Part Eight – The Families and the Ruling Council
The coach rolled past the heart of IronClover, where the streets widened into a circle dominated by seven towering statues, each wrought in bronze and steam-forged steel.
They depicted the founding families of the city, gazes turned outward as if guarding it still. Every passerby lowered their voices here. Not out of reverence, but out of fear.
"The Council, they want answers" Albert said softly, as if naming them risked summoning their shadows.
Raleigh's scowl deepened beneath his whiskers. He chewed his pipe like a man gnawing on a bad memory. "Seven bloody seats to lord over us. Men and monsters dressed in velvet and gold, pretending they built this city. Don't fool yourself, lad. They only bought it."
Albert's eyes lingered on the statues as they passed. Each bore the crest of a family:
The Hanns — steel merchants, industrial magnates. Now broken.
The Madeiyas — vampires, old as the city itself, their wealth drawn from sales and distribution of the miracle cure itself, the vyre.
The Luloughs — human industrialists, masters of shipping and clockwork trade.
The Eltons — occultists, purveyors of alchemy, ritual, and secrets.
The Dohertys — financiers, their vaults said to run deeper than the river Iron itself.
The McCains — weaponsmiths and war profiteers, ironworks burning day and night.
The Morokais — foreign mystics, feared and courted in equal measure, their reach stretching beyond IronClover's borders.
Seven families, seven rulers. Together they were the Council of IronClover, publicly acknowledged yet privately despised.
But now, one seat was empty.
Raymond Hanns — murdered. His blood drained, his family scattered. The balance had shifted, and no one could predict where the pendulum would fall.
"Hate Them or Love Them, The society acknowledges them as pioneers of the rapid growth and development Iron Clover is recognized for, They want results," Albert said, his voice low but steady. "The Council won't tolerate the case dragging on. If the people lose faith in their protection, riots follow. And if the vampires think a rival clan is moving against them or worst we humans are…"
"War," Raleigh finished gruffly.
"Another bloody century long war between the day walkers and night walkers."
The coach turned sharply, gears whining, as if punctuating the thought. Raleigh jabbed his cane against the floor, glaring. "We're hounds on a short leash, Albert. They're jerking the chain tighter by the hour. And guess whose neck it's around?"
Albert's jaw tightened, but his steel-blue eyes held their gleam. "Better the hound that bites back than the one that rolls over."
Raleigh gave a humorless chuckle, smoke curling from his lips. "You'll learn, boy. In IronClover, every bite costs you blood."
The statues loomed behind them, their shadows long and accusing. Inside the coach, silence stretched between the two men, thick as the fog outside, while the city's greatest secret rulers waited for the next move.