London was an unforgiving beast. Beneath its gaslit streets, between the shadows of towering buildings, the city exhaled a damp, heavy breath—like the lungs of something ancient and suffocating. The crimson fog clung to everything, staining the cobblestones with its sickly hue, wrapping the city in a shroud of mystery and dread. It was in this world that Veyron Ashwood now wandered, lost in a city that had forgotten his name before it was even spoken. The stench of decay lingered in the air, much like the scent of his own bloodstained history.
Veyron walked with a calculated grace, his dark coat sweeping behind him, the edges dragging slightly in the wet streets. The cold air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were too consumed with the weight of what had happened—of the things he had done, the things he had become.
His mind kept replaying that night—the one where the ritual had gone horribly wrong. The ritual that had destroyed his family, his birthright, the name that had once been a symbol of power in the aristocratic circles of London. The house had fallen, and with it, the ashes of everything he once knew.
His father, the proud patriarch, had been the first to fall, his throat slit by the ceremonial blade Veyron had wielded. The blood had stained the walls, dripping like a crimson river, washing away the last vestiges of their legacy. His siblings had followed, their screams echoing in the dark, their faces twisted in horror and betrayal as they, too, became offerings to the abyss.
But Veyron had survived. A victim of his own making.
The ritual had been his doing. He had been the one to draw the symbols, to set the candles, to utter the incantations. He had thought he was in control—thought he was the master of the forces he invoked. But in the end, it was the forces that had controlled him. And now, standing amidst the ruins of his bloodline, Veyron could only wonder if it had all been worth it.
His footsteps echoed through the empty streets, each one a reminder of the silence that had replaced the bustling life of his family's estate. No longer would there be gatherings in the grand hall, no longer would the Ashwood name be spoken with reverence. Now, it was just him, alone, wandering through a world that had forgotten him before he could even make his mark.
And yet, despite the emptiness, Veyron felt something stir deep inside him—something cold and relentless. It was the hunger for power. The need to carve his name into history, to ensure that the world would never forget him. His eyes burned with a feverish intensity, his fingers twitching at his sides, as if the very idea of power coursed through his veins, demanding to be unleashed.
The darkness had claimed him, yes. But in that darkness, Veyron saw an opportunity. An opportunity to rise again, stronger, more dangerous than before. He would not be another forgotten soul drifting in the tides of history. No, he would burn brighter than any of them—he would make them remember.
He turned a corner, the faint clink of his boots against the cobblestones filling the night air. Ahead, the flickering light of a distant lantern caught his attention. It was the light of an alleyway, narrow and forgotten by most who passed through the city. But Veyron knew better. He had learned that there were places in this city where the shadows held secrets—secrets that could turn the tide in a war that had already begun.
At the end of the alley, a figure waited. Cloaked in shadows, their face obscured by the brim of a wide hat, the figure was a silent sentinel in the oppressive night. Veyron stopped just before the figure, his posture rigid, his gaze cold.
"You come," the figure spoke, voice low and rough, "but you do not know why."
Veyron did not flinch. "I know why."
The figure tilted their head slightly, as if studying him, before stepping forward. In one swift movement, the figure reached into their cloak and pulled out a small, sealed envelope. The wax seal was an intricate design—an interlocking gear, crowned by a bloodstained rose.
"You seek power," the figure continued, "and we can give it to you. But power, once obtained, comes with a cost. A cost that will shape who you become."
Veyron's eyes narrowed. He did not need to hear the rest. He could already feel the pull of it—this promise of power, the lure of something greater than he could have ever imagined. Something that would fill the hollow emptiness left by the destruction of his family. Something that would make him whole again.
"I understand," he replied, taking the letter without hesitation.
The figure nodded, then disappeared into the shadows, as quickly and quietly as they had come. Veyron stood there for a moment, staring at the letter in his hand. It was an invitation—a summons to the Clockwork Guild, the elusive group of alchemists, engineers, and occultists who operated in the darkest corners of the city. The Guild was known for its knowledge of the forbidden, its mastery over the forces of blood, iron, and shadows.
The Guild had the power he needed. And Veyron would stop at nothing to claim it.
He turned, his steps quickening as he made his way to the address written on the letter. The streets of London seemed to open up before him, a dark and twisted path leading him toward his destiny. There would be no turning back. He had made his choice. The price of power would be paid in blood.
Veyron stood before the Guild's gates. A wrought-iron structure that twisted into unnatural shapes, it was more a monument to dark science than a welcoming entrance. The gears in the gate clicked and groaned, as though the very walls of the building were alive. A chill ran down Veyron's spine, not from the cold, but from the strange sensation that the gates themselves were watching him.
A shadow moved within the gates, a figure cloaked in black, their face obscured by a mask of gleaming brass. The figure stepped forward and held out a hand, gesturing for him to enter.
"Veyron Ashwood," the figure intoned, their voice muffled by the mask but carrying an undeniable weight. "You seek power, but you must first understand the cost of it."
Veyron did not flinch. He had come this far, and there was no turning back.
"I understand more than you think," he replied, his voice cold with resolve.
The gate creaked open, and the figure stepped aside, allowing him entrance.
As Veyron crossed the threshold, the air inside was thick with the scent of oil, metal, and something darker—something ancient. The Guild awaited. And Veyron would make them remember his name.