1832, Month of Marin, 18th.

  Wait, wait, wait, what? Two hundred years? Am I two hundred years back? Did I transmigrate two hundred years back, the hell is happening? Was this the reason why Silverpark is so different? Is this why everything feels ancient?

  What am I going to do? I couldn't even survive in the Silverpark I knew. How would I survive here?

  Alright, calm down, calm. Just as you thought, Alyss, you can do it, right? Just go with the flow, if you act like Malcolm Fraser, you will soon get accustomed to it. It's easy.

  I took a step towards the carriage, the uneven pavement blocks tripped me, and I fell face first.

  Off to a bad start

  *****

  "O Holy Helion, lord of the radiant sun, praised be your burning crown.

  We thank you for the nurturing warmth that awakens seed and soul alike.

  Guide us in clarity, courage, and righteous beginning."

  "O Sinless Selune, watcher of the silver night, praised be your gentle glow.

  We thank you for hope that endures beneath darkness.

  Guide us through doubt, dream, and silent hours."

  "O Loving Lucen, giver of joy, praised be your shining grace.

  We thank you for laughter, love, and shared happiness.

  Guide our hearts to light unbroken."

  "O Neverending Noctis, keeper of sorrow, praised be your endless depth.

  We thank you for strength in grief and patience in pain.

  Guide us through loss without letting us fall."

  "O Igna, sacred flame, praised be your vigilant fire.

  We thank you for safety and protection.

  Guide us with your heat to ward off all evil."

  "O Marin, holy purifier, praised be your cleansing tide.

  We thank you for sanctity and renewal.

  Guide us away from corruption."

  "O Zephyr, merciful wind, praised be your gentle breath.

  We thank you for survival and mercy.

  Guide us beings to thrive."

  "O Terran, bearer of the world, praised be your unshaken form.

  We thank you for the footstone beneath us.

  Guide us to stand firm."

  "O Vour, your undying will, praised be your endless drive.

  We thank you for hope that does not fade.

  Guide us forward."

  "O Snytar, hand of ascent, praised be your rising power.

  We thank you for growth and becoming.

  Guide us closer to you."

  "O Seren, merciful embrace, praised be your boundless arms.

  We thank you for shelter even in our curse.

  Guide us with compassion."

  "O Maleth, final ward, praised be your guarding shadow.

  We thank you for distance from evil.

  Guide us safely onward too."

  "All twelve eternal Luminaries, guide us through trial, through suffering, through devotion, until our paths are complete and we rest at your lap and be in grace."

  I worshiped the Luminaries with the traditional prayer, which almost everyone knew in Everheat.

  The Luminaries could have saved me that day, they easily could have, but they didn't. That's why I felt hate towards them, but I don't have anyone to guide me in this world, no one, and dying again is the last thing I want, so it will be better if I leave the burden in the hands of beings who are above me, even though I despise them.

  phew!

  Alright, time to board the carriage and make my way to Silverpark Docks. Don't panic, Alyss, you can do it.

  I took a glance at my watch, the time read 4:20

  If I started now, I would make it to the docks in thirty minutes. Yep, that's more than enough.

  I walked to the closest carriage nearby, it was bulky and loud-looking. Its metal body was boxy and painted black, with scratches along the sides from years of use. Thick wheels rested under curved guards, still dusty from travel. A square front lamp and a blunt grille faced forward like a stubborn expression. It smelled faintly of oil and smoke, even while standing still.

  This smell? So this must be a motor carriage.

  I entered the carriage, it had a red interior with soft cushions, which gave adequate comfort.

  "Where to, sir?" said the man, who seemed to be in his mid-thirties and had a receding hairline, in a rigid tone.

  "To the Silverpark docks"

  "Right then"

  He adjusted a few levers, and the carriage got ignited, and the engine whirred. It gave off a loud sound, way louder than traditional cars do. Cars were so silent due to the relic of placid, unlike this, which could wake up an entire neighborhood.

  *****

  The carriage reached the docks in thirty-five minutes, I still had five minutes to spare.

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  "How much?" I asked as I descended the carriage.

  "One Lume"

  Wait, that cheap? I am essentially rich here, but I am part of a mafia, so I should flex a little.

  I took out two crisp one-Lume notes, the blue-inked figures of the Luminaries were smudged from wear and tear.

  "Here you go, take it."

  The guy looked at it for a moment and just took one of the notes and bowed his head and politely rejected it.

  "Are you sure, mate? You won't get this chance again." I said my words directly copied from a film.

  "No need, sir. I don't need money to shut up. I didn't drop you nor see you."

  Oops, guess there is a misunderstanding.

  "Sure then."

  I moved back, and the guy gave a small nod and left immediately.

  I straightened my suit, the fabric of which gave me the cold sensation contradictory to the heat.

  The material is really good, even the clothes I wore don't provide this much comfort. Guess it's the life of the rich.

  The sky was low and heavy. It hanged close, thick with heat. Dark blue held on with the moon enlightening the darkness, but dull orange leaked in from the edge, slow and stubborn. Clouds sat wide and flat, stained with rusted red and dirty yellow tones. The light was weak, it was blunt, spread thin through the sky.

  The heat sat thick over everything, down on wood, iron, and water alike. Coal dust coated the planks, black and fine, ground into every crack by years of boots and carts. Stacks of coal rose in uneven piles, spilling toward the edge. Iron cranes and hand winches stood stiff and dark. Ships lay packed close, hulls scarred and smeared with tar and soot. Ropes were heavy, rough, and damp, looped around iron posts worn smooth by use. The water below was slow and dark, filmed with oil and waste. Smoke drifted low from furnaces and stacks, mixing with the smell of salt, fuel, and hot metal.

  "Gosh, I am getting late, time to go to the tavern."

  I took a glance again, the watch read 4:58.

  *****

  creak!

  I entered the tavern, the door's creak giving everyone a notice that someone is coming in.

  I immediately sized up the tavern in one glance and felt its gravity fall across me. The room was packed, but it was not tightly so, patrons spanning the tables and chairs in a loose, sprawling fashion. A haze of smoke billowed from pipes and cigars, rendering the lamps in the room as cloudy halos. The atmosphere was warm and thick, reeking of drink and moisture. Men sat grouped together, coats flung wide, tankards cradled in barbaric fists. Women nestled against table edges and the bar, their laughter sounding like a chant, their flesh aglow in damp delight and ale. Some of them watched the room, their eyes raking instead of speaking and were catcalling.

  Behind the bar, the bartender was emptying glasses of dark liquids, which must be liquor, and thick whiskey that stung the nose from the back of the room. Bottles filled the shelves, some the worn glass of old, others clean, tiny lights glowing within them. Thin metallic pipes ran along the walls, bearing heat and sound, occasionally with a deep hum. Tiny panels along the bar flashed symbols and numbers, tracking orders, obligations, and the time, which was 5:01.

  A man sang in the middle of the room, with a rough voice, his voice loud enough to be heard above the murmur. Some people began to join in drunk, while others beat out the tempo on cups or boots. Somewhere in the back of the tavern, equipment whirred, chilling liquids. Steam erupted, and lights flickered, dimmed, and intensified, the room pulsing. The beverage was potent and strongly bitter, with the deep, rich flavor of smoke. The tavern was alive, but there was one man who wore a fine suit in the color gray and a top hat matching it. He had freckles and some scars, his hair was the color of emerald, boxed, and cut in a straight line with an anchor beard and a pair of dark sunglasses. And that man is Doyle.

  Phew!

  I calmed myself and made my way to Doyle, my collars were already damp from the sweat.

  Doyle stood up and lowered himself to my height. He was taller than Malcolm.

  "How are you doing, Malcolm?" he asked, his hands shaking mine and his other on my shoulders.

  "Better than ever, I would say."

  "Is that so? Then why did I catch you limping?"

  Did I limp? Yeah, I did. Why am I limping? Did Malcolm get hurt?

  "Well, the wound has healed pretty much, it's just the swelling."

  "The foremen really gave you a run for your money," he said as we started to walk and got behind the bar. He led me through a secret passage, continuing his rants on how hard it was to deal with the Silversparrows without my division, and I somehow managed to keep up with the conversation even though I have no idea who the Silversparrows are or what my division is.

  "Boss is eager to see you, Malcolm. It's been three months since you got injured."

  "Well, I was eager to."

  "Yet you didn't come to see him once, but you had your fair share of visits to Eden."

  Eden? What's that?

  "And Morag"

  "Well, uhm, I might have forgotten it," I faltered for a moment and stuttered.

  "..."

  "..."

  "Either way, the only reason you were called today was because of finding the black sheep."

  "Hmm, who do you have your eyes on?"

  "Arthur"

  "Doyle?"

  "You heard it right; I have a doubt about Arthur."

  I heard it right, Doyle. I was just buying time for me to think. Now, who is Arthur? Hmm, it seems like he is the sixth division's captain.

  "Malcolm, what about you?" Doyle's words interrupted my thoughts.

  Who am I going to say? I have no idea about the members.

  "I also have a doubt about Arthur."

  Doyle stopped in his tracks for a fraction of a second and resumed, and his voice dropped to a low tone.

  "Well, it surprises me that we have the same guy on the hit list," he chuckled.

  "Yeah, I suppose," I said back, also putting in a laugh.

  "Well, the decision relies on the boss."

  "It sure is."

  I want to meet this "boss" guy, but at the same time I don't want to.

  Doyle opened a door at the end of the passageway, and we entered inside a large brewery with machines whirring loudly and the smell of wine pungent, and in the center, among the stacked barrels, Willy Graham said he is the "boss" that Doyle mentioned alongside three other men to his right. Each around their late thirties to early forties, and to the left, two men and a woman who was relatively young compared to the rest.

  If Malcolm's memories serve me right, the man right next to Graham must be Franklin, he was of a broad stature but short in height. He didn't wear a hat but had a cane with a golden handle on it. He is the captain of division three. The guy who followed Franklin must be Lennox, captain of the fouth division, he just wore a suit with a thick chain on his neck. Next to him was Struan, he was built like a giant and must be the tallest person in the room, and he wore a black suit with silver lining on it. He had his hat in his hands as he fidgeted with it. He is the captain of the fifth division.

  To the left, the nearest one to Graham must be Callum, captain of the seventh division, a bald guy wearing a worn-out suit. Next to him was Arthur, captain of the sixth division, he seems to be in his mid-thirties and had the most mysterious aura in the bunch. And finally, Mairi, the only woman in the group, wore a large charcoal-colored frock with high collars. Her fishnet hat was pulled down to hide her eyes with a veil flowing from it. She is the captain of the eighth and final division.

  "How are you doing, Malcolm? Taking quite a lot of time to size all of us up," Graham's rough voice echoed through the brewery chambers, making me cling to fear.