The guard barely lifts his head, stammering, “Y?yes, there’s a ticket for… Bastard of the West.”

  Mint?tinged breath grazes the passenger’s cheek, but he doesn’t bristle. 'They’re just having fun at my expense', the bastard thinks. He’s long since grown used to it and keeps his mind on the mission.

  “You held me up even with my military seal—I’m already late.”

  His voice is as hard as the steel in his arm.

  He snatches the stamped ticket and boards. The metal limb swings like a dead weight; yesterday’s malfunction cost him a full day. Finally made it. He drops into the rear seat without hesitation.

  The guard’s mint is gone, replaced by the reek of oil seeping from the arm. Yesterday’s repairs made it worse, and he loathed it already. The glare he gives the prosthesis is harsher than the one his father wore when he came back from war one?armed—and then refused to sign a discharge. The Bastard has learned not to expect kindness, even from family.

  “Mommy, what’s that?”

  A little girl reaches for the metal arm.

  “Idiot, don’t touch!” Her mother yanks her back, then she looks up. “Are you all right? You look exhausted.”

  “It’s just decoration—no pain at all,” he lies.

  The girl smiles, murmurs something he can’t catch, and quiet settles in; the compartment now belongs to him alone.

  He pats every pocket—especially the Bricks family letter. Losing it would delay the mission, and the North would pay the price.

  Half an hour into the run north, he massages the numb limb—but a strange prickling creeps through the metal. The door slams open before he can process the sensation, and yesterday’s mechanic springs to mind.

  A white?haired man steps in, flipping a slim knife between two fingers, crimson eyes dripping equal parts mockery and intent.

  “Stop the train and summon the Cleaners. Operation ends in ten seconds.”

  “An assassin?” Bastard of the West smiles, rises, and sets his right hand on his sword hilt. “Worst entrance I’ve seen.”

  Three heartbeats later his arm goes dead. 'I can’t lift the blade!'

  The intruder smirks. “Steal a swordsman’s hand and he’s a mage without magic.” He closes the distance, knife flicking.

  “Operation complete. I’ll meet the Cleaners’ overseer myself if they’re not here in a minute,” he says into a rune?stone, grin widening as he studies the collapsed body. “Poor Western Swordsman… one little girl ruined your legendary arm? What hope does the frozen North have now?”

  #

  The stranger who stabbed his own heart forgot how much the North needed him; I am that stranger.

  My only warmth is a metal hand driven through my chest…

  First Sight: A Hand of Metal

  Platt wakes to pain no creature deserves. The ceiling of a railcar shudders overhead, wheels hammering beneath. A memory—or the shadow of one—surfaces: a slim blade sliding into his heart moments ago. But where is that heart now? A gash slowly knits, flesh bulging as if defying death itself. He has no name save “Platt,” whispered in a muddled dream, no recollection to contest his fate.

  At the far end of the carriage, four “Cleaners” stoop over dark stains, bottling blood, polishing seat rails, scrubbing the floor with acid?sharp oil. A bald man in his thirties wipes a curved sword and grumbles,

  “If they’d told me I’d be corpse?cleanup for some butcher, I’d have jumped off at the first stop.”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  A blond youth—apparently the only one enjoying himself—chuckles. “Relax, Maser. Watch the experts and you’ll learn. The master always says: A failed Cleaner is a dead assassin. You don’t want to die, right?” Lowering his voice, he adds, “One smudge and the investigators will trace this to Vern Sinn.”

  The name Vern Sinn pricks Platt’s empty mind—dangerous as the knife itself. No details, only a primal warning. He tries to sit up; taut wounds lock his muscles. Refusing to quit, he curls sideways and rolls until his back hits the wall.

  A slender woman checking the rear seats shrieks, “He’s moving!” Platt’s heart slams; his teeth clamp till he tastes blood. The eldest Cleaner—a man with a long moustache—raises a hand. “Step back. Let me call Master Sinn before we do something stupid.”

  Time denies him. Heat floods Platt’s right arm—the metal limb they all believed inert. Rune shackles around his wrist crack; faint cobalt grooves flare along the alloy. Platt doesn’t know how, yet he feels every bolt and joint like living muscle.

  Run, his body commands. Muscle memory—the one thing no thief stole—obeys. The mechanical Arm fist shatters the blond Cleaner’s jaw before the man can retreat; a sideways kick wrecks the woman’s knee. They fall gasping. Platt’s worry curdles into horror: 'I’m really hurting them!'

  The bald man howls, “Don’t break formation! Iron bolts—now!” Too late. Platt rips a luggage rack bar free by accident, snaps it in two. Two Cleaners rush with light swords. His mind screams, 'Why attack? I don’t understand!' No answer comes. In the desperate instant his arm twitches again:

  First Sight: A Hand of Metal

  Plates unfurl into a shield that blocks the blades, sparks spraying. The swordsmen recoil. Platt darts through the gap toward the door, but the moustached Cleaner reaches a rune device pulsing azure—direct line to Vern Sinn. The flash hits Platt like ice water; he doesn’t know why, only that a worse fate than death awaits if that call completes.

  He swings to smash the device—oil spurts from the limb, reeking, as it stretches into a two?meter scythe. Before he grasps what’s happened, the blade punches through the moustached man’s face. The body locks, eyes wide, then slumps. The call dies—but at what cost?

  Platt gulps air until he’s choking. Blood spatters the floor. From the next carriage seep muffled shots, smothered screams, then silence. He turns: the door is torn away, small children’s feet lie motionless beyond. Tears scorch his lungs. He spins and bolts down the passage. 'I will not die here!'

  Outside, he vaults from the train, sprinting toward the forest skirting the line. A remaining Cleaner with a short bow yells, “Missed one! Don’t let him reach the trees!” Two slim arrows ping off the metal shield. Platt can’t tell if the sting is steel or the internal fire flaring every time he draws on the power, but he keeps running.

  Conifer gloom swallows him. Slippery roots tangle his stride; shallow streams gleam like silver under the moon. After tense minutes he confronts a rock wall rising like a fortress. Turning, he finds six pursuers closing in, two more behind working a spare comm?rune.

  One lifts his sword. “Surrender before this gets ugly!” The words mean nothing to someone who saw dozens of innocents butchered moments earlier. “I don’t want an honorable death—I want life!” Platt tries to shout, but only a hoarse rasp escapes.

  He lowers the arm—image of the skewered moustache floods him with guilt. Hesitation costs him: a blade clangs against the prosthetic shoulder, and pain—fierce, nerve?bright—erupts as if the metal has sprouted flesh. He nearly bites through his tongue, but instead of folding, hotter power surges. The shield balloons over his torso, snapping three swords at once.

  He barrels through, smashing branches, leaping logs, until the Cleaners lose his trail. When his heartbeat finally slows, his legs refuse another step. Moonlight spills over a small clearing slick with fresh blood. A massive bear lies gutted by three precise stabs—work of a professional. Draped atop the corpse is a tiny girl, maybe ten, chestnut hair matted crimson.

  Run or help? The dilemma freezes him—until a broken whisper reaches him: “Y?you… help me.” He crouches, sees a faint white vapor curling from her cheeks—the same smoke that had closed his chest wound. The first genuine memory: his escape from death.

  “You… like me?” he murmurs.

  Her eyes widen in terror, then settle. “I don’t know what I am, but the voice inside calls me Aria.”

  “Platt,” he replies. “That’s what my mind named me when I opened my eyes.” His trembling hand offers aid. She hesitates, then sets her small palm in his metal one. The fragile weight rattles him more than the chase; for the first time he feels this weaponized limb might cradle life, not just end it.

  “They hunt you too?” he asks, checking her wounds.

  She nods, gestures to a second bear writhing farther off, a dagger buried in its eye. “Not just them. The whole forest rages tonight.”

  He swallows. “Then we leave before they regroup—or something worse wakes.”