The streets of London were alive with the hum of industry, a constant churn of gears and steam that never seemed to quiet. Gas lamps flickered in the thick fog, casting long shadows that danced across the cobblestones. In the distance, the tolling of the midnight bell reverberated through the air, a reminder that time was running out. For Veyron Ashwood, time had never seemed more precious.
He had come to the heart of the city not to seek redemption, but to claim something more dangerous than that—power. The kind of power that could bend the very fabric of fate itself.
The letter had arrived just days before, carried by a courier who had disappeared into the fog as soon as the seal was broken. Its contents had been cryptic, but the emblem was unmistakable—a bloodstained rose and an interlocking gear. The mark of the Clockwork Guild.
Veyron had heard whispers of the Guild. Rumors of a secret society of alchemists, engineers, and occultists who held dominion over ancient, forbidden knowledge. The Guild dealt in things that should not be touched—things that had been buried long before his ancestors had ever set foot on the city's streets.
It was said that the Guild could grant wishes, but at a price. And Veyron Ashwood was prepared to pay any cost. After all, he had already lost everything.
He stood now before the gates of the Guild's domain, an imposing structure of wrought iron and stone that loomed over the street like the skeletal remains of a long-dead beast. The building seemed alive, its gears shifting within the walls, the faint sound of their turning filling the silence of the night. The gate groaned as it slowly opened, revealing a shadowed figure cloaked in black standing at its threshold.
Veyron did not hesitate. He had come this far. The figure stepped aside, and Veyron walked past, his boots clicking on the cold stone floor. The air inside was thick with the scent of metal, oil, and something faintly sweet—like the scent of blood before it was spilled.
The corridors were dimly lit, lined with strange mechanical devices and twisted machines whose purposes were unknown to him. Every corner seemed to hide a new mystery, a new invention, a dark wonder that could turn the tide of history.
At the end of the hallway stood a door, carved with intricate runes, its surface glistening in the dim light. A single figure stood guard before it, an imposing figure in a brass mask, their features hidden from view. The figure nodded to him, silently gesturing for Veyron to proceed.
Inside, the room was vast, filled with tables and shelves that held ancient tomes, glass vials filled with swirling liquids, and clocks—so many clocks. Their ticking seemed to reverberate in his chest, setting his pulse in sync with the machinery around him. At the far end of the room stood a large iron throne, its back crowned with a massive clockwork contraption, its gears and cogs spinning lazily.
A figure sat in the throne, their face hidden beneath a hood of shadow. The figure's hands were clasped together, and a strange smile played upon their lips.
"Veyron Ashwood," the figure spoke, their voice calm and unnerving. "You have come."
Veyron stood at the entrance, his gaze never leaving the figure in the chair. "I have. And I seek what you promised."
The figure's smile widened. "Ah, yes. Power. You seek power, just as many before you have. But do you understand what it truly means to wield such power? It is not a simple thing, Ashwood. It is not a tool to be used at your whim. Power is a burden, a weight that crushes all who are unprepared."
Veyron's hands clenched at his sides, but he held his tongue. He had heard this before—warnings, cautions, fears. It was the price they all demanded before they handed over the keys to their dark secrets.
"I understand more than you think," he replied coldly. "I have already paid a price. I've lost everything. But I will not be forgotten."
The figure leaned forward, the sound of their movement sharp in the stillness. "You are wrong to think you've lost everything. In truth, Veyron Ashwood, you have yet to lose the most important thing of all—the very part of you that will bind you to this path. The part of you that will never escape. Your soul."
A chill ran through him at the mention of his soul, but Veyron stood tall, unwilling to show weakness.
"You will give it to us, won't you?" the figure continued, their voice no longer calm but filled with a quiet intensity. "In exchange for the power you seek."
Veyron's heart stilled for a moment, but he knew the truth. He had already given up his soul long ago, the night he had sealed his family's fate. The Guild would not be the one to take it from him—it was already lost.
"I will give whatever is necessary," Veyron said, his voice steady as iron.
The figure in the chair raised their hand, and the gears behind them began to turn louder, faster, as though the very room was alive. The shadows lengthened, and a sense of inevitability filled the air.
"Then you will have what you seek," the figure said. "But understand this—power always demands its due. And it will come for you when you least expect it."
Veyron stepped forward, his eyes locked onto the figure, feeling the weight of the promise hanging in the air. "I've already made my choice," he replied. "There's no turning back."
The figure raised a gloved hand, and in the silence that followed, a large tome was placed before Veyron, its cover black as night. The runes on the cover shimmered faintly, as if alive.
"Sign it," the figure said simply. "And the power of the Guild will be yours."
Veyron's eyes narrowed, and without hesitation, he reached for the pen. His hand trembled only once as he scrawled his name across the page. The moment the ink touched the paper, a strange energy pulsed through him, as if the very air around him had shifted.
"You are now bound to us, Veyron Ashwood," the figure said, their voice low and final. "The Guild remembers you. And soon, the world will too."
Veyron's heart pounded in his chest, but he did not flinch. He had taken the first step on a path from which there would be no return.
The Forgotten would no longer be silent.