Pale Garden (Part I — Reveal)

Chapter Two

Cloud exhaled slowly, his mind clearing bit by bit. The stabbing ache in his head had faded entirely, though a lingering fog clung to his thoughts. He flexed his fingers absent-mindedly, pausing when he noticed how rough the skin felt — coarse, like those of a man who spent long days hauling stones or working a forge. Yet colder. Not the pleasant chill of a winter breeze, but a biting, deadened cold, as though the body itself was on the verge of giving out.

Bloody hell... this body's half-dead.

A thought struck him then. If this was truly the fate of Elias Warden — to collapse here from drink, stress, and whatever weight life had thrown upon him — and if he was, in fact, his ancestor… then wasn't that supposed to be the end? A broken link in the chain to his own existence? Logically, his entire line should've ceased to exist from this moment forward. Unless that old man had done something unnatural. Shackled the original soul in place to let him take over. No other explanation fit.

It was a plausible hunch. But not his immediate concern.

Around him, the tavern carried on. Laughter, curses, mugs clinking. A badly-tuned string instrument strummed in a far corner, its discordant notes was barely audible beneath the din. Cloud's gaze swept the room, noting the social order and the people in it.

Strangely, the women here weren't the passive ornaments painted by the history books. They drank, laughed, and carried themselves like men, half of them rougher than the men themselves.

The maiden from before stood nearby, watching him in silence. He forced a weak grin.

"I'm… fine. From the North… of the Kingdom," he muttered, slurring his words, and trying to act drunk.

She raised a brow, humouring him. "Careful. You still look like a corpse. And this town… it's not kind to strangers. Especially ones that pass out like that."

Cloud chuckled weakly. "Noted."

"Just… don't be here after the bell tolls thrice," she warned flatly. "Not even the guards interfere then. I will go get you a cup of water now, sir."

Cloud merely leaned back, feigning a grin.

I'll take my chances, then.

He took a seat.

Cloud shifted in his seat, feigning the sluggish demeanour of a man too deep in his cups. The maiden had yet to return with the water, and though his head no longer pounded, a lingering haze clung to the edges of his thoughts.

He was careful not to overplay the drunkard's part — lest he draw unwanted eyes. The warning about tavern brawls lingered in his mind. Brawls where, even according to the law, not even the guards would dare intervene once the bell tolled thrice to mark curfew.

He reached into the pocket of the coarse coat he'd awoken in and retrieved a small pocket watch. The crude brass casing was scuffed and dull, its face cracked, yet functional. Half past nine. Roughly thirty minutes remained before the bell, as per Elias Warden's memories. And those memories, fragmented and foggy, told him precisely how this night would end — fights, bloodied noses, a shattered bottle or two, and if luck failed, a corpse dragged to the gutters by dawn. Hardly foresight; simply the inevitable conclusion.

It was odd, though. He wasn't meant to remember so much so soon. Or perhaps that fortune teller's meddling had made it so... again.

While he waited, Cloud ran over what he could recall. Elias Warden had left his post as a resource warden at the south mine just before six, purchased a copy of The Amsgale Courier for a penny-farthing — not worth much, but one of the few printed broadsheets common folk might lay hands on. The remains of that paper now sat crumpled beside him.

With a few copper pence left to his name, Elias had ventured here, foolishly ordering a cup of the tavern's strongest ale. One drink — and it'd been enough to fell him. It wasn't surprising. The man had never held his drink. Neither did Cloud in his own time.

Interestingly, for a man of common stock, Elias had once attended a petty seminary two years ago— one of those third-rate collegiate houses where lower officials' sons and unusually bright workers could learn rudimentary bookkeeping, surveying, and Latin phrases to better serve their betters. An unremarkable education by noble standards, but still rare amongst mine-workers. He was currently around his early twenties with no family or even a slight memory of them, which was the weird part, perhaps Elias had no recollection of them.

Cloud was still piecing through this information when the maiden returned. There was a fresh red mark across her cheek, the aftermath of a heavy slap, no doubt, but he lacked the strength or cause to dwell on it. She set down the cup of water without a word, offered him a faint bow, and left.

He let the glass sit untouched, watching the murky surface catch the wavering glow of lantern light. His attention shifted towards the room. Cloud still couldn't believe that the women here laughed too loudly, gambled openly with men, and barked orders at the serving boys. Also, this Kingdom of Alwyn — divided from its other half, Varmor — should never have existed, as England was never divided.

In every book he had read, there was England — unbroken, even into the modern day. But here it was, divided by internal politics, clashing worldviews, and histories, then handed different names with different rulers. What a fantasy.

And London… no. Here it was called Ebonrest — the largest city — but the Kingdom's capital was Evermill — the second largest city. The world was wrong, a fabricated history imposed on authentic foundations.

But well, there's no London without England.

Dehydration struck him without warning. He grabbed the cup and gulped the lukewarm water in one breath, setting it down with a soft clink just as his eyes flicked to the paper beside him. The Amsgale Courier. He flattened it, skimming the headlines again, as though hoping they might have changed.

And that was when he saw a folded paper slide onto the edge of his table.

The hand that placed it was gloved, however. Cloud's heart skipped a beat as his gaze lifted — just in time to catch a hooded figure leaning in, their face obscured beneath thick wool.

"You'd best adapt, boy… and start right away. Cloud. Or rather… Elias," said the figure in a husky voice.

Then, after the one-line pep talk, the figure straightened and moved towards the door with quietly paced movements. By the time Cloud's sluggish body registered the urge to move, the figure was already gone, the door swinging slightly in their wake.

For several seconds, Cloud sat motionless, a tad confused about what had just happened. No one else in the room seemed to have noticed. The gamblers, the drinkers — even the barkeep — paid him no mind.

He glanced about, slightly guarded now. A roguish woman leaning against the far wall gave a loud laugh at her companion's expense. There were no eyes on him.

Suppressing a curse, he snatched up the paper and his newspaper, hastily exiting the tavern. The bitter night air hit him like a blow, and though he looked both ways, the hooded figure was nowhere to be seen. Almost as though they'd vanished.

And that voice… it lacked anything he could classify. Elusive in pitch, sitting somewhere between male and female.

Cloud shuddered.

I've stepped into something far worse than a botched transmigration. Could it be the freaky old fortune teller? He did mention no one must know I'm from the modern world...

...Well, then I'd mark him as the hooded figure for now, and I will search for him. For now, I should get to Elias's abode before curfew.

Cloud snatched up the folded letter and the crumpled broadsheet in one hand, grabbed his hat from the table's edge, and rose to his feet. He adjusted it low over his brow, shielding as much of his face as possible, and slipped out through the tavern door without a word or commotion.

The street greeted him with a suffocating stillness.

The half-moon hung above like a pale coin in a muddied sky, and the oil-lamps along the crooked street burned low, struggling against the creeping fog. Cobblestones stretched ahead, slick with filth and refuse, though the reek of ale and unwashed bodies had thinned out here. Most of the drunken rabble stayed indoors. A limping beggar shuffled past without a glance. Beyond that was nothing.

Cloud took a slow breath, mapping out the world around him.

Shops that should have been shuttered remained open. Distant figures moved in the upper storeys. A carriage stood abandoned, one wheel sunk into a cracked gutter.

His gaze darted left, where he noticed a shadow slipping into the mouth of a side alley. Without thinking, Cloud followed, suspecting it could be the hooded figure. But as he turned the corner, he found it empty.

With a grimace, he mused:

"I lost them..."

The alley was narrow, hemmed in by decaying walls. Crates stacked against one side, a rusted lamp swinging on a frayed chain. The cold bit him, that damp chill of February nights. A shiver ran up his spine.

I need to get out of here...

He turned sharply on his heel, pulling the hat lower and setting a brisk pace eastward through the maze of dim streets. The district bled into Greyharrow, a dense quarter of old brick buildings and narrow shopfronts, poorly maintained roads and small lodging flats stacked above ground-level businesses.

Cloud quickened his pace. Public carriages were still in service at this hour; it wasn't unusual. But getting a ride was costly, and he couldn't afford it.

The currency system was an archaic structure of silver, copper, and gold coins, stubbornly unchanged since older centuries. At the foundation of the system were farthings, worth a quarter of a penny, followed by halfpennies and then the penny itself. Twelve pence made a shilling, while twenty shillings were required to make a pound. Between these stood denominations like the threepence, sixpence, and the half crown, valued at two shillings and sixpence. Above them sat the crown, equal to five shillings, and the rare guinea — a gold coin worth one pound and one shilling.

In daily transactions, a labourer's wage might earn him a shilling for a full day's work, while a loaf of bread would cost a halfpenny at dawn, and a mug of ale a single penny by nightfall. Lodging in the poorer quarters might demand threepence to sixpence per evening, while a worn weapon for street defence could fetch three or four shillings. Firearms were scarce, and the price of a revolver would run into two or three pounds — if one could find a seller willing to part with it.

Greyharrow was Elias's home district. It wasn't prestigious by any means, but passable for a man of modest means. He earned roughly eighteen shillings — or 216 pence — each week, paid every Saturday at the mine office.

Respectable, if uninspiring. It was just enough to cover the fourteen shillings weekly rent for his cramped flat on Old Briar Street, leaving a few shillings spare for bread, lamp oil, and the rare indulgence.

With four shillings left in his pocket after rent, Elias could afford the essentials and little else. A loaf of coarse bread cost roughly two pence, enough to stretch over two meagre meals if rationed. A quart of weak ale for the evening would claim another two or three pence. A pint of lamp oil, to keep the shadows from swallowing his flat whole, came dearer at around six pence a week. Even if he kept his vices in check, that left precious little for anything finer. A second-hand shirt might cost a shilling, a butcher's scrap of salted meat perhaps four pence. A penny shaved off for a street-corner informant or a broadsheet was often better spent than on stale fruit. By week's end, those four shillings could vanish faster than breath in frost.

Tonight was Thursday, February 18, and he was dead broke. Luckily, he kept foodstuffs at home — salted fish, dry oats, and half a wheel of hard cheese. He'd endure until wages came through in two days.

The streets grew more familiar as he advanced, their crooked signs and leaning brickwork settling into a pattern his memories began to recognise. The first bell rang out in the distance — the first of three that marked curfew.

Cloud cursed inwardly and picked up his pace, cutting down the final stretch of Old Briar Street. His building stood at the corner — a worn, three-storey brick structure with flaking paint and dusty windows.

As the second bell pealed across the city, Cloud darted through the doorway and into his flat, slamming the door shut behind him.

Anyone caught outside when the final bell sounded would be seized by the constabulary. Drunks were spared — the watchmen left them to bleed one another dry in the taverns. But a solitary man in the streets… no.

In repeat, this world was wrong.

The moment the latch clicked behind him, Cloud pressed his back to the door and exhaled. The narrow corridor of his flat stretched ahead, a faintly illuminated space of scuffed floorboards and battered wallpaper. A lone oil lamp lay on a small table near the window. The furnishings were sparse; a narrow cot against one wall, a worn desk cluttered with papers, and a cold hearth in the corner.

He stayed still for a heartbeat longer, instinct dragging his gaze once more through the murky glass pane. The street had gone silent. He waited until the second bell faded, then secured the lock with a firm click.

Only then did he cross to the desk and light the lamp.

The broadsheet slid from his hand. His gaze lingered on the headline: unrest in Varmor, border skirmishes, new iron levies, and some murmur of France's approaching revolution. Elias's memories flagged it all as significant. He hadn't the patience for any of it now.

The letter felt new between his fingers — no scent of age, no creases worn in by time, only a clean fold and sharp ink.

He broke the seal and unfolded it.

> You, alongside the other three Descendants of the ancient bloodlines, must gather and seek the key to the curse that afflicts your lineages. In doing so, each of you shall awaken the latent abilities within. The fate of your bloodlines, this world, and the course of its future rests upon your actions.

Beneath the message lay a crude sketch of the city. Ebonrest's labyrinth of streets marked in clumsy ink. A red X sat over the western quarter, which depicted 'Marrow Lane'. Another district of boarded buildings and old alleys.

Pale Garden.

Cloud raised a brow.

"Hm."

He examined the map again.

Pale Garden… The name itched in Elias's memory. A cemetery in the West End — managed by the Hollow Chapel. Graves for unclaimed corpses, executed traitors, and those deemed no loss. It was no sanctified ground by any measure.

Cloud grunted. "A bloody graveyard. Of course, it's a graveyard. That's where every dark story starts..."

He gave a dark chuckle, tossing the letter onto the table. He muttered, "Churches and cemeteries. The grand playhouses of conspiracy in every age." Raking a hand through his hair, he added, "History's constant bloody trope."

It made sense, in its own twisted way. Although, the Hollow Chapel had long been closed down...

"I didn't ask for this," he complained bitterly. "But sitting on my arse won't fix it either."

It was suicide to make a move tonight. The third bell would sound within minutes. And tomorrow was a workday. The boss didn't take kindly to no-shows, and by every scrap of memory, Elias Warden had always turned up.

Cloud exhaled and paced once. He would endure the shift, keep his head down, then head to Pale Garden at dusk.

It was a plan, or something near enough.

Inevitably, hunger struck like a boot to the ribs. Cloud grimaced. This body's last meal lay hours behind him, and there was no coin left. Still, the flat had rations, at least.

He sank into the chair by the desk, slipped the letter into the broadsheet, and buried the lot beneath a stack of books.

I wonder why the first place to find answers is always a bloody graveyard...