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The seminary's curriculum, to Eli Walker's dismay, was remarkably unpretentious for an institution that claimed divine guidance.
From what he could tell, most of it involved praising the Evernight Goddess—for the skies, the storms, the shadows, the stillness. His classmates had begun to draw the scarlet moon with unconscious ease, tracing four clockwise points over their chests like reflexive liturgy. One would gesture, another would reply, a polite call-and-response of piety, repeated endlessly.
The education was said to last a lifetime. And after death? Eternal rest in the Deep Darkness.
A boundless, silent Kingdom.
How terribly delightful.
Without thinking, Eli raised his hand and traced the scarlet moon across his chest. "Praise the Goddess."
Martin, his loyal valet, offered a knowing smile and responded in kind. "Praise the Goddess."
Eli: "..."
"Young Master," Martin continued as he noticed Eli opening Night Revelation, "you have an important invitation next Saturday evening—a formal ball hosted by Councilor Mahett."
He subtly signaled the coachman to slow the horses, allowing the carriage to move smoothly while Eli drifted in and out of his studies.
You could have mentioned it sooner. I was simply staring blankly—who reads Night Revelation with genuine fervor anyway? Certainly not out of joy.
"Councilor Mahett…" Eli muttered, eyes half-lidded. "If I recall correctly, his political platform includes environmental reform?"
"You recall correctly, Young Master," Martin nodded. "He supports the formation of an Atmospheric Pollution Committee."
"Backlund's smog is worsening. Public dissatisfaction is growing."
Martin's tone was mild, but his words carried weight. Of course, he couldn't speak too directly—after all, the Maynard family itself, along with their political allies, operated several industrial factories.
Aristocrats dabbled in many trades: finance, colonial extraction, banking, legislative maneuvering—but more than a few had quietly turned to industry.
Eli smiled faintly. Mahett was aligned with the New Party, just like the Maynards. Championing environmental policy won votes from the middle and working classes, both of whom were increasingly suffocated by Backlund's thick, toxic air.
Ironically, most of the pollution came from New Party factories.
Still, if a New Party councilor called for reform, wouldn't it win even more votes for the New Party?
Clever.
"Do you believe the Atmospheric Pollution Committee will actually be established?" Eli asked, genuinely curious.
Martin hesitated, then spoke with practiced diplomacy. "It's… uncertain."
"Why?" Eli pressed.
"Because the Conservative Party has begun building factories as well," Martin replied frankly.
"They have the land, the people, the connections, and—if not always liquid capital—then old money and noble credit. Their industrial expansion may be slower, but it's no less deliberate."
Eli considered that for a moment.
The Conservatives were leveraging their vast estates, selling or leasing parcels, and pooling ancestral funds to build a foothold in heavy industry. Lacking access to the banks—still dominated by the New Party—they were starting with land and labor. But that was enough.
Run a few factories, exploit some workers, double your family's income. Why wouldn't they?
Wherever pounds were to be found, nobles appeared—regardless of party alignment.
No wonder George III had turned to the Demoness Sect.
The aristocracy had tendrils in every institution: the Night Church, the Church of Storms, even the Church of Steam and Machinery. Their firstborns inherited titles; their younger sons were absorbed into the military, the churches, MI9—or married off for consolidation of power.
If I were king, Eli mused grimly, I'd draw my sword too.
"Praise the Goddess," he said aloud, uncertain what else to say.
"Praise the Goddess. May Backlund's skies clear," Martin echoed softly. "By the way, Young Master—regarding the ball this evening, which gown shall I prepare?"
"The black one," Eli said, already disinterested.
He had grown accustomed to these functions: banal conversations, courtship disguised as idle chat, polite dances, well-dressed predators circling future prey.
Not fascinating, but not intolerable either.
"I'll have it arranged," Martin nodded. "And… do you have any plans after the banquet?"
"No classes tomorrow." Eli closed the scripture. "I thought I might go for a night stroll."
Martin froze slightly. "Do you mean the West Borough? Or perhaps Empress Borough?"
Eli gave a serene smile. "Of course—just something casual. Perhaps along Sivellas Street..."
Martin exhaled in relief. Sivellas Street was near the Police Headquarters. He could live with that.
"…and then continue through Donald Street, cross the Backlund Bridge, and admire the city lights from the far bank."
"…No!" Martin's voice rose an octave.
"Martin," Eli said calmly, "Hillston, Cherwood, and the Bridge Borough all enjoy decent public order. You ought to have more faith in our overworked patrol officers. Perhaps I'll get bored halfway and simply return."
He raised a hand to silence the flustered valet.
Martin's voice quivered. "Young Master, those patrolmen only know how to chase off beggars. If you go too far—unless you shoot me now—I will report this to Mrs. Maynard."
He had no choice but to invoke the true matriarchal threat.
Thank the Goddess Eli hadn't said East Borough.
Had that name left his lips, poor Martin might've collapsed on the spot.
"Martin," Eli said, adopting a tone of mock solemnity, "Mother already has enough to worry about with my older brother's condition. Let's not add to her burdens."
"We'll stay on main roads, hire that scoundrel from the other day as our bodyguard, and bring two pistols. Satisfied?"
Martin clutched at his chest, sighing through clenched teeth. "You… you must promise not to veer into dangerous alleys. Otherwise—I swear I'll tell Madam."
"Of course," Eli said warmly. "Just the moon, some air. Repetition dulls the soul. We all need a bit of change, don't we?"
"You too, Martin. You deserve to rest."
Eli reopened Night Revelation, signaling the end of the conversation.
Martin forced a grateful smile. Your kindness is touching, Young Master… but at the cost of my peace.
Then, as if recalling something dreadful, Martin cleared his throat.
"Young Master, I almost forgot. Your monthly discretionary funds have nearly run dry."
Bang!
Eli slammed the scripture shut.
"What?"
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