The city pulsed beneath him, a living, rotting thing.Beneath the cobblestones and alleys, beneath the cathedrals and counting houses, the true heart of London ticked and turned — a hidden engine of power.
The Guild of the Eternal Meridian.
They had no flags, no armies.Their weapons were law, disease, rumor.Their armies wore the faces of merchants, bishops, parliament men.They whispered across oceans, moved kings like chess pieces, and shaped wars the way a potter shaped clay.
Tonight, they would meet.
And so would he.
The Count of Veyron slipped into a crumbling side street, where the mist thickened into a red wall. His cane struck a hidden pattern against the bricks: one-two—pause—three.
A panel slid open, revealing a passage spiraling down into the bowels of the earth.
The deeper he went, the warmer it became.The air buzzed with the electric scent of machinery — gears grinding behind walls, pipes breathing like iron lungs. The Crimson Fog was not natural; it was engineered. A byproduct of the great machines hidden below.
In the inner sanctum, men in black coats and ivory masks gathered around a massive clockwork map of London. Its towers gleamed gold. Tiny figurines — politicians, judges, magnates — slid silently across the model, moved by invisible hands.
The Count was not invited.He had not asked permission.
He stepped into the circle like a knife through silk.
The masked men froze.The great clock struck midnight.In the chime's long echo, Veyron smiled — slow, predatory, inevitable.
"Your game is over," he said."Now you play mine."