I woke up to the distinct sensation that something had gone terribly wrong.
First, the bench.
It was wooden. Not the pleasant kind, either. It wasn't polished. It wasn't inviting. It certainly didn't say 'rest here and contemplate life'. This was the splintered, aggressively public sort of bench that suggested I had either lost a bet or a great deal of dignity.
Second, the noise.
Metal shrieking against metal. Steam hissing like an irritated god. Wheels clattering over tracks in an uneven rhythm that made my skull feel hollow.
Third, the smell.
Coal smoke. Oil. Iron. Too much humanity in too little space.
I opened one eye.
Gray sky. Wrought iron lampposts. Brick buildings sweating soot. Overhead, a web of wires stretched from pole to pole like someone had attempted to knit the sky and given up halfway through.
"…Right", I muttered to myself.
My voice sounded fine. That was reassuring. If one must awaken on a public bench in an unfamiliar industrial hellscape, at least one should possess a functioning voice.
I sat up slowly, feeling the weight of a dark, tailored coat as it shifted against my shoulders. It didn't feel like mine, yet the expensive stitching suggested otherwise. The cuffs immaculate. The fabric too fine for someone who slept on benches.
Good. So I was either wealthy, kidnapped, concussed, or dead.
I checked my pockets.
First pocket: a leather wallet. Inside, crisp notes bearing unfamiliar portraits. Currency. Substantial.
Second pocket: a folded letter sealed with dark green wax. The imprint: a stylized "V" intertwined with a thorned rose.
Third pocket: a small silver watch. Elegant. Ticking. The time read a few minutes past nine.
I stared at the watch for a long moment.
Nine.
Morning.
Which meant I had apparently chosen to begin whatever this was by sleeping outdoors in formalwear.
Excellent judgment.
I unfolded the letter.
To Lord Aldric Voss,
Youngest son of House Voss, Grenmoor.
Your presence is expected at the family estate without delay.
I blinked.
Lord Aldric Voss.
Youngest son.
House Voss.
Grenmoor.
My name settled into place with unsettling ease, like a key sliding into a lock it had always fit.
Aldric.
Yes. That was right.
I examined my hands.
Long fingers. No calluses. Ink stains faintly marking the side of my index finger. Not a laborer. Not a soldier. Someone who signed things. Frequently.
Lord Aldric Voss.
Seventeen? Eighteen? The reflection in the nearby shop window confirmed a face that looked irritatingly composed for someone who had just woken up in the middle of a steam-powered fever dream. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Calm expression.
Untouchable.
I stared at myself.
"Of course", I murmured. "I ...am nobility."
Because why wouldn't I be.
Behind me, a train screamed into the station.
I turned.
The railway yard sprawled out like an iron organism. pistons pumping, steam bursting from valves, workers shouting as crates were hauled toward waiting cargo cars. The engine at the platform was a hulking black beast of rivets and smoke, its brass fittings gleaming despite the soot.
Primitive.
Impressive.
Dangerously inefficient.
And yet… familiar.
The layout of the tracks, the signaling flags, the telegraph wires humming faintly overhead. It all made sense to me in a way that should have been impossible.
I stood, brushing dust from my coat.
If I was Lord Aldric Voss, youngest son of some powerful house, then waking up on a bench suggested either rebellion or incompetence.
Given the quality of my boots, I was leaning toward rebellion.
A sudden swell of voices erupted to my left.
"Sell it! Sell before it drops again!"
"The Ironway Consortium is finished!"
"They overextended the western line. I told you!"
I turned toward the commotion.
A cluster of men in waistcoats and top hats had gathered near a newspaper stand. One man waved a freshly printed broadsheet like a battle standard.
"Thirty percent in a week!" he shouted. "Collapsed bridges! Delayed shipments! The board is in chaos!"
Railway stock.
Ah.
The newspaper headline, visible even from a distance, read:
IRONWAY CONSORTIUM SHARES CONTINUE PLUNGE
I felt something in my brain click.
Thirty percent in a week.
Collapsed infrastructure.
Overexpansion.
Panic selling.
I sighed.
"They laid track too fast without reinforcing the western trestles," I muttered under my breath. "If shipments are delayed, liquidity dries up. Short-term collapse, sure. But once they stabilize supply lines and issue bonds to cover immediate losses, it rebounds. Probably within two quarters."
The words left my mouth lazily, more to myself than anyone else.
Honestly, it was basic. Aggressive expansion without logistical redundancy always backfires. But railways were foundational infrastructure. No government would let a major line fail outright.
You didn't need prophetic vision. You just needed common sense and an understanding of how markets behave when people panic.
I rubbed my temple.
Why did I care?
This was not my problem. My only objective was to locate a bed and perhaps reconsider every decision that had led to this morning.
"Rebounds?" someone nearby repeated softly.
I didn't look up.
"They're building arteries", I continued absently. "The moment freight stabilizes, investors remember that trains move goods faster than horses. Speed wins. Always does."
Silence followed.
Then the crowd resumed shouting, unaware of the quiet recalculations already beginning in at least one mind.
A pair of polished shoes stepped past my peripheral vision.
I glanced briefly, just long enough to register fine tailoring, a cane capped with silver, gloves of immaculate white.
Well dressed. Impeccable posture. Not local labor.
He did not speak to me.
He did not even pause.
But I felt his attention. Sharp, assessing . Settle on my face for half a second before sliding away.
Then he walked off toward the telegraph office.
I returned my attention to the newspaper stand.
People panic so easily.
It was exhausting.
I folded the letter again and checked the address written beneath the seal.
Voss Estate, North Grenmoor Heights.
Of course it was on a hill.
Power loved elevation.
I began walking.
Grenmoor unfolded around me in layers of smoke and stone. Carriages rattled over cobbled streets. Vendors shouted over the mechanical roar of nearby factories. Steam drifted from grates in the pavement, blurring the lower halves of buildings like a permanent morning fog.
The architecture was severe. tall brick structures punctuated by iron frameworks. Early electric lamps had been mounted along major avenues, thin wires feeding into generators somewhere unseen.
The electricity flickered occasionally.
Unstable grid.
Interesting.
I passed a factory yard where workers shoveled coal into roaring furnaces. The rhythm was relentless. Mechanical. Efficient in theory, brutal in execution.
Industrial revolution.
Messy. Loud. Transformative.
I watched a foreman consult a clipboard, frown at a pressure gauge, and shout at a mechanic.
No safety valves on that system, I thought automatically. If that boiler spikes—
I stopped myself.
Not my factory.
Not my problem.
I was just Aldric Voss. Youngest son. Presumably decorative.
Which suited me perfectly.
A quiet life was not too much to ask.
A modest room. Minimal responsibility. Perhaps a small library. Definitely a lock on the door.
The streets widened as I climbed northward. The soot thinned. Trees appeared. trimmed, deliberate, expensive.
The houses grew larger.
Stone replaced brick.
Iron fences gave way to wrought gates bearing family crests.
Ah.
Wealth had a distinct smell too. Less coal. More arrogance.
I checked the letter again as the incline steepened.
North Grenmoor Heights.
Voss Estate.
When I reached the final bend in the road, I understood why they had bothered specifying Estate.
The mansion loomed ahead, vast and symmetrical, its pale stone façade gleaming against the gray sky. Columns framed the entrance. Windows stretched across three floors, each pane reflecting the city below like a conquered territory.
A fountain stood in the center of the courtyard, water arcing gracefully despite the cold.
Behind the main structure, additional wings extended outward: administrative offices, perhaps. Servants' quarters. Storage
This wasn't a house.
This was an institution.
A statement.
A threat.
I stared up at it.
Then down at the letter in my hand.
Then back up.
"…You cannot be serious," I said quietly.
Youngest son of House Voss.
Of course.
Why live in a comfortable townhome when one could inhabit a marble monument to generational dominance?
I exhaled slowly.
Truly, all I wanted was a chair near a window and uninterrupted silence.
Instead, I had inherited a small kingdom made of stone and expectations.
The gates creaked open as if they had been waiting for me.
Naturally.
I stepped forward, already exhausted.
If this was my life now, then I would approach it with strategy.
Minimal effort.
Maximum stability.
No unnecessary heroics.
Absolutely no involvement in collapsing railway stocks.
I glanced once more at the towering façade.
The windows glinted in the morning light like a hundred watchful eyes.
I rubbed my temple again.
"…I should have stayed on the bench", I muttered.
And with that deeply strategic assessment, I walked toward the front doors of House Voss. A man who wanted nothing more than a nap, about to be mistaken for a legend.