and dragged himself to the bathroom.


    ---


    The sun played hide and seek behind the clouds. Winter was nearing its end, but the cloudy sky kept the air cold. Wind swept through Ashport City, carrying the scent of coal and steel. People bustled about, immersed in their work.


    Silas entered the living hall, the clatter of dishes catching his attention.


    "Silas, your breakfast is ready. Come eat," Selena called from the dining room.


    He walked in and slumped onto a chair. Selena sat opposite him, cigarette in hand, the smoke curling lazily above her head.


    "Edgar mentioned you were out on a case yesterday. What kind of case?" Silas asked, taking a bite of his omelette.


    Selena glanced at him, raising a brow. "All these years, and you still don¡¯t know what I do for a living? That hurts a little."


    "Well¡­ I never asked, so¡­" Silas stammered, scratching the back of his head.


    "I¡¯m a state lawyer," she said, taking a slow drag from her cigarette.


    "Oh¡­" Silas blinked, then fell silent.


    Selena exhaled a thin stream of smoke and leaned back. "Sara was asking about you. I saw her at court this morning."


    "Sara?" Silas frowned. He barely remembered the ceremony ¡ª his attention had been stolen by that mysterious silhouette.


    "You don¡¯t know Sara? She¡¯s a stage actress. She said she met you at the ceremony."


    Silas rubbed his chin, trying to recall. "Oh, the blonde girl¡­ Yeah, I met her. She was thanking me for¡­ something about a sponsor?"


    "Yes. Her last performance had something about the Ashcrofts in the script. They asked for funding, and your father helped pay for the stage setup, costumes ¡ª even paid her for the act afterward."


    "I see," Silas muttered quietly.


    Selena smiled teasingly. "You shouldn¡¯t keep these things hidden from me, you know. I¡¯m your mother now."


    Silas blinked, flustered. "It¡¯s not like that," he mumbled, scratching his cheek and averting his gaze.


    Selena chuckled, grabbing her long coat from the chair. "I¡¯m a bit tired. I¡¯ll get some rest. You finish up and explore the city if you want."


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    Silas watched her leave, then sank into thought. People had been murmuring about the colonial wars lately ¡ª maybe he could find out more. "Sure," he said, almost to himself.


    The door clicked shut, and the house fell silent. Silas stared at the table, mind drifting. "Why am I even doing this?" he whispered. "It¡¯s not like they¡¯re after me¡­"


    Then he remembered Clara ¡ª the warmth in her eyes when he fixed her sparrow. For the first time, he¡¯d felt a spark of purpose. The Ashcrofts had a dark past, and someone was plotting something dangerous. Protecting Clara¡­ maybe that was enough of a reason.


    He finished his breakfast and headed back to his room, strapping on his custom-made belt and slipping in his sleek twin pistols. The cold wind hit him as he stepped outside, cutting through his coat. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked towards the market.


    Steam hissed from factory pipes, and machinery clanked in the distance. Merchants called out their wares, voices mingling in the crowded streets. Silas wandered quietly, eyes scanning the alleys. A prickle ran down his spine ¡ª a feeling of being watched. He glanced over his shoulder, but the sea of faces gave nothing away.


    His thoughts drifted back to last night. Half-asleep, he¡¯d glimpsed a shadow at his window. "I told myself it was my imagination¡­ but I heard footsteps too." His brow furrowed. "Could someone from the family be watching me? No¡­ I¡¯m overthinking."


    The alleys yielded nothing. No one was talking about the war. "Then why would the newspaper write that headline?" he wondered. Just as he was about to give up, a filthy, ragged alley caught his attention.


    It was hell on earth. Filthy water pooled in the cracks. Addicts and vagrants slumped against walls, their eyes vacant. Children, pale and thin from hunger, huddled in corners. Silas turned away, but loud voices from the other side of the alley stopped him.


    A crowd had gathered. Curious, Silas approached and saw a group of poor laborers protesting the government''s new currency ¡ª Bitsees. Their cries of anger and desperation filled the air.


    Silas watched silently. Finally, he nodded to himself and slipped away. The dirty alley drew him back, its stench clinging to the air. It felt like a different world ¡ª as if Ashport itself rejected this place.


    he kept walking.


    Silas ventured deeper into the alley, the air growing heavier with each step. Dimly lit pubs and seedy drinking bars lined the narrow street. Women lingered outside, their painted smiles masking tired eyes as they grabbed at passersby, whispering promises of pleasure. The deeper he went, the darker the atmosphere grew. Then he heard it ¡ª the low murmur of old voices drifting from a nearby bar, openly discussing the war.


    ¡°Found it,¡± Silas murmured with a grin.


    He pushed open the creaking door and slid onto a chair, signaling the bartender with a rowdy wave. ¡°A drink,¡± he ordered, his voice rough, slipping into the act effortlessly. Experience from his past life made it second nature.


    The bartender squinted at him. ¡°Kiddo, this is a place for adults. Kids aren¡¯t allowed.¡±


    Silas smirked, slapping thirty Ironbits onto the counter. The green shine of notes turned a few heads. ¡°Am I still a kid?¡± he asked, holding the man¡¯s gaze.


    The bartender''s eyes widened at the sight of the Ironbits notes. For these Bitsee coin users, Ironbits were a rare luxury. ¡°No, you¡¯re a thirty-year-old grown-ass man to me sir,¡± the bartender chuckled, starting to mix his drink.


    Silas felt the weight of stares pressing against him. Old men whispered in hushed tones.


    ¡°Is he the son of some rich family?¡±


    ¡°No way, probably a thief.¡±


    ¡°Why would a rich brat come to this alley?¡±


    ¡°His clothes look expensive.¡±


    ¡°Bet he stole them.¡±


    Silas took the glass and leaned back, feigning disinterest. ¡°So¡­ what¡¯s this about a war?¡± he asked casually. The room fell silent. Eyes burned into him, filled with anger and mistrust.


    A middle-aged man with bruises and a rusted prosthetic arm staggered over, grabbing Silas by the collar. ¡°You rich bastard! You know how I lost this arm?¡± he growled.


    Silas glanced at the crude metal limb, barely functional. He sneered. ¡°Let me guess¡­ some kid like me took it?¡± He knew provoking them was dangerous, but anger made people reckless ¡ª loose-lipped.


    The man snarled, hurling Silas into the wall. Pain shot through his back as he slid to the floor. He dusted himself off, straightening his coat.


    ¡°Brat, get out of here. You¡¯re probably some government rat, thinking we¡¯re old fools who¡¯ll spill secrets.¡±


    Silas sighed. He¡¯d miscalculated. Coming here well-dressed and flashing money had only put them on guard. ¡°What a waste,¡± he muttered, pushing past the crowd and stepping back into the cold alley.


    As he walked, a flicker of movement caught his eye. An old man with brown hair sat slumped on a wooden chair beneath the cloudy sky, the faint sunlight casting shadows across his weathered face. The man raised a hand, gesturing for Silas to come closer.


    Silas approached cautiously. ¡°Hello, sir. Can I help you?¡±


    The old man chuckled. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t I be asking that? Why¡¯d you pick a fight with those good-for-nothing drunks?¡±


    Silas scratched his head. ¡°I heard them talking about the war. Got curious, but they got angry the moment I asked.¡±


    The man sighed, nodding slowly. ¡°Make sense.¡±


    ¡°Make sense?¡± Silas frowned.


    ¡°Look at their limbs.¡± The old man gestured toward the bar. ¡°They lost them working in Armstrong Ashcroft¡¯s mines when they were young. Back then, they weren¡¯t treated as workers. They were slaves. The Windmere Republic sold us out.¡±


    ¡°Sold you out?¡± Silas asked, leaning in.


    The old man straightened, his voice low and bitter. ¡°When the colonial war started, Ashport was green and beautiful. Then Armstrong came and painted it red ¡ª red with our blood.¡± His eyes grew distant. ¡°When the slaughter finally ended, the government signed a treaty. The details have been buried, but what I do know is that we were part of that deal.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Silas pressed.


    The old man sighed, sipping from a cracked glass. ¡°The government gave the Ashcrofts the right to use Ashport¡¯s people as free labor. The more iron the Ashcrofts mined, the more tax Windmere collected. That treaty still stands.¡±


    Silas¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°It still exists?¡±


    ¡°Hypothetically,¡± the old man continued, ¡°if the Ashcrofts decided to enslave us again, the government couldn¡¯t lift a finger. We¡¯d be theirs.¡±


    Silas felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. ¡°Why hasn¡¯t Victor done anything about this?¡± he muttered under his breath.


    The old man shrugged. ¡°That¡¯s why they talk about the war. It wasn¡¯t just a war. It was the day we lost our freedom.¡±


    Silas clenched his fists. His mind raced, connecting the dots. The strange symbols in the newspapers, always near Ashcroft articles¡­ "Could this be what they¡¯re plotting?"


    He stood, bowing slightly. ¡°Thank you, sir.¡±


    The old man squinted. ¡°What¡¯s your name, boy?¡±


    Silas hesitated, then smiled. ¡°Silas¡­ Silas Ashcroft.¡±


    The old man¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Ashcroft, huh?¡± Silas met his gaze, voice steady. ¡°I¡¯ll make sure that treaty ends.¡±


    The old man stared after him, a faint smile curling his lips. ¡°Such a good man¡­¡± he whispered.


    Silas walked through the alley, mind swirling with questions. ¡°The treaty still stands¡­ Why hasn¡¯t Victor done anything about this?¡± He rubbed his temple, lost in thought ¡ª until the shadows shifted.


    A large group of hooded figures emerged from the alley¡¯s darkness, their faces hidden beneath thick cloaks. Silas tensed, eyes darting around. The streets were empty.


    ¡°Who are you? What do you want?¡± Silas demanded.


    The figures said nothing, closing in silently. Silas¡¯s heart pounded. He dropped into a low stance, hand resting on the pistol at his side.


    "Things just got interesting."


    ¡ª

 7. Aldric

    The hooded figures surrounded Silas.


    A grin stretched across his face, dark and eager. "It¡¯s finally getting interesting."


    His fingers twitched toward his pistols, but he hesitated. Killing them would be easy, far too easy. ¡°No, i shouldn''t kill them, I don''t want to make my hands dirty, atleast not in this life¡± Silas thought ¡ª at least not yet. He lowered his body, shifting into a fighting stance, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. The alley stank of rotting garbage and damp stone, but Silas barely noticed. The air grew heavy, tense. His heartbeat slowed. This was familiar. This was home.


    A sharp shuffle of footsteps ¡ª someone lunged from behind. Silas spun, ducking low as a fist grazed past his ear. Without thinking, he twisted, thrusting his leg backward in a high arc. His boot connected with a sickening crack against the attacker''s nose, sending the man crashing into the wall behind him.


    Another came from the front. Silas sidestepped, caught the incoming punch with his forearm, and drove his elbow into the man''s ribs. The hooded figure gasped, staggering back. Silas didn¡¯t let him recover. He darted forward, grabbed the man¡¯s arm, and twisted. A sharp pop echoed through the alley. The man howled, clutching his dislocated shoulder as he crumpled to the ground.


    ¡°Who are you people?¡± Silas demanded, eyes darting between the figures still standing. No answer. Only silence.


    They attacked again. Silas moved like a shadow, weaving between punches and kicks. His body knew what to do before his mind caught up, every strike a memory from a life he no longer claimed. He swept the legs out from under one attacker, caught another by the collar, and slammed him into the alley wall. The man''s head lolled as he slid to the ground.


    Another lunged from behind, grabbing Silas''s coat. He shrugged it off in one fluid motion and drove his elbow into the man¡¯s stomach. The attacker doubled over, gasping for air, before Silas brought his knee up into his chin. Blood sprayed across the dirty cobblestones.


    ¡°Damn¡­ he''s a monster¡­¡± one of the hooded figures whimpered.


    ¡°Don¡¯t just stand there!¡± another barked. ¡°Take him down!¡±


    They rushed him all at once.


    And something inside Silas snapped.


    The world blurred. His breath slowed, heart pounding like a war drum. Shadows danced at the edges of his vision. He was no longer Silas Ashcroft ¡ª he was something darker, something older. A predator.


    A fist came at him. Silas caught it mid-swing, twisted, and wrenched the arm backward. A shriek of pain echoed through the alley. He struck another man in the throat, sending him to the ground, gasping for air. One leaped at him from the side. Silas sidestepped, grabbed the attacker¡¯s collar, and slammed him into the nearest wall. The body crumpled like a ragdoll.


    His grin stretched wide, teeth glinting in the dim alley light. Blood dripped from his knuckles. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice whispered. No¡­ not whispered. Laughed.


    Aldric.


    Silas moved faster. His blows grew heavier. Bones cracked under his fists. He was laughing now ¡ª dark, cold laughter that echoed off the walls. The last attacker fell to his knees, trembling. Silas raised his fist, ready to strike, but something stopped him.


    Clara¡¯s face. Her smile.


    The laughter died in his throat. Silas stumbled back, gasping for air. He blinked down at his trembling hands, coated in blood and dirt. Around him, the alley was silent except for the groans of the fallen. His heart raced.


    "What¡­ did I do?" He sank to his knees. His fists clenched in his lap, trembling. "I''m not him. Not anymore."


    The cold wind whispered through the alley, but it did nothing to cool the fire raging inside him. He wiped the blood from his knuckles onto his coat and slowly stood. His eyes scanned the bodies around him. One of the figures tried to crawl away, dragging himself through the dirt. Silas grabbed him by the collar and yanked him upright.


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    ¡°Who are you?¡± Silas growled. The man whimpered but said nothing. Silas slammed him against the wall. ¡°Who sent you?¡±


    Still, silence. Silas pressed his pistol to the man¡¯s forehead. The cold metal made the attacker flinch.


    ¡°Talk.¡±


    ¡°O-okay, okay!¡± The man¡¯s voice trembled. "W-we were told to follow you. To wait until you were alone.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Silas demanded.


    ¡°I don''t know!¡± The man squeezed his eyes shut. "We were just following orders from our boss! We were told you¡¯d be alone in the alleys. We were supposed to corner you and get your money. You weren''t supposed to fight back like¡­ like this."


    Silas¡¯s grip tightened. ¡°Who gave the orders?, who''s wants to rob me?¡±


    ¡°The man from the bar!¡± The thug spat blood onto the cobblestones. "The drunk! The one you pissed off. Said he wanted to teach you a lesson. I swear, that''s all I know!"


    Silas''s mind reeled. The man from the bar¡­ the one who reminded him of his past self now. Was this really just a petty act of stealing? Or was there something more?


    Before he could press further, a noise caught his ear ¡ª the soft crunch of footsteps on gravel. Silas turned, eyes narrowing. Shadows moved at the edge of the alley. More figures, hooded and silent, watching.


    They didn¡¯t move to attack. Not yet.


    ¡°Boss¡­¡± the man whimpered, eyes darting toward the newcomers. ¡°They¡¯re here.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡± Silas asked, but before he could get an answer, pain exploded at the back of his skull.


    THUD.


    Before he could look back a guy hit his head with a metal rod.


    The world spun. Silas fell forward, vision blurring. The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was a pair of polished black boots stepping into the alley.


    And then, silence.


    ---


    Ashcroft Estate


    The clock struck eight.


    Clara paced back and forth across the parlor, her mechanical sparrow perched silently on her shoulder, its brass beak clicking softly with each anxious step. The large clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, each sound chipping at her nerves. Silas had left the estate at noon and still hadn¡¯t returned. The evening had darkened into night, and with every passing hour, the cold weight in her chest grew heavier.


    She¡¯d already asked the servants, but none of them knew where Silas had gone. Even the guards at the gates had no clue.


    Steeling herself, she marched outside. Two guards stood at attention near the front gate, their brass goggles glinting in the dim gaslight. Clara hurried toward them, her voice tight with worry.


    ¡°Did Silas come back after he left at noon?¡±


    The guards exchanged uncertain glances. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache, shook his head.


    ¡°No, miss. We haven¡¯t seen him since.¡±


    Clara clenched her fists. ¡°Did he say anything before leaving?¡±


    The other guard, younger and leaner, scratched the back of his neck. ¡°No, Miss Clara. He left quietly. Didn¡¯t speak to anyone.¡±


    Her heart sank. Silas wasn''t the type to vanish without a word. Something was wrong. She turned and rushed back into the estate, her footsteps echoing through the empty halls. Without hesitation, she made her way to Edgar¡¯s quarters.


    Knock, knock¡­


    The door creaked open, and Edgar, the Ashcroft family''s loyal butler, stepped out. His sharp eyes studied Clara¡¯s pale, sweaty face. ¡°Miss Clara?¡± He inclined his head slightly. ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡±


    ¡°Edgar, have you seen Silas? He left at noon and hasn¡¯t returned.¡± Her voice quivered with urgency.


    Edgar frowned, stroking his chin. ¡°No¡­ I haven¡¯t seen him. Perhaps he went out for a stroll. Though, I suppose he hasn¡¯t made many friends here yet.¡±


    Clara grabbed his sleeve. ¡°Please, Edgar. I think something¡¯s happened. We have to find him.¡±


    Edgar gave her a solemn nod. ¡°Very well. I¡¯ll send some men to search for him.¡±


    Clara watched Edgar stride down the hall, his posture stiff with concern. As he disappeared around the corner, she slumped into a chair in the living room, absently stroking her mechanical sparrow. Its tiny gears whirred softly beneath her fingers.


    ¡°Where could you be, Silas?¡± she whispered. ¡°Were you¡­ planning to leave us?¡±


    The hours dragged on. The clock chimed ten. Clara remained in the living room, curled up on the couch, watching the shadows dance across the walls. She heard footsteps approaching and shot to her feet, hope flickering in her eyes. She ran to the entrance, only to find her mother, Selena Ashcroft, stepping inside.


    Selena was tall and elegant, her long black coat sweeping behind her as she removed her gloves. The gaslights caught the sharp lines of her face, her brown eyes glimmering with quiet intelligence. Her sleek black hair framed her face, a stark contrast against her pale skin.


    ¡°Clara?¡± Selena placed a gentle hand on her daughter¡¯s head. ¡°What¡¯s wrong, my sweet girl?¡±


    ¡°Silas!¡± Clara blurted out. ¡°He left at noon and hasn¡¯t come back. I¡¯m worried.¡±


    Selena¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°I told him to explore the city¡­ but it¡¯s late. He should be home by now.¡± Her gaze sharpened. ¡°Did you ask the guards?¡±


    ¡°Yes. They said he left quietly and hasn¡¯t returned. Edgar is out looking for him.¡±


    Selena was silent for a moment, her face unreadable. Then she smiled softly and guided Clara back inside. ¡°Come. Let¡¯s wait together.¡±


    They sat in the parlor, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Selena lit a cigarette, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. Clara frowned.


    ¡°I told you to stop smoking.¡±


    Selena chuckled, rubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray. ¡°I¡¯ll try, darling.¡± She pulled Clara close, resting her daughter¡¯s head on her lap and stroking her hair.


    After a while, Clara broke the silence. ¡°Mother¡­ what was Silas like when you first met him?¡±


    Selena¡¯s eyes softened. ¡°He was young. Fragile. Pale. There was something about his eyes¡­ pain, yes, but also a quiet resolve.¡± She sighed, her fingers trailing through Clara¡¯s hair. ¡°Your father and I were looking for someone who could match our lineage ¡ª someone with dark hair like ours. But when we saw Silas¡­ we knew.¡±


    Clara looked up. ¡°But why him? He doesn¡¯t match our appearance.¡±


    Selena smiled faintly. ¡°Because he endured. The other children fought back, but Silas¡­ he endured. Day after day, he bore his pain silently, without complaint. That kind of strength is rare.¡±


    Clara fell quiet, contemplating her mother¡¯s words. The clock ticked on. Midnight came and went. Then ¡ª


    Clack.


    The front door creaked open. Both Clara and Selena sprang to their feet. Footsteps echoed in the hall, hurried and uneven. They rushed to the entrance, just as a guard stumbled inside, supporting a limp figure. Edgar followed close behind.


    Clara gasped. ¡°Silas!¡±


    His blonde hair was matted with blood, long bangs hanging over his pale face. His clothes were torn and filthy, and blood stained the fabric. His body sagged between the guard and Edgar, unconscious.


    Selena widened in shock. Clara fell to her knees, cradling Silas¡¯s face with trembling hands. Tears streamed down her cheeks.


    ¡°Silas¡­¡± she whispered. ¡°What happened to you?¡±


    No one had an answer. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock, marking each second of silence.


    ¡ª

 8. Whisper

    Iron Town, 2nd District


    Mash Steel and Prosthetic Company


    The heavy clanking of machinery echoed through the factory as molten steel poured into molds, hissing steam filling the air. Workers moved like clockwork, their faces smudged with soot and sweat, each of them contributing to the city¡¯s most renowned prosthetic limb manufacturer. The Mash Steel and Prosthetic Company wasn¡¯t just a business ¡ª it was a lifeline for the crippled and the broken, offering mechanical limbs at prices affordable to even the lower class.


    High above the factory floor, in a dimly lit office overlooking the machinery, an old man sat hunched over a desk, papers scattered before him. Mash, the head of the company, ran his calloused fingers through his short beard, his eyes squinting at the fine print of a contract. The gaslight flickered, casting long shadows on the walls.


    The door creaked open without warning.


    Mash jolted upright. ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡±


    A figure entered the office without so much as a knock. He moved silently, his face hidden behind a smooth, featureless mask. A long black cloak trailed behind him, and atop his head sat a sharp, wide-brimmed hat, the kind that shadowed the eyes of its wearer.


    The masked man raised his left hand, fingers curling slightly, as if gesturing toward something unseen. Mash stiffened. He glanced around the office, ensuring no one was nearby, then gestured toward a chair. ¡°Sit.¡±


    The mysterious figure lowered himself into the chair, the gaslight reflecting off his mask. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Finally, the masked man broke the silence.


    ¡°How are things here?¡± His voice was low, almost a whisper.


    Mash shifted uncomfortably. ¡°Everything is running smoothly¡­ but why are you here?¡±


    The masked man leaned forward slightly. ¡°The clock is ticking for the Ashcrofts.¡±


    Mash blinked. ¡°What do you mean? Isn¡¯t it too soon?¡±


    The masked man¡¯s tone darkened. ¡°Silas Ashcroft. The new son. He¡¯s been looking into our affairs.¡±


    Mash scoffed. ¡°A new guy? He¡¯s just a kid. Why would he be a threat?¡±


    The masked figure leaned back in his chair. ¡°He knew nothing. But now¡­ now he knows something.¡±


    Mash frowned. ¡°What do you mean by something? How much does he know?¡±


    The masked man¡¯s fingers drummed against the arm of the chair. ¡°Just the tip of the iceberg. But it doesn¡¯t matter. He¡¯s poking around where he shouldn¡¯t. We need to handle him before he uncovers the rest.¡±


    Mash went silent, rubbing his temples. After a long pause, he sighed. ¡°Very well. I¡¯ll think about it.¡± He hesitated, then added, ¡°By the way¡­ those new recruits you sent me aren¡¯t cooperating. They¡¯re causing trouble.¡±


    The masked man tilted his head slightly. ¡°Then make them cooperate.¡±


    Mash¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°How?¡±


    The masked man stood slowly, his cloak billowing around him. ¡°Torture them.¡±


    As he turned to leave, he paused at the door. Without looking back, he murmured, ¡°And don¡¯t get directly involved. We can¡¯t risk exposing ourselves.¡±


    Mash nodded grimly. ¡°Understood.¡±


    The door creaked shut behind the mysterious figure. Mash sat back in his chair, his fingers steepled, deep in thought. Finally, he stood and called out.


    A young man entered, his face pale under the dim light. ¡°Sir?¡±


    Mash¡¯s gaze hardened. ¡°Collect everything you can about Silas Ashcroft. Dig into his past. I want a full report within three days.¡±


    The man bowed. ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    Mash watched him go, then turned to the window, staring out over the factory floor. ¡°Silas Ashcroft¡­ Let¡¯s see what you¡¯re hiding.¡±


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    ---


    Ashcroft Estate


    The morning sun spilled through the iron-framed windows of the Ashcroft estate, casting long shadows across the polished floors. Outside, the city thrummed with life. Factories clanked and hissed, workers bustled about their day, and the market overflowed with noise ¡ª the rich enjoying their luxuries, the middle class toiling for their wages, and the poor begging for scraps. The city was alive, yet somehow it felt¡­ heavy.


    Inside the estate, Clara, Victor, and Selena sat in the living room, the air thick with worry. None of them had gone to work that morning. Their thoughts were with Silas, who hadn¡¯t woken up since his return the night before.


    Suddenly, a servant burst into the room, breathless.


    ¡°Sir! Madam! Silas is awake!¡±


    Clara shot to her feet. ¡°He¡¯s awake?!¡± She sprinted toward Silas¡¯s room, Victor and Selena close behind.


    They pushed open the door to find Silas sitting up in bed. His face was pale, dark circles rimmed his eyes, and a fresh bandage wrapped around his head. He looked weak¡­ so weak.


    Clara rushed to his side, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. ¡°You¡¯re awake¡­ You¡¯re okay!¡±


    Selena sat on the other side of the bed, gently taking Silas¡¯s hand in hers. ¡°How do you feel, my son?¡±


    Silas gave a faint smile. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ fine.¡±


    Clara sniffled, wiping her eyes. ¡°You scared me, you know?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Silas whispered.


    Selena squeezed his hand. ¡°What happened? Where did you go?¡±


    Silas hesitated, his mind racing. Should he tell them the truth? No¡­ not yet. He sighed. ¡°I was attacked. Some robbers in the back alleys. They took my money.¡±


    Selena¡¯s grip tightened. ¡°Robbers?¡±


    Victor, who had been sitting quietly, watching Silas with a keen gaze, finally spoke. ¡°Just your money?¡±


    Silas hesitated again. ¡°Yes¡­ Just my money.¡±


    Victor leaned back, arms crossed. ¡°I see.¡±


    The room fell silent. After a while, Selena and Clara left, leaving Victor behind. As Victor reached the door, he paused and glanced over his shoulder.


    ¡°I¡¯ll talk to you tonight¡­ if you¡¯re awake.¡±


    Silas frowned. ¡°Alright.¡±


    As the door clicked shut, Silas leaned back against the pillows, his mind racing. Was Victor suspicious of me? Did he know I was digging into the Ashcroft past?


    He swung his legs over the side of the bed, only to wince as pain shot through his ankle. He glanced down, noticing the bandages.


    ¡°Great,¡± he muttered. ¡°Not just my head¡­ they had to bust my ankle too.¡±


    A soft knock on the door brought the doctor inside. ¡°Sir, you shouldn¡¯t be moving.¡±


    ¡°How long until I can walk properly?¡± Silas asked.


    The doctor adjusted his spectacles. ¡°You¡¯ll be on your feet in a week, but full recovery will take a month. Be patient.¡±


    Silas sighed, running a hand through his hair. ¡°One month¡­ fine.¡±


    As the doctor left, Silas stared at the ceiling, his thoughts swirling.


    Someone was watching me. I felt it at the market. And the newspapers¡­ Was it Victor? Or someone else?


    The clock ticked softly in the background. Silas closed his eyes. The game had begun ¡ª and he was already behind.


    ¡ª


    Ashcog Industries, Head Office


    The clock ticked softly against the hum of machinery outside. The evening sun dipped behind the city¡¯s smoke-stained skyline, the flickering lights of airships dotting the sky like artificial stars. In his office, Victor Ashcroft sat behind a mahogany desk, the room dimly lit by a single brass lamp. The rhythmic tapping of fingers on wood was the only sound before a knock echoed through the chamber.


    Knock, knock¡­


    ¡°Come in,¡± Victor called out, his tone sharp.


    The door creaked open, and Edgar stepped inside ¡ª a sleek man with a sharp gaze, his presence quiet but precise. Victor gestured to the chair across from him, watching closely as Edgar sat.


    ¡°Did you look into Silas?¡± Victor asked, wasting no time. ¡°Where did he go that day?¡±


    Edgar shifted slightly, lowering his eyes. ¡°He was telling the truth about the back alley. But¡­ he left out a detail.¡±


    Victor¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°What detail?¡±


    Edgar hesitated, then spoke quietly. ¡°He was asking about the Colonial Wars ¡ª why people are suddenly talking about them again.¡±


    Victor stiffened. The room felt colder. ¡°Anything else?¡±


    Edgar shook his head. ¡°That was it.¡±


    Victor leaned back, eyes narrowing. ¡°Did he ask you anything?¡±


    For a moment, Edgar said nothing, but then Victor added, ¡°You don¡¯t have to hide things from me. You¡¯re not just a butler, Edgar ¡ª you¡¯ve been with me since I was young. You¡¯re family.¡±


    Edgar exhaled slowly. ¡°He asked me to bring him a stack of newspapers. Recent months.¡±


    Victor rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ¡°So¡­ he¡¯s after that symbol too.¡±


    ¡°It seems like it,¡± Edgar agreed.


    Victor¡¯s eyes darkened. ¡°He¡¯s sharp ¡ª more than I expected. Keep an eye on him. Don¡¯t let him get too close to danger. The city¡­ it¡¯s not safe for an Ashcroft.¡±


    Edgar nodded, standing. ¡°Understood.¡±


    As Edgar left, another visitor arrived ¡ª a known face.


    ¡°Minister George.¡± Victor stood, offering a polite nod.


    George, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, stepped inside. An older man, his suit impeccably pressed, his demeanor calm and calculating. He¡¯d served the Windmere Republic faithfully since the days of Sir Gerard II, and under his hand, the republic¡¯s relationships with foreign powers had flourished.


    ¡°I heard about Silas,¡± George began. ¡°Thought I¡¯d check in. How¡¯s he holding up?¡±


    Victor gestured to a chair, taking his seat once more. ¡°Better. He got caught up with some robbers in the market. Edgar brought him home.¡±


    George frowned. ¡°And the robbers?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve asked the night patrol to look into it,¡± Victor replied. ¡°They¡¯ll be caught soon enough.¡±


    George hummed thoughtfully, sipping the coffee a servant brought in. ¡°Troubling times.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ---


    Ashcroft Estate


    The estate was quiet, save for the gentle clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen. The gas pipes hissed softly, their copper glow bathing the room in a warm light. Selena Ashcroft stood at the counter, carefully dicing vegetables. The stew simmered on the stove, filling the air with a rich, savory aroma.


    Clara poked her head into the kitchen. ¡°Mother, why don¡¯t you let the chefs handle this? Why are you cooking?¡±


    Selena glanced over her shoulder, smiling softly. ¡°Silas lost a lot of blood. I wanted to make something for him myself.¡±


    Clara¡¯s eyes lit up. ¡°Then I¡¯ll help!¡±


    Selena raised a brow. ¡°You? Helping in the kitchen? The same Clara who refuses to learn cooking?¡± She chuckled. ¡°You must really care about him.¡±


    Clara pouted. ¡°He¡¯s injured. I can at least do this much.¡±


    Later, they carried the food up to Silas¡¯s room. He was sitting in bed, back propped against pillows, a book resting in his lap.


    Clara burst through the door. ¡°Dinner¡¯s ready!¡±


    Silas jolted, startled. ¡°You scared me.¡± He eyed the tray. ¡°I could¡¯ve come downstairs.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Selena said firmly. ¡°Your ankle is injured. Stairs aren¡¯t good for you.¡±


    Silas smiled faintly. ¡°Alright. Thank you.¡±


    As they ate, warmth filled the room. Silas looked at his new family, feeling that strange mix of happiness and fear again. He had people who cared about him now¡­ but what if his darkness hurt them too?


    ---


    11 PM ¡ª The Carriage Ride


    The city slept under a blanket of smog and steam, the only sounds the distant hum of factories and the occasional bark of a stray dog. Victor and Edgar rode silently through the streets in their carriage, the steady clop of horse hooves echoing through the alleys.


    Victor stared out the window. ¡°You looked into the robbers?¡±


    Edgar nodded. ¡°They were drunkards from a local bar. But they didn¡¯t attack directly. They hired someone.¡±


    Victor¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°They hold a grudge against our family.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps¡­ but they didn¡¯t know Silas was an Ashcroft. He never revealed his name.¡±


    Victor rubbed his temples. ¡°At least he has some sense.¡±


    Suddenly ¡ª


    BANG!


    A gunshot echoed through the night. The carriage jerked to a halt. Edgar sprang into action, drawing his revolver and shielding Victor with one arm.


    ¡°We¡¯re ambushed, sir!¡±


    Victor reached for his own weapon as shadows shifted in the darkness. The city¡¯s silence shattered as chaos erupted.


    ¡ª

 9. The Weight of Lies

    Ashcroft Estate ¡ª Midnight


    The clock in the grand hall struck twelve, its chime echoing faintly through the vast corridors of the Ashcroft estate. The mansion was quiet, save for the soft hiss of the gas lamps and the distant creak of old wooden beams settling into the night.


    In her room, Selena Ashcroft sat at her desk, the flicker of her brass lamp casting long shadows across the walls. Papers were strewn before her ¡ª financial reports, shipping manifests, and other documents from Ashcog Industries. Yet, her eyes skimmed over them without focus. Her thoughts kept drifting back to Silas and the incident at the market.


    She sighed, leaning back in her chair. What was he doing in that alley? Victor hadn¡¯t told her much, and Silas himself had been quiet since returning home. A mother¡¯s worry gnawed at her. Finally, she decided. I should go talk to him.


    Rising from her seat, she grabbed a shawl and stepped into the dark hallway. Her footsteps echoed softly against the marble floors, the gas lamps along the walls casting a dim amber glow. The estate always felt colder at night, the silence heavy, almost watchful.


    As she approached Silas¡¯s room, the faint rustling of papers caught her ear. She knocked softly.


    Knock, knock¡­


    ¡°Silas¡­ are you awake?¡±


    There was a brief pause, then a soft exhale from the other side.


    ¡°Yeah¡­ come in.¡±


    Selena pushed open the door, the hinges groaning softly. Silas sat at his desk, hunched over a spread of newspapers. His room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a small lamp on the nightstand. Selena¡¯s eyes swept across the clutter ¡ª stacks of paper, old books, and half-burnt candles. It looked more like a detective¡¯s workspace than a bedroom.


    ¡°What¡¯s with all the newspapers?¡± she asked, brow furrowed.


    Silas glanced at the mess, then back at her. ¡°It¡¯s nothing. Just¡­ research.¡±


    Selena frowned but didn¡¯t press further. Instead, she stepped closer, her gaze lingering on the worn papers. ¡°Why did you go to that back alley?¡±


    Silas opened his mouth to respond ¡ª when suddenly, a loud clattering sound echoed through the house. The door at the end of the hall slammed open, footsteps pounding against the floor. Silas tensed, instincts flaring. He pushed himself off the bed, wincing as his injured ankle protested.


    ¡°Stay here,¡± Selena urged. ¡°Your ankle¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Silas muttered, ignoring the pain.


    They heard someone racing up the stairs. Moments later, a guard burst into the hallway, breathless and wide-eyed.


    ¡°Master Victor has been attacked!¡± the man gasped. ¡°He was shot ¡ª he¡¯s in the hospital now!¡±


    Selena¡¯s face drained of color. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed against the wall. Silas lunged forward, catching her just before she fell.


    ¡°Mother!¡± Silas steadied her, his heart pounding. She clung to his arm, shaking her head as if trying to process the words.


    ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m okay, Silas,¡± she whispered, though her body trembled. ¡°You can let go.¡±


    Silas reluctantly released her, turning to the guard. ¡°What happened? How bad is it?¡±


    The guard wiped the sweat from his brow. ¡°We¡¯re not sure, sir. One of our men rushed back to the estate. Said Master Victor was ambushed on his way home. He¡¯s in Windmere General Hospital now.¡±


    ¡°Get the carriage ready,¡± Silas ordered. ¡°We¡¯re going to the hospital.¡±


    From the other end of the hall, a soft voice broke the tension.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±


    Clara stood in the doorway to her room, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her hair was tousled, and she clutched a pillow to her chest. ¡°Why is everyone yelling?¡±


    Silas and Selena exchanged glances. Silas forced a smile. ¡°Edgar got sick. We¡¯re heading to the hospital.¡±


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    Clara frowned. ¡°What about Father? Why isn¡¯t he back yet?¡±


    Silas hesitated. ¡°He¡¯s with Edgar. We¡¯ll be back soon.¡±


    Clara pursed her lips. ¡°Then I¡¯m coming too.¡±


    Selena shook her head. ¡°Clara, it¡¯s late. Stay here where it¡¯s safe.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Clara stomped her foot. ¡°I want to see Edgar!¡± Before either could protest, she turned on her heel. ¡°I¡¯ll get dressed.¡±


    Silas sighed. ¡°She¡¯s stubborn.¡±


    Selena placed a hand on his arm. ¡°Let her come. It¡¯s better than leaving her here alone.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s more dangerous outside,¡± Silas argued. ¡°You heard what happened to Victor.¡±


    Selena squeezed his arm gently. ¡°They already attacked Victor. They won¡¯t strike again tonight. And Clara¡­ she needs to see her father.¡±


    Silas clenched his jaw but nodded. ¡°Alright.¡±


    As Selena went to get ready, Silas limped back to his room. He changed quickly into a white shirt, black pants, and a brown coat. Before leaving, he wrapped his ankle tightly with bandages, wincing at the pressure. The pain dulled slightly.


    Then, his eyes fell on the twin pistols resting on his nightstand. The robbers didn¡¯t take them. That still bothered him. They¡¯d taken his money, but left the weapons untouched. Almost like they weren¡¯t after valuables.


    Frowning, he holstered the pistols on either side of his belt, then grabbed his hat.


    ---


    Fifteen minutes later, the Ashcrofts stood at the estate¡¯s grand entrance. The carriage waited, horses stamping impatiently against the cobblestones. Clara was bundled in a black dress and long coat, her face pale and worried. Selena stood beside her, composed but visibly tense.


    Silas climbed into the carriage last, settling across from them. As the horses lurched forward, he glanced out the window, the city passing in a blur of gas lamps and shadows. His mind raced.


    An ambush.


    Was it a random attack? Or something more deliberate? Victor was a powerful man, and Ashcog Industries had no shortage of enemies. But the timing¡­ and those symbols¡­


    ¡ª


    The steady rhythm of hooves striking the cobblestone streets echoed through the quiet city. Inside the carriage, the flickering gas lamps outside cast fleeting shadows across their faces, illuminating the tension hanging thick between them.


    Silas sat with his arms crossed, staring at the blurred streets outside, his mind working through the night¡¯s events. Clara, seated across from him, was silent, but the anger rolling off her was palpable. Her hands clutched the fabric of her coat so tightly that her knuckles turned white.


    Selena, sitting beside her, finally broke the silence. "Clara, sweetheart¡ª"


    "Why did you lie to me?" Clara''s voice cut through the air like a blade.


    Silas exhaled slowly. He had been expecting this.


    Clara¡¯s gaze burned into him. ¡°You told me Edgar was sick. That we were going to the hospital for him.¡±


    Silas met her eyes evenly. ¡°We didn¡¯t want you to panic.¡±


    ¡°Panic?¡± Clara¡¯s voice rose in pitch, her body trembling with barely contained rage. ¡°Do you think I¡¯m a child? Do you think I can¡¯t handle the truth?¡±


    "Clara, please¡ª" Selena started, but Clara ignored her, turning her full anger onto Silas.


    "You always act so cold, so calculating! You never tell me anything! You think you know what''s best for everyone, but you don''t!" Her breathing was heavy, furious. "You don''t even have parents¡ªhow would you know what this pain feels like?!"


    Silas froze.


    The words hit him harder than any bullet ever could. His grip on his coat tightened as something inside him twisted, deep and sharp.


    Selena''s eyes flashed with anger as she grabbed Clara¡¯s wrist. "That is enough, Clara!" Her voice was firm, unwavering. "That was cruel and uncalled for."


    Clara¡¯s chest rose and fell in rapid breaths, her eyes still burning with anger¡ªbut now, there was something else beneath it. Guilt. Regret.


    Silas looked away, his expression unreadable. He had expected anger from Clara, but not this. Not that kind of wound.


    Clara lowered her gaze, but she didn''t apologize. Instead, she crossed her arms and turned toward the window, her jaw clenched tight.


    The rest of the ride was suffocatingly silent.


    ---


    When they arrived at the hospital, the sight of constables stationed outside confirmed what Silas already suspected¡ªthis was no ordinary attack.


    The hospital was dimly lit, the scent of antiseptic hanging in the air. Nurses bustled past them, their hurried footsteps echoing through the hall.


    A doctor approached, his silver-rimmed glasses catching the light. "You are the Ashcroft family?"


    "Yes," Selena said immediately. "How is my husband?"


    The doctor adjusted his glasses. "He was lucky. The bullet lodged in his shoulder but missed any vital organs. He lost a lot of blood, but he is stable."


    Selena let out a breath, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her dress.


    Silas remained silent, but a small part of him eased.


    Clara, however, stood still. Her lips parted slightly, as if she was only now truly realizing the gravity of the situation.


    "Can we see him?" Selena asked.


    The doctor hesitated before nodding. "Briefly. He needs rest."


    They followed him down the hall, where Edgar stood outside Victor¡¯s room. His forearm was wrapped in a bandage, his face lined with exhaustion.


    Silas immediately caught the injury. ¡°You¡¯re hurt.¡±


    Edgar managed a tired smirk. ¡°It¡¯s nothing compared to what Victor took.¡±


    Selena touched Edgar¡¯s arm gently. ¡°Thank you for protecting him.¡±


    Edgar nodded. ¡°Always.¡±


    The doctor opened the door, and they stepped inside.


    Victor lay against the white sheets, his left shoulder heavily bandaged, his usual imposing figure looking far too still. But when his eyes flickered open, a weak smirk tugged at his lips.


    "You all look like you¡¯ve seen a ghost." His voice was rough, strained.


    Selena was by his side in an instant, gripping his uninjured hand. Her fingers trembled, but her voice remained steady. "You scared me, Victor."


    Victor¡¯s smirk softened. "I know."


    Before anyone else could speak, Clara stepped forward. Her hands were shaking, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then, without warning, she punched Victor lightly on his uninjured arm.


    Victor winced. "Ow¡ªClara!"


    "You idiot!" she yelled, her voice breaking. Her fists clenched tightly at her sides. "Do you have any idea how worried I was?! How scared I was?! You should¡¯ve come home earlier! You should¡¯ve¡ª"


    Her voice faltered, and suddenly, she was gripping his shirt, burying her face into his chest.


    Victor exhaled, his uninjured arm wrapping around her. "I''m sorry, my little star."


    Clara didn''t say anything¡ªjust held onto him as if she were afraid he''d slip away again.


    Silas watched the scene quietly. His earlier pain from Clara¡¯s words still lingered, but he knew she hadn¡¯t meant it. She was just afraid. And deep down, he understood that fear all too well.


    After a long moment, Clara finally pulled away, rubbing at her eyes furiously. "You better not get shot again," she muttered.


    Victor chuckled weakly. "I''ll do my best."


    Silas, standing near the foot of the bed, finally spoke. ¡°This wasn¡¯t random. They targeted you specifically.¡±


    Victor¡¯s expression darkened. "I know."


    Silas folded his arms. "I''ll look into it."


    But before he could say anything more, Victor¡¯s voice turned firm. "No, you won¡¯t."


    Silas frowned. ¡°What?¡±


    Victor sighed, shifting slightly against the pillows. "I know how you are, Silas. You won¡¯t stop until you have answers. But this isn''t something you should involve yourself in."


    Silas clenched his jaw. ¡°Victor, they shot you.¡±


    "And that¡¯s exactly why you should stay out of it." Victor met his gaze evenly. "They wanted to send a message. If you go digging too deep, you might not like what you find."


    Silas¡¯s hands curled into fists. He hated feeling powerless.


    Selena spoke up, her voice quiet but firm. "Victor¡­ do you know who¡¯s behind this?"


    Victor hesitated for a moment. Then he shook his head. "Not yet. But I have a feeling."


    Silas¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t waver. He didn¡¯t like this. He didn¡¯t like being told to stand down. But he also knew Victor well enough to recognize when he was serious.


    For now, he would wait. But not forever.


    Selena let out a slow breath and placed a gentle hand on Victor¡¯s face. "We almost lost you tonight."


    Victor¡¯s smirk softened. "But you didn¡¯t."


    Silas looked between them, his mind still whirling. This wasn¡¯t over. Not by a long shot.


    But for now, they were together. And for tonight, that was enough.


    ¡ª

 10. Whispers of Chaos

    The morning sun bathed the city in golden hues, its rays stretching across the rooftops and shimmering against the metal pipes of the towering steam factories. The sky, once blanketed in the darkness of night, now carried the promise of a new day, but the city beneath it was far from calm.


    The rhythmic chirp of birds mixed with the hiss of steam valves and the clank of machinery, creating a discordant melody that signaled the city''s awakening. Streets swelled with movement¡ªworkers stepping out of their homes, street vendors setting up their stalls, carriages rolling over uneven cobblestone roads.


    Then, a shift in the air.


    The first newspaper vendor shouted, his voice rising above the city''s morning hum. "Breaking news! The Ashcrofts under attack! Master Victor Ashcroft shot on his way home!"


    People stopped in their tracks. Eyes darted toward the newspaper stands, hands scrambling for copies.


    Black-and-white images stared back at them¡ªVictor Ashcroft''s stern face, his piercing gaze captured in ink. Below it, another face¡ªhis adopted son, Silas Ashcroft.


    "The Ashcrofts are being targeted!" Another vendor cried. "First the boy, now the master! Who''s behind this?!"


    Within moments, the story spread like wildfire. Conversations ignited in every district.


    In the northern part of the city, outside the Ashport Police Station, a tall young man sat on a worn-out wooden bench, the newspaper trembling in his grip. His sharp blue eyes widened as they landed on the image of Silas.


    A name escaped his lips. "Elias¡­?"


    His breath hitched. His fingers clenched the paper tighter.


    This man was Felix, once an orphan, once a friend of Elias, the boy who should have been dead.


    But there he was, in the ink of the morning press, alive.


    "How¡­ how is this possible?" Felix murmured. His mind spun, drowning in memories. The Elias he knew had been buried, lost to the past. Yet the man in the photograph¡ªSilas Ashcroft¡ªbore the same face.


    Something inside him ached. Regret? Guilt? He wasn''t sure.


    He swallowed hard and turned his gaze toward the busy street. "I need to find out the truth."


    ---


    Across the city, in the shadows of Mash Steel and Prosthetics Company, a figure strode through the industrial fog, the newspaper gripped tightly in his hand. His dark coat billowed behind him as his boots struck the pavement with force.


    He read the headline once more, his jaw tightening.


    Then, suddenly¡ª BAM!


    His fist slammed into the brick wall beside him.


    "How can you still be alive, Victor?" he seethed, his voice barely above a whisper but thick with rage. His knuckles turned white against the paper.


    The city''s whispers had reached him. And now, the game was truly beginning.


    ---


    Meanwhile, in a modest tavern on the northern side of the city, barmaids weaved through tables, balancing trays of cheap ale and steaming plates of food. The air reeked of smoke and sweat, mingling with the murmurs of morning patrons.


    At one table, a group of men spoke in hushed but eager voices.


    "The Ashcrofts were attacked again?"


    "Serves them right, that family has had power for too long."


    "But who''d dare go after them?"


    As their voices blurred into the background, a young waitress stood frozen near the bar.


    A single glance at the newspaper in her hands had drained the color from her face.


    Her delicate fingers trembled as they traced the inked image of Silas Ashcroft. Her wide, gray eyes filled with something close to horror.


    No.


    No, this wasn''t possible.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    The boy in the picture¡ªSilas Ashcroft¡ªwas the same boy she had killed with her own hands.


    Her heart pounded so loudly she could barely hear the bar owner''s bark.


    "Mira! Table four! Stop standing around and get to work!"


    She jolted, her grip tightening on the newspaper. "Yes," she mumbled, forcing herself to move.


    But her mind was elsewhere.


    "Should I tell Jonas?" she thought.


    No. Jonas would have already seen the papers.


    But that meant¡­ that meant everything was about to change.


    ---


    Ashport Central Hospital


    Victor Ashcroft sat propped up in his hospital bed, rubbing his temple as his eyes flicked over the morning edition of the newspaper. The deep furrow in his brow spoke volumes.


    "Who leaked the news?" he muttered under his breath.


    The knock on his door was barely necessary before Edgar stepped inside.


    "Sir?"


    Victor lifted the newspaper. "How bad is it?"


    Edgar''s face was grim. "The city is in chaos. Everyone is talking about the attack." He hesitated. "We tried to silence the media, but it spread too fast. It was beyond our control. My apologies."


    Victor exhaled through his nose, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Silence hung between them before he finally spoke again.


    "How''s Silas doing?"


    Edgar hesitated. "I haven''t returned home since the incident."


    Victor''s eyes darkened. "Go. Now."


    Edgar''s brows knit together. "But sir, your safety¡ª"


    Victor cut him off. "Silas is hot-tempered. If he reads this, he will not sit still. He will start looking, and he has no sense of danger."


    Edgar clenched his jaw. "Understood."


    As he turned to leave, Victor''s voice stopped him.


    "First, check if he has seen the newspaper. If he hasn''t, make sure he doesn''t. If he already has¡­" Victor exhaled. "Don''t let him do anything reckless. If he insists, then either go with him or keep an eye on him from the shadows."


    Edgar cast a glance over his shoulder. "Understood, sir."


    As the door closed behind him, Victor sat in silence, gripping the newspaper so tightly the edges crumpled.


    Damn it.


    They''re already on the move.


    His eyes burned as he stared at the inked words, his mind racing.


    "Whoever you are¡­ whoever your boss is¡­ you''ve made your move."


    "And now it''s my turn."


    He set the newspaper down, his expression turning to steel.


    "I will find you."


    "And I will put an end to you."


    ---


    The City Awakens to War


    The news had spread. The city had spoken.


    Some pitied the Ashcrofts. Some cheered their downfall.


    Some whispered in fear. Others watched with anticipation.


    But one thing was certain¡ª


    The attack had not just struck at Victor Ashcroft.


    It had sent a message.


    And the battle was only just beginning.


    ---


    Recently in Ashcroft Estate


    The early morning light filtered through the grand windows of the Ashcroft estate, casting golden rays over the corridors and rooms. The heavy tension that had settled over the house the night before still lingered, filling the air with unspoken words and quiet regrets.


    Silas sat on his bed, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, deep in thought. His mind replayed the recent events¡ªthe attack on him, the ambush on Victor. He knew that the Ashcrofts had enemies; a family of their status and wealth would always attract those lurking in the shadows. But something didn''t add up.


    "Why now?"


    For decades, the Ashcrofts had ruled in their sphere of influence, yet there had been no such direct attacks. If there had been threats before, he had not been made aware of them.


    "This isn''t just random violence¡­ Someone is making their move."


    Yet, without any clear trail, all he had were theories. And theories weren''t enough to stop bullets.


    ---


    Meanwhile, on the balcony of her room, Clara leaned against the railing, resting her chin on her arms as she gazed over the city. Her mind wasn''t on the bustling streets below, nor on the mechanical sparrow flitting about in the morning sun. It was on the boy she had hurt the night before.


    Silas.


    The words she had thrown at him echoed in her head, cruel and thoughtless.


    "You don''t have parents¡ªhow would you know the pain?"


    She clenched her fists.


    She had been angry, overwhelmed with fear and frustration after discovering the truth about her father''s injury. But that was no excuse. She had crossed a line.


    And yet, she couldn''t find the courage to face Silas and apologize.


    Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching her door.


    Knock, knock.


    "Clara?"


    She turned her head slightly. "Come in, Mother."


    Selena stepped inside, her sharp eyes softening as she took in her daughter''s troubled expression. She sat beside Clara on the balcony and wrapped an arm around her.


    "Clara," she said gently, "you should apologize to Silas."


    "I know¡­" Clara murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "But¡­ I don''t have the courage to face him."


    Selena sighed. "You know he won''t hold it against you. Silas is a good person¡ªhe''ll accept your apology right away."


    Clara lowered her head. "But what I said was horrible¡­"


    Selena inhaled deeply before speaking. "Yes, it was. You said he doesn''t have parents, but don''t you realize how harsh his life was before? He grew up without love, without protection. He was weak, bullied, alone. Do you think he doesn''t know pain? He has known it all his life."


    Clara bit her lip, guilt washing over her.


    Selena continued, her voice firm but not unkind. "And you were wrong, Clara. Silas does have parents now. Victor and I¡ªwe chose him as our son. And you, you are his sister. When you said that to him, it was as if you denied his place in this family."


    She sighed. "He hasn''t left his room since last night. Maybe your words are bothering him more than you think."


    Clara swallowed hard, her chest tightening. "Do you think¡­ he''ll accept my apology?"


    Selena smiled, brushing a strand of Clara''s hair behind her ear. "Of course. He''s your brother, Clara. Brothers love their sisters."


    Taking a deep breath, Clara steeled herself. "Okay. I''ll go."


    ---


    Clara''s heart pounded as she walked down the hallway.


    She had never felt this nervous before¡ªnot during exams, not during social events, not even when facing their strict tutors. But now, standing in front of Silas''s door, her hands were cold, and her throat felt dry.


    She exhaled, gathering her courage, and lifted her hand to knock.


    Knock, knock.


    Before she could say anything, Silas''s voice came from inside.


    "Come in, Clara. I know you''re there."


    She blinked in surprise. How did he¡ª?


    Pushing the door open, she stepped inside hesitantly. Silas was sitting on his bed, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.


    He gestured to the edge of the bed. "Come, sit."


    Clara sat down slowly, gripping her skirt. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Silas cut her off.


    "I''m not sad," he said calmly. "I don''t hold anything against you. I know you didn''t mean it that way, so don''t stress over it."


    Clara''s mouth fell open slightly. She had expected some resistance, maybe even some coldness¡ªbut he had already forgiven her before she could even say the words.


    Her eyes stung, and before she knew it, she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around him.


    "I''m sorry!" she cried, her voice cracking. "I''m really, really sorry!"


    Silas stiffened for a moment before letting out a small sigh. "You''re squeezing me too hard, you know? I might actually die at this rate."


    Clara sniffled, then pulled back just enough to glare at him. "You dumbass! If you weren''t sad, why didn''t you come and tell me that yourself?"


    Silas smirked. "I have my own pride, you know."


    Clara pouted. "Hmph."


    Silas chuckled. "Alright, enough drama. Let''s get out of this heavy mood. Remember that tailor shop we visited? I gave my measurements that day, and my suits should be ready now. Let''s go pick them up."


    Clara wiped her eyes and smiled. "Okay! Just tell me when you''re ready to go."


    Silas nodded. "Deal."


    ---


    Sometime later, Silas sat alone in the study when one of the estate guards entered, handing him the morning newspaper.


    Silas unfolded it, his eyes quickly scanning the front page.


    "Ashcrofts Under Siege! Who is Targeting the Esteemed Family?"


    His expression darkened slightly.


    But then, something else caught his attention.


    There was no symbol this time.


    He flipped through the pages, double-checking.


    The last time a headline about the Ashcrofts had appeared, a strange coded symbol had been hidden near the title¡ªa message left by Someone.


    But today¡­ there was nothing.


    His grip on the paper tightened.


    "They made sure to leave a mark last time¡­ why not now?"


    His mind raced through the possibilities.


    Either they had nothing to do with this attack on Victor, or¡­


    They wanted him to think they weren''t involved.


    His eyes flickered with suspicion as he set the paper down.


    One thing was certain¡ªthis wasn''t over.


    And he needed to be ready.


    ¡ª

 11. Shadows Over Ashcrofts

    It had been a week since the attack on the Ashcrofts. In that time, Silas had meticulously combed through newspapers, searching for any leads. One thing had become clear¡ªthe people who had attacked Victor were not the same ones who always left a distinctive symbol in the newspapers: a gear with an eye etched at its center near any headline involving the Ashcrofts. This realization only deepened the mystery.


    Despite his efforts, Silas had no solid clues. The more he searched, the more questions arose. He sighed, running a hand through his hair.


    "For now, I just have to stick to Victor," he murmured to himself. "Maybe I''ll find some clues by staying close to him. Maybe the attacker is someone within his circle, and he doesn''t even realize it."


    He glanced down at his injured ankle, moving it slightly. The pain was almost gone.


    "Seems like it''s nearly healed. At least now I won''t have to hold back in a fight."


    The clock struck eleven in the morning. The house was empty. With nothing holding him back, he decided to visit Ashcog Industries and meet Victor. If he wanted answers, he had to observe the people Victor interacted with.


    ---


    Bloom School of History


    The Bloom School of History was one of the few prestigious educational institutions in the Windmere Republic. The education system in the republic was fast-paced; students graduated from school by eighteen, and while university was an option, most people from Windmere Village chose not to continue. As a result, university attendance was low, with only a handful pursuing higher education.


    Clara sat in her classroom, her fingers idly flipping through the pages of her book, but she wasn''t reading. Her mind was elsewhere¡ªlost in worry. The recent attacks on her family had left her uneasy. It wasn''t her own safety that troubled her, but the safety of her loved ones.


    Her classroom, located on the second floor of the large, stone-structured building, was well-lit by gas lamps mounted on each pillar. The wooden floors creaked softly as students shifted in their seats. Wooden benches and chairs filled the room, and a sleek blackboard stood at the front.


    A familiar voice broke through her thoughts.


    "Clara¡­"


    She jolted and turned to her right. Meg, her closest friend, sat beside her. A thin girl of average height, Meg had sharp brown eyes and hair tied in a neat ponytail. She wore the standard red and black school uniform.


    "You''re not here," Meg observed. "What''s on your mind?"


    Clara sighed. "I''m sure you''ve heard about what''s been happening to my family. My brother was attacked one day, and the next day, my father was targeted. I can''t help but be worried."


    Meg nodded solemnly. "Yeah, I read about it in the newspaper. I can understand why you''d be shaken."


    There was a pause before Meg''s eyes lit up with curiosity. "By the way, you mentioned your brother. So, you have an adopted brother now?"


    Clara smiled faintly. "Not adopted. He''s my real brother as far as I''m concerned. My parents took him in when I was eight, but he was away studying in another city all these years."


    Meg grinned mischievously. "What''s his name? Is he handsome?"


    Clara smirked. "Yes, and I''m not letting you meet him."


    Meg pouted, crossing her arms. "That''s not fair! I let you meet my brother, didn''t I? Why won''t you return the favor?"


    Clara''s smirk deepened. "Because he''s already taken, hehehe. My mother told me Sara is interested in him."


    Meg''s eyes widened. "Wait¡­ you mean Sara? The popular stage actress?"


    Clara nodded smugly. "Yep. That''s how handsome my brother is."


    Meg let out a dramatic sigh. "I thought I had a chance to steal him away." She feigned disappointment, making Clara burst into laughter.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    ---


    Back at the Ashcroft Estate


    Silas adjusted his attire, ensuring he looked presentable. He donned his hat, strapped his twin pistols securely, and slipped a handful of Ironbits into his pocket. He then instructed a servant to prepare a carriage for him.


    Once ready, he climbed into the carriage, and it began its journey toward Ashcog Industries. The city was alive with movement¡ªmachinery roared, markets bustled with activity, and the alleys blurred past as the carriage wheels rolled forward.


    As he gazed out of the window, his eyes fell upon a large building¡ªthe Economic Department of Ashport City. In the open ground ahead, white pigeons pecked at scattered pieces of bread as people tossed them food.


    He leaned out slightly, taking in the sight of airships drifting through the sky.


    "It''s been years since I reincarnated into this world, and I''ve never once ridden one of those," he murmured. "I should try it sometime. I wonder how the city looks from above."


    His thoughts were interrupted by murmurs outside. People pointed in his direction, whispering amongst themselves. He could hear them mentioning his name¡ªVictor Ashcroft''s son, the one who was attacked.


    "Well, of course they know me now," he muttered. "The newspapers had my picture all over them."


    Then a realization struck him. "Wait¡­ where did they get that picture?"


    After a moment, he recalled the train station ceremony. Reporters had flooded the area, snapping photos of Victor''s return.


    But something else unsettled him.


    Not all of the gazes directed at him were mere curiosity. In some eyes, he saw anger.


    He shifted uncomfortably, pulling his head back into the carriage. Why are people angry at me?


    As he glanced out again, his sharp eyes caught movement in a nearby alley. A shadowy figure, clad in a dark cloak, lurked just beyond the busy street.


    Silas tensed. Who was that?


    Then he noticed something chilling. It wasn''t just one figure. Every alley he passed seemed to have someone¡ªobscured in darkness, cloaked, watching.


    "Am I being followed?" His fingers instinctively brushed against his pistols. "Is another attack coming?"


    Yet, despite the unsettling presence, nothing happened. No attack. No confrontation. Just the silent, looming figures observing his every move.


    When he finally arrived at Ashcog Industries, he stepped out cautiously, scanning his surroundings. The cloaked figures had vanished.


    "Why didn''t they attack?" he muttered. "Are they just keeping an eye on me?"


    Brushing off his unease, he paid the carriage driver and pocketed his hands as he walked toward the entrance. The sun hung high, yet the cold wind carried a sharp edge. The rhythmic hissing of factory machines filled the air.


    Two guards at the entrance straightened upon seeing him, bowing slightly. "Welcome, Silas."


    "Where is the head office? I need to see Victor."


    One of the guards gestured toward the building. "This way, sir."


    Silas nodded and followed, his mind racing with questions.


    The mystery surrounding the attacks was only deepening. And now, it seemed, unseen eyes were watching his every move.


    ¡ª


    Victor''s Office


    Victor sat in his office, his fingers idly tapping against the polished wooden desk as he scanned a set of blueprints detailing his industry''s latest invention. The Ashcog Industries headquarters hummed with activity beyond the tall windows, steam-powered machinery hissing and clanking in rhythmic unison. The scent of ink and paper filled the room, mingling with the faint aroma of coal burning in the furnaces below.


    A sharp knock echoed against the door.


    Knock. Knock.


    "Come in," Victor called out, setting the papers aside.


    The door swung open, revealing a tall, striking young man with long blonde bangs framing his face¡ªSilas.


    "Ah, Silas! It''s you," Victor greeted, a smile forming on his lips. "What brings you here?" He gestured toward the leather chairs in front of his desk. "Come, sit."


    Silas stepped in, shutting the door behind him before casually settling into one of the chairs. "I was bored at home, so I figured I''d drop by," he said, stretching his arms behind his head.


    Victor chuckled. "A good decision. I was starting to feel a bit restless myself." He leaned back in his chair. "Did Clara go to school?"


    Silas nodded. "Yeah, she left earlier this morning."


    Victor''s expression turned serious. "Did she have guards with her? It''s dangerous for any of us to move around unprotected, especially after the recent attacks." He instinctively glanced at his shoulder, still wrapped in bandages from the incident.


    Silas reassured him, "I sent two of our best guards with her, so there''s no need to worry. Plus, I''ll be picking her up myself once school ends."


    Victor let out a relieved sigh, nodding in approval. "Good. It would put my mind at ease knowing you''ll be the one escorting her." He paused for a moment before his gaze softened. "Are you happy with us, Silas?"


    The question caught Silas off guard. He blinked, hesitating for a second before answering with a small smile. "I couldn''t be happier."


    Victor''s own smile widened. "That''s all I needed to hear."


    A moment of quiet understanding passed between them before Victor leaned forward. "Would you like some tea or coffee?"


    "Tea would be fine," Silas replied.


    As Victor called for a servant, Silas hesitated, debating whether to bring up what he had seen on his way here. Finally, he decided it was important. "Something strange happened while I was coming here," he said, his tone lowering. "I noticed people in dark cloaks following me through the city."


    Victor''s eyes flickered with recognition, but he remained composed. "I see¡­ You''re certain they were following you?"


    Silas nodded. "They weren''t trying to attack, at least not yet. But they were watching me closely."


    Victor sighed, rubbing his temples. He already knew who those men were¡ªEdgar''s people. The Ashcroft family''s butler had been instructed to keep an eye on Silas, ensuring his safety without his knowledge. But if Silas had noticed them so easily, it meant something was amiss.


    "There''s something you should know, Silas," Victor said, shifting the conversation. "Someone has been spreading dangerous rumors about the Ashcrofts. You''re aware of the government''s recent ban on Bitsee Coin, correct?"


    Silas furrowed his brows. "Yeah, I read about it. The government stopped accepting it."


    Victor nodded grimly. "And they started the ban with our train travel transactions. Now, the entire city believes we were behind the decision. The public is furious."


    Silas exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. "So we''re not just dealing with hidden enemies in the shadows¡ªnow the city itself might turn against us."


    Victor folded his hands together. "Precisely. People are looking for someone to blame, and right now, all fingers are pointing at us."


    "Has the government even bothered to clarify that we weren''t involved?" Silas asked, though he already had an idea of the answer.


    Victor shook his head. "No, and I doubt they will unless we push the issue. That''s why I''m planning to address it publicly. We''re unveiling a new invention soon, and I''ve invited King Gerard to the announcement ceremony. I''ll use that opportunity to discuss this matter with him."


    Silas nodded, his mind already processing the potential outcomes. "So we need to be on guard¡ªnot just against these mysterious attackers, but against the city''s growing resentment."


    Victor met his gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. "Exactly."


    A servant soon arrived, placing a tray with two cups of steaming tea on the desk. As Victor and Silas settled into conversation over their drinks, the door suddenly burst open.


    Edgar, the Ashcroft family''s longtime butler, rushed into the room, his face pale with urgency.


    "Sir¡­ sir¡­" he panted, his normally composed demeanor shattered.


    Victor and Silas froze, setting down their teacups.


    "What''s wrong, Edgar?" Victor asked, standing up.


    The butler swallowed hard, his voice shaking.


    "Things are not okay, sir."


    A tense silence filled the room. If Edgar was this shaken, then something truly dire had happened.

 12. Rumors

    Edgar was out of breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Victor''s brows furrowed with concern as he asked, "What happened, Edgar?" Silas, sensing the tension, frowned and shifted his gaze between them.


    "Sir, there are fake rumors spreading everywhere," Edgar blurted out.


    Victor composed himself and gestured toward a chair. "Sit down and explain everything."


    Edgar collapsed into the chair, gulping down the glass of water Silas handed him. Once he had steadied himself, he spoke hurriedly. "Someone is spreading false rumors about us. The entire city is blaming us for the ban on Bitsee coin and even the inflation."


    Victor stroked his chin, deep in thought. "Who''s spreading these rumors? Do we have any leads?"


    Edgar hesitated, his voice tinged with regret. "Apologies, sir, but we don''t know."


    Silas crossed his arms, his mind racing. "Maybe it''s the same people who attacked you that day."


    Victor nodded but remained puzzled. "I considered that, but if they want me dead, why would they focus on ruining my reputation first?"


    Silas paced the room, frustration evident on his face. "What do we do now?"


    Victor exhaled sharply. "I need to discuss this with King Grerad as soon as possible."


    Silas frowned. "Isn''t it too late for that?"


    Victor''s gaze was firm. "No. He holds absolute authority. With just one statement, he can put an end to this."


    Silas nodded. "Makes sense."


    "Have the rumors already spread throughout the city? Is there any way to stop them before they fully take root?" Victor asked, turning to Edgar.


    "Not completely," Edgar admitted, "but they''re spreading fast. It''ll be difficult to contain them."


    Victor sighed. "You''re right. We can''t silence the common people."


    ---


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Hours passed, and still, no solution presented itself. The rumors spread like wildfire. The entire city whispered about the Ashcrofts, cursing them, bad-mouthing them in every alley and marketplace.


    A hooded figure stood in the shadows of an alley, listening to the chatter. His clenched fists trembled with frustration before he slammed one against the wall. "Why are they getting in my way?" he muttered darkly. This was the same man who had met with Mash earlier, the one who had taken a particular interest in the Ashcrofts¡ªespecially Silas. Without another word, he disappeared into the darkness.


    ---


    Windmere Republic, King''s Palace


    A grand palace of stone stood at the heart of Windmere, its gardens lush and vibrant, with cats roaming freely through the manicured hedges. To the left of the palace, a stable housed the continent''s finest horses¡ªsteeds fit to pull the king''s carriage. Inside, the grandeur was even more astonishing: ornate gas lamps illuminated corridors lined with luxurious furnishings. Ministers bustled about, deep in their work, while even the palace servants wore attire finer than the richest merchants in the city. The windows were draped in exquisite lawn cloth imported from distant lands.


    Seated upon his throne, King Grerad swirled a glass in his hand, appearing indifferent. A man in a black and white suit approached swiftly and bowed. "My liege, someone is spreading false rumors about the Ashcrofts."


    Grerad took a slow sip of his drink, showing little interest.


    The man hesitated before repeating himself.


    The king finally responded, his tone dismissive. "Victor is neither a child nor a commoner. He has enough power to handle this himself."


    The man bowed his head. "As you wish, my liege."


    Perhaps the king did not fully grasp the severity of the situation. Or perhaps he simply didn''t care.


    ---


    Back at Ashcog Industries


    It was nearing noon, and Victor, Silas, and Edgar were still at a loss. The situation worsened by the hour.


    Silas glanced at the clock. "It''s almost five in the afternoon. I should go pick up Clara. Things aren''t looking good."


    Victor nodded. "Take Edgar with you¡ª"


    Silas cut him off. "You need Edgar right now. We can''t leave you alone. I''ll be fine."


    Edgar agreed. "Silas is right, sir. I should stay with you."


    Victor considered it for a moment before relenting. "Alright. Be careful, Silas. Go straight home with Clara. Don''t make any stops."


    Silas nodded and left.


    As he rode through the city, he observed the bustling streets, the murmur of the people, and the graffiti-laden alleyways. He searched for any clue about the rumors'' source but found none.


    "I spent the whole day with Victor, but none of his friends showed up. I thought I''d find a lead, but today was a complete waste," Silas muttered under his breath. "And now these rumors¡­"


    A heavy fog of uncertainty clouded his thoughts. Who was behind this? What was their goal?


    ---


    Silas arrived at the school just as the bell rang six times. He checked his pocket watch¡ªit was precisely 6 PM. A crowd of students poured out of the building, their laughter and chatter filling the air.


    His eyes scanned the mass of children until he spotted her. Raising his hand, he waved. Clara, walking beside her best friend Meg, beamed at the sight of him and ran up excitedly.


    "You came to pick me up?" she asked, her voice filled with delight.


    Her friend Meg, standing beside her, blushed slightly as she gazed at Silas, his striking features mesmerizing in the afternoon light.


    Silas smiled. "Yes, I was at Victor''s office, and since I was heading home, I thought I''d pick you up."


    Clara pouted. "Oh? So you didn''t come just for me? You were just passing by?"


    Silas hesitated. "No¡­ I planned to leave earlier, but I stayed at the office until your classes ended."


    Clara huffed. "Fine¡­ whatever."


    A soft voice chimed in. "Is he Silas? Your brother?"


    Both Silas and Clara turned to see Meg staring at him with wide, curious eyes.


    Clara smirked. "Yeah, this is Silas. I wasn''t planning to introduce you, but you got lucky today."


    Meg shot her an irritated look but quickly composed herself, focusing on Silas. "Hi, Silas. I''m Meg, Clara''s classmate and best friend. Nice to meet you."


    Silas gave a polite nod. "Nice to meet you, Meg. Thanks for looking after my sister."


    Meg''s cheeks turned pink. "Always."


    Clara grinned. "Alright, we''re heading home now. Take care, Meg."


    Silas added, "Take care of Clara at school."


    Clara scoffed, pinching his arm playfully. "I''m not a child. I can take care of myself!"


    Silas chuckled as he led her toward the carriage, but his mind was still occupied with the storm brewing in the city.