1874 – Somewhere in the Empire

It’s raining.

A downpour.

I step into a small shop with a sign on the door: "Closing soon."

I hesitate for a moment before asking for the price, clutching the shillings in my pocket as if afraid it will be too expensive. The shopkeeper, looking exhausted, tells me it costs two shillings.

I don’t know why it was so cheap.

Maybe because he saw me soaked through, looking like a vagabond drenched in rain.

Or maybe because of the way my face fell when I asked about the price.

Either way, I paid, leaving me with a measly three shillings.

Before stepping out, I open my umbrella—a black-and-white striped pattern.

I sigh and step back into the cold night of the streets.

As I walk, a rain-soaked poster peels away from the wall and lands at my feet.

"Our leader is our future. One country, one will."

I ignore it and keep moving.

I pass by butcher shops, places selling cheap medicine, a restaurant, a clothing store, and finally—a bookstore.

It was well known in Voldaine District, not for its prices or books, but because they had the habit of throwing away unsold merchandise into the streets.

I had always appreciated that.

After all the reading I did in university, I had developed a taste for books.

At the corner, I glance to my left.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Except, in the distance—

The silhouette of Horverian.

The capital of the Imperium.

Its shadow devours the horizon.

The Castle.

It’s not a building. It’s not a fortress.

It’s a city within the city.

A monstrosity of marble and steel, towering over everything as if it ruled the entire world.

It doesn’t sit on the sidelines, hidden behind structures.

It is the heart of the capital, the nucleus of this entire machine of power.

Its walls—so high they eclipse every other building in Voldaine—aren’t just fortifications.

They’re a boundary between two worlds.

Inside, there is no poverty.

Inside, there is no chaos.

Inside, there is only power.

Gothic spires rise like thorns, piercing the sky.

The white marble walls reflect the moonlight, gleaming like polished bone, like eternal ivory.

And in its center, the two towers of the Empire.

The first, The Tower of the Empire.

Colossal.

Visible from every corner of the Imperium.

Its clock, an impossible feat of mechanical engineering, marks the time for the entire capital.

Its hand moves with unyielding precision, announcing each second with an authority no one dares to challenge.

They say it synchronizes itself, that it never fails, that it never stops.

It is the heartbeat of the Imperium.

If the tower were to stop, it would mean that the Empire itself had ceased to exist.

And next to it—

Its shadow.

The Tower of Silence.

A Black Obelisk.

Impossible.

Inhuman.

Its silhouette looms over the city like a watchful specter.

Something in it watches you, even though it has no eyes.

Even when no one looks at it, it is always there.

At night, its light sweeps over the streets—searching for something.

I will never understand the others.

How do they not notice it?

There is something in that thing.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Something that shouldn’t be there.

It was built in less than a year.

Maybe with slave labor.

Maybe as a mere monument to power.

But no one questions it.

Because if The Tower of the Empire represents order,

The Tower of Silence represents what happens when you defy that order.

It is the symbol of the dictatorship.

A reminder of who rules.

Somewhere on a parallel street, a scream cuts through the night.

It doesn’t call for help.

It doesn’t beg.

It simply screams—

As if it already knows it’s pointless.

I pause for a moment, my stomach tightening.

I shouldn’t look.

I shouldn’t listen.

"It’s better to stay quiet."

Here, a reckless comment is enough to make you disappear.

As I reach my building, my landlord is waiting at the entrance.

My hand tightens in my pocket, clutching the three shillings as if it would change anything.

"Ethan, when do you plan on paying rent? Your brother still hasn’t arrived, and I’m not letting you go another week without paying."

His expression of pure resignation is devoured by Ethan.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Stop torturing me, we’ll pay on Sunday. It’s barely Thursday, and you’re already starting—"

Gordon—the landlord—huffs.

"If you paid more regularly, I wouldn’t have to remind you. But I suppose you’re not worse than Jane."

Jane, the neighbor in the room next to mine—number five.

I was room number four.

If I remember correctly, she lives alone.

I’ve never spoken to her, but I’d swear I’ve heard Paul talk to her before.

"Gordon, we’ll pay by Sunday at the latest. Now, let me inside before I drown like an idiot."

"Fine, fine, get in already. I’m off to talk to that so-called mysterious and useless Jane."

I climb the stairs, sliding my key into the lock.

The number four is etched onto it, a common pattern, its color coppery.

I open the door.

My apartment is… humble.

A living area—two meters wide, four meters long.

A kitchen in the left corner, and a coat rack just by the entrance.

"Paul hasn’t come back yet…"

To the right, a single bedroom with bunk beds.

Ten shillings per month.

Not cheap, but not expensive either.

I can’t complain—not when I know where we could’ve ended up instead.

Drakemont District is worse than Voldaine District.

I put my things away and leave the umbrella by the entrance so I don’t get wet.

I check my pockets and place my shillings in a small box above the wardrobe.

At first, we used it to hide our money in case of a robbery, but over time, it became a tradition left by Emma.

I think about her.

I wonder how different our lives would have been if Father had lived a little longer.

Or if we hadn’t fought.

After all, we’re three siblings.

Lost in thought, I head to the kitchen and start preparing a "soup."

I chop potatoes, carrots, and sweet potatoes, leaving them to boil in water.

We had no gas, but Paul and I had a solution—the steam pipes from Gordon’s building.

The heat was enough to burn your hand.

I set up the makeshift stove, and within minutes, the water starts reacting.

"No meat."

Or rather, I wouldn’t waste money on it.

We couldn’t afford such luxuries.

I stir the pot, waiting.

Ten minutes pass.

Paul still isn’t home.

I wonder…

How much longer will this last?

I finish cooking and pour the soup into a bowl. It’s thin, barely more than water and a handful of vegetables, but it’s warm. I sit at the small table, eating slowly. The apartment is silent except for the occasional creak of the building as the wind outside rattles against it.

Paul won’t be back anytime soon. His shifts have been stretching longer each day. I don’t blame him. If anything, I should blame myself. He left school so I could finish mine—studied to become a mechanical engineer, only to end up a watchmaker.

I finish eating, clean my dish with what little water we have left in the basin, and leave it to dry. The heat from the steam pipes keeps the apartment just warm enough, but it doesn’t stop the occasional draft. I rub my hands together before stepping back out into the hallway.

The public restroom is just down the hall. I take the few steps necessary to reach it, push the door open, and wash my hands and teeth with the cold water from the tap. As I lift my head, I see myself in the mirror.

There’s nothing remarkable about me—just a 21-year-old, freshly graduated, newly employed at a watchmaking shop.

Handsome, though. At least, I like to think so.

Black hair. Brown eyes. Dull. Common.

I don’t linger long in the bathroom. The walls here are thin, and the last thing I need is to hear Gordon shouting at Jane again. Instead, I make my way back to the apartment, stepping inside and locking the door behind me.

I climb onto my bunk and stare at the ceiling.

Maybe it’s my thoughts. Maybe it’s the way I was raised. Maybe it’s my connections or something else entirely, but I feel like time is playing a cruel joke on me. It’s forcing me forward into a situation I never chose, yet I don’t hate my life.

It’s mine, and I have to live it. Even if it means struggling through the lows.

Watchmaker and poor. A sad reality.

A waste of time.

Time.

Like someone once said during the Third Era, "Never mess with time."

They weren’t wrong. I suppose.

But who am I to dwell on the delusions of grandeur and philosophy of an old man from 1,400 years ago?

Paul once barged into the room laughing, saying, "Everything happens in its time."

Damn time. Does it crawl on its knees or what?

All because his order of fine clothes for my graduation hadn’t arrived yet.

How time flies.

It wasn’t that long ago that I graduated.

It moves so quickly—like a blink, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wing.

But when I need it to hurry up, it crawls.

Like it knows I’m trapped inside it.

Not even five months have passed since my graduation.

But fate has no habit of leaving me alone. Not when someone else is about to make a decision that will change everything.

Somewhere in the military residential zone.

When I was a child, my mother gave me a gramophone with the song Thorns in You. A good melody.

I also remember the first time I fired a revolver.

At first, I had one that shot corks from bottles.

Now it fires gunpowder.

The first time I pulled the trigger on a real firearm, the vibration traveled up my arm, all the way to my shoulder.

They told me it was normal.

All I could think about was how something so small could decide life or death.

"Father, the gramophone is broken again," I hear a voice call from the other side of the house.

A muffled groan in response.

"Call Chris to fix it already."

I approach the telegraph and begin tapping out a message in Morse code.

The telegraph was the invention of the century, developed relatively recently by one of our nation’s scientists. It was created during the war, but in peacetime, it has become an everyday tool.

I send the message to Mr. Chris.

A reserved man, but knowledgeable. Without him, half the machines in this house would fall apart.

I wonder what his life is like.

I’ve only spoken to him twice—brief conversations, nothing more than an exchange of words and money.

Still, he agrees to come.

"Father, I’ve sent word. He says he’ll be here in ten minutes."

"Perfect. The money’s where it always is. You’re free to go."

The money is in my father’s office, tucked inside one of the main drawers—three pounds and twenty shillings.

"The military pay has gone down, hasn’t it?" I murmur to myself.

I take the usual amount—four shillings for the repair—and step toward the window as I wait for Chris to arrive.

From here, I can see the majestic Tower of the Renaissance.

Some call it the Obelisk of Silence. Others call it the Raven’s Nest.

Nonsense from insurgents who don’t understand the importance of order.

Fortunately, they are a minority.

And I exist to ensure they stay that way.

To make sure they never rise again.