Bolton

  Aurous burst in from the opposite end of the train, his massive frame backlit by the shattered windows as moonlight spilled through the broken glass. He didn’t hesitate—his four massive arms moved like coiled pistons unleashing at full force.

  Bolton saw the attack a second too late.

  Aurous grabbed him by the collar and hurled him backward like a tossed ragdoll. Bolton barely had time to brace before he slammed into a booth near the bar, the impact rattling his bones. Wood splintered beneath him, and for a moment, his vision blurred.

  But he couldn’t focus on the pain.

  The train was a battlefield.

  Tables lay overturned, lanterns swung wildly, their flickering glow casting jagged shadows over the carnage. The entire length of the train stretched before him, booths lining both sides like the ribs of a beast.

  And at the far end—**past the overturned chairs and shattered glass, past the haze of steam and the wreckage of a broken world—**the Malice loomed.

  It hadn’t reached him yet.

  It twitched where it stood, its form grotesque and unstable, its muscles flexing like a thing in the process of becoming.

  Then—it moved.

  The Malice surged forward, a blur of sinew and metal. Its limbs piston-fired as it lunged.

  And something huge swatted it aside.

  The Malice hit the opposite end of the train with a sickening crunch, crashing into an empty booth. Wood splintered. Metal groaned. The entire frame of the train car shuddered under the force.

  The creature let out a garbled hiss, steam venting from its pulsating sinews. Its glowing red eyes flickered in and out, glitching, struggling to stabilize. It twisted on the ground, half-crushed beneath the wreckage.

  A low rumble rolled through the train.

  Not from the engine.

  From the miners.

  Bolton gritted his teeth, breath still uneven. His body ached, but his mind was sharp. His fingers twitched.

  He wasn’t just going to sit here.

  His eyes locked onto a Yardrat hunched at a booth nearby—a burly, scarred miner gripping a tankard. The icepick at his belt loop gleamed under the swaying lanterns.

  The man wasn’t moving. Frozen. Just watching.

  Bolton didn’t think. He moved.

  His fingers snatched for the icepick—

  But before he could grab it, a hand caught his wrist.

  Sarah.

  Her grip wasn’t tight, but it was enough. Cold. Not the kind of cold from fear, nor the fleeting chill of nerves. Something deeper. Something unnatural.

  Yet—beneath the ice of her skin, her pulse was hammering. Fast, steady, relentless. Like a machine running too hot, too fast, inside something that should have been lifeless.

  Bolton swallowed hard. He didn’t understand what he was feeling—only that it was wrong.

  She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

  Her blue eyes flicked to the icepick, then back to him. No panic. No anger. Just understanding. And something quieter. Something sadder.

  Bolton’s fingers hovered, pulse hammering.

  Then—a whip-crack of sinew snapping tight.

  The Malice lunged.

  It closed the distance in an instant.

  Its grotesque hybrid fist slammed into a Yardrat’s chest, lifting the man off the ground like a ragdoll. The miner whipped backward, his spine colliding with the ceiling in a sickening thud.

  The Malice didn’t let go.

  Before the Yardrat could even scream, its other arm shot up, clawed fingers locking around his throat. His boots kicked uselessly in the air.

  The thing’s muscles pulsed, sinew glistening under the dim lantern light, stretched too tight over its grotesque limbs. Steam hissed from its joints, filling the cabin with the stink of scorched metal and raw meat.

  The Yardrat gasped, his voice a desperate, choked rasp.

  "SOMEONE GET THIS BLOODY THING OFF ME!"

  Chief Hogswind didn’t hesitate.

  His massive boots slammed onto a table, shaking the entire train car.

  His voice was a roar.

  "WHAT’RE YOU LOT WAITIN’ FOR? AN INVITATION?!" he bellowed. "Aurous gave us an opening! THAT THING'S DOWN—TEAR IT APART!"

  The cabin erupted.

  The miners surged forward—a wall of grit, steel, and fury.

  Mugs shattered over the Malice’s skull, ceramic splinters raining down like shrapnel. Boot knives flashed in the dim light. Fists met sizzling flesh.

  The pinned Yardrat was ripped free as his comrades barreled into the Malice, knocking it to the ground.

  One miner ripped off his suspenders, wrapping them around the Malice’s thick neck, hauling back with a snarl as steam spurted from its torn sinews.

  Another jammed a rusted wrench between its joints, twisting hard until something snapped.

  Bolton could only watch as the fight turned savage.

  Blood hit the floor.

  Steel clashed against bone.

  The Malice didn’t go down easily.

  But for the first time—it wasn’t winning.

  It shuddered, writhing beneath the assault, its once-mighty form buckling under the sheer weight of the attack. The train car shook from the violence, metal groaning under the onslaught.

  And then—Enton spoke.

  "Why die for the royal boy?" His voice cut through the chaos, smooth yet laced with a dangerous edge.

  His stance was unshaken, despite the battle raging around him. He hadn’t lifted a finger to fight yet—not fully. Instead, he stood among the carnage, the very picture of control, his dark coat barely rustling despite the wind whipping through the broken train windows.

  He tilted his head slightly, his black paperboy cap casting a shadow over his sharp, monstrous features.

  "Surely the Yardrats of Quadrant Ten have more to live for than some royal who doesn’t give a damn whether they breathe or rot in the mines."

  Bolton’s pulse spiked, but before he could speak—Chief Hogswind did.

  “Interesting theory.”

  The words were slow, deliberate.

  Then—Hogswind threw his mug.

  The heavy ceramic tankard, still full of mead, slammed into Enton's chest, drenching his pristine military-style coat. A blatant, dripping insult.

  Silence.

  Bolton felt his stomach knot. No one disrespected a Primarian Hammer like that.

  The air crackled between them, tension humming.

  “One,” Chief Hogswind continued, his voice thick with amusement, “you present your point with a giant monster. Not dissimilar to those we fight every day. Mind some that have killed our own daily.” He gestured vaguely at the raging Malice, still thrashing under the miners' assault. “That’s a piss-poor start.”

  Enton’s golden, inhuman eyes narrowed.

  “Two,” Hogswind continued, “this gives us grounds for a royal favor. Tit for tat. Knuckles for Blood.”

  "A royal favor?" Bolton repeated aloud, blinking.

  He turned to Sarah, who silently mouthed: that’s not a thing.

  Hogswind grinned.

  “And three—” He cracked his knuckles, flexing his massive hands. His smile turned razor-sharp.

  “You fucked with a really really old Yardrat.”

  His voice dropped low, words heavy as iron.

  Bolton barely had time to register the meaning before he followed Hogswind’s gaze—down the aisle of the train, toward the bar.

  Pistol stood behind the counter, hand resting lazily on his massive hand cannon, the smirk on his face as sharp as a whetstone.

  Enton’s coat still dripped with mead.

  The train lurched beneath them.

  And the fight wasn’t over.

  Aurous was in motion—a force unto himself, too fast, too fluid for Bolton’s eyes to track. One second, he was dodging Enton’s strikes with an almost playful grace. The next—

  A sound. A sharp, splintering crack.

  Bolton barely registered what had happened before he saw it—a jagged shard of metal, flung loose from the chaos, slashing across Aurous' cheek.

  Bolton barely had time to process it—until he saw the blood.

  Not just black like the oil-stained ichor of machines.

  But red.

  A sickening mix of both, swirling together in a color that should have made sense—but didn’t.

  Something inside Bolton twisted.

  The Quadrant Leaders had never been Yerro’s chosen. Never blessed with strength beyond their own.

  They had been machines all along.

  Sarah exhaled sharply beside him. “I don’t think we were meant to see Quadrant Leaders fight.”

  Then, she hesitated—correcting herself.

  “Actually, we weren’t meant to see them lose.”

  His stomach churned.

  Enton wasn’t losing himself. He wasn’t broken.

  He was becoming aware.

  Bolton swallowed hard, shaking the thought away. He didn’t want to know what that meant.

  Not now.

  He stepped forward again, his knuckles aching, the heat of battle roaring through him. He didn’t care if he was still weak. He had to fight.

  And then, Aurous’ voice boomed across the chaos.

  "Pistol! If I don’t die, you owe me the recipe to that Golden Mead of yours!"

  Pistol barked a laugh, but his eyes gleamed with something deeper—something dangerous.

  “This is my train, I’m fighting too."

  Then, he moved his hands in a tearing motion.

  Bolton barely had time to process what was happening before the roof of the train was ripped open.

  The sound was deafening—metal shrieking, rivets popping loose, the very structure of the Midnight Train bending to Pistol’s will.

  A sharp gust of night air rushed through the car, sending shattered glass and loose scraps spiraling into the darkness beyond.

  Above them, the sky opened up—massive, endless, and impossibly celestial. A deep purple-blue canvas, streaked with silver clouds and constellations shifting in patterns Bolton didn’t recognize.

  But more than that—the train wasn’t on tracks anymore.

  And then—

  A voice, raw and strained, cut through the rushing wind.

  "I remember killing your friend! Bolton!"

  Bolton’s breath hitched. His pulse faltered.

  His body turned before his mind caught up, something primal seizing his chest. Heat rose to his face, fingers twitching at his sides. He barely noticed Sarah’s hand gripping his sleeve—a small tether against the raw, gut-deep instinct to lunge.

  It wasn’t just Vermolly.

  It was every loss. Every moment of helplessness.

  Every Yardrat whose screams had rung in his ears long after they’d gone silent.

  It was the fear that he was just like Enton—just another broken machine pretending to be whole.

  And now Enton wanted to be fixed.

  Bolton wanted nothing more than to tear him apart.

  Enton’s fists clenched at his sides, his frame trembling—not with fear, but with something worse. Something broken.

  "Yerro will fix this," he seethed, each word growing sharper, more dangerous. His voice twisted into a near snarl, his desperation curdling into something else.

  "Yerro must."

  The words hung there.

  The wind rushed through the broken train, cold and empty. The lanterns flickered.

  Bolton could hear his own breath, ragged in his throat.

  And then—

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  Aurous laughed.

  A dark, knowing chuckle, carried by the wind.

  "This beautiful WONDERFUL morning, I cut my hand open on a piece of paper," he mused, voice thick with something resembling amusement. "Small, shriveled things with a straight corner."

  His eyes gleamed as he dodged another strike.

  "And it was a wonderful thing."

  Enton lunged again, his movement deceptively fast for his massive frame. The air cracked as his fists swung through it, each strike brushing away the wind itself. He wasn’t just fighting—he was carving through the space around him, his sheer force distorting the air.

  Aurous met him head-on. He didn’t slip beneath the blows like a dancer but braced against them, absorbing the shock before retaliating with piston-powered punches of his own. Four fists struck in quick succession—each impact reverberating through the train car. His fingertips glowed orange-hot, the heat trailing behind his strikes like molten embers.

  Enton barely flinched. The blows landed, rattling the metal of his body, but he stood his ground, brushing off the force as if shaking off dust. His sleek military-style coat barely rustled, and his paperboy-style cap remained perfectly poised atop his monstrous frame.

  Aurous grinned, recognizing the challenge. He took a step back, his boots scraping against the shifting floor of the train car, and snatched a half-full mug of mead from a nearby table. He raised it to his lips, taking a long, exaggerated swig before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Sarah’s got my heart, boy!” he bellowed, his laughter booming over the chaos. “Ain’t just metaphorical!”

  Bolton barely had time to register the words before the Malice surged—flesh, metal, and something worse twisting into an amorphous mass that no train car could hold.

  The walls bulged, stretching like wet paper. Sinew-laced limbs shot out, twisting through steel beams, peeling back the train’s ribs.

  Bolton’s breath caught. "Where!?"

  Aurous' grin didn’t waver. If anything—it widened.

  Then—the Malice struck.

  Sinews snapped around him, yanking him into the chaos.

  His laughter didn’t stop. It grew wilder, more fevered, as the darkness swallowed him whole.

  "MOVE IT, BOY!"

  Pistol’s voice cut through the storm, sharp and commanding.

  The train shook beneath them, the clash of Aurous and Enton rattling through the air like a drumbeat of war. Malice swelled, an amorphous tangle of flesh and metal, writhing with unnatural hunger. A sinew lashed out—whipping toward Bolton like a razor-sharp tendon snapping loose.

  A deafening BOOM cut through the chaos.

  Bolton barely registered the motion—Pistol, wide as a boulder and twice as unshakable, had moved faster than the eye could follow. From beneath the bar, his massive hand had drawn something out—a cannon, thick-barreled and black as iron, its weight effortlessly cradled in his grip.

  The shot roared like a thunderclap. Not a bullet—something heavier, something denser, a cannonball of unknown make. It collided with the rogue sinew midair, obliterating it in an explosion of raw force, sending chunks of blackened, writhing mass splattering against the walls.

  Smoke coiled from the cannon’s muzzle as Pistol rested it back against the bar, unfazed, his broad frame casting a long shadow against the lantern light.

  "You don’t wanna die, do you?" His voice was steel, cutting through the madness. The train groaned as the Malice swelled again. Pistol didn't blink. "You’ll find some of your answers at the front of the train. As for the rest…" He smirked, flexing his grip around the cannon’s barrel.

  "Well, that’ll depend on our friends here."

  Bolton’s fingers twitched.

  His boots shifted—half a step toward Aurous, half a step toward the battle that still clawed at his chest.

  Aurous' laughter was still echoing, but now it sounded further away—distant, unraveling into the void.

  The train lurched beneath them, the air thick with gunpowder and smoke from Pistol’s shot. The Malice wasn’t stopping—it pulsed, shifting, adapting, stretching into something even larger. Aurous and Enton still clashed like living titans, the force of their battle shaking the very bones of the Midnight Train.

  Bolton clenched his fists. He couldn’t just run. Not yet.

  His voice cut through the chaos, raw and desperate. "And the Yardrats!? What about them?"

  His chest was heaving now, fingers twitching, torn between self-preservation and the sickening guilt of leaving others behind. He knew how this went. He’d run. He’d survive. But how many wouldn’t?

  Pistol didn’t even glance at him—just chambered another round into his massive hand cannon, jaw set, shoulders squared.

  "Go," he rumbled. "They’ve got their own fight."

  The words hit harder than the cannon’s blast.

  Bolton’s breath stilled. His muscles tensed. One more second.

  Then—Sarah yanked him forward.

  Her grip was ironclad, unyielding. The door to the next train car slammed open, swallowing them into darkness.

  She dragged him through the wreckage, past splintered booths and flickering lanterns. His feet stumbled beneath him, but she didn’t let go—cutting through the chaos with a determination that never wavered.

  The Malice roared, its form swelling, forcing itself into impossible spaces.

  Steel groaned. Glass shattered.

  Bolton threw one last look over his shoulder—at the chaos, at the fight still raging. At Aurous, vanishing into the dark.

  His feet twitched, the instinct to turn back screaming inside him.

  Then—Sarah pulled him forward, and the moment was gone.

  Pistol’s voice rang out one last time—

  "NOW GO!"

  The train lurched. The wind roared.

  Sarah shoved open the door to the next train car and pulled Bolton inside.

  Darkness swallowed them whole.

  The sounds of battle—the roaring wind, the clashing metal—faded, like a distant nightmare.

  Bolton’s breath was still ragged, his heartbeat uneven. Then, he felt it—the train groaned beneath him. It didn’t sound like steel anymore. It sounded softer.

  The metal beneath his boots had changed, the very structure of the train warping.

  Then—flickering shapes.

  Tiny firefly-like creatures drifted in slow, weightless arcs, their faint golden glow pulsing like dying embers. They moved without rhythm. Without order. Watching.

  Sarah’s hand was still wrapped around his wrist. She didn’t let go. Instead, she took a step forward, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “We keep moving.”

  And for once—Bolton didn’t argue.

  The glow of the fireflies swelled, as if watching him. He could see the terrain now—soft shrubbery, luminescent spores dusting his torn clothes. Whatever he touched left trails of shimmering dust, briefly entertaining the mysterious floating creatures as they drifted closer, their golden glow pulsing with curiosity. The strange dust clung to him, leaving streaks of shimmering gold against the remains of his jacket—what little survived his fight with Vermolly.

  "Sarah," Bolton muttered.

  She didn’t answer.

  Her figure was barely visible now, only her hand and wrist clearly illuminated.

  "Sarah!" he called again, louder this time, stomping his foot.

  Then—she stopped.

  Bolton felt the shift. Her movements—erratic. Sharp. Almost static. The warmth faded from her grip. Her fingers turned cold. Metallic.

  Then—the ticking sound.

  Faint. Rhythmic. But off.

  Sarah turned her head, her eyes catching the dim glow of the fireflies.

  “This was part of Pistol’s plan,” she said, her voice quieter, heavier. “I know you’re sick of secrets. I wasn’t supposed to tell you yet, but—your brother Michael is waiting for us in Veranus.”

  Bolton’s breath hitched, his grip tightening slightly.

  “Some things are kept secret for a reason,” she continued. “It’s up to us to trust what’s unfamiliar, uncomfortable… strange.”

  Then, she turned fully toward him.

  Her eyes glowed.

  Not like a cat’s. Not like anything human.

  Inside them, tiny orange gears turned in slow, deliberate motion—intricate and ceaseless, like the inner workings of a timepiece.

  Bolton’s breath hitched. The sudden chill of her hand. The unnatural precision of her movements.

  The sound—like a key winding tight inside a lock.

  His body reacted before his mind caught up. His feet planted. His arm jerked back. He yanked Sarah to a halt.

  "My brother! What about the Greisha Ceremony!?" His voice cracked, edged with something between fear and frustration.

  Then—he caught himself.

  The outburst hung in the air, raw and jagged. His pulse steadied. His breath evened.

  "I understand this train has… abilities. But please, I’m actually scared..." His voice dropped, quieter now—almost pleading. Bolton swallowed, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist. “Terrified, really.”

  A pause.

  "Are you like Enton?" He hesitated. "Are you alive? Or… a machine?"

  The ticking continued—steady, measured, like a heartbeat made of brass and cogs.

  His grip loosened.

  Then, the train cart burst to life. Light flooded the space like an exploding firework. Shadows scattered.

  Sarah turned to him. The glow of the fireflies reflected in her eyes, casting strange patterns against the delicate gears turning within.

  “Neither,” she said softly. “Somewhere in the middle. Like Pistol.”

  Then—her hand rose to his face, the touch impossibly gentle. A warm caress against his cheek.

  Bolton’s breath hitched. For a moment, he didn’t pull away. His fingers twitched, then hesitantly lifted, wrapping around her hand.

  Her skin felt… wrong. Not cold, not lifeless, but something in between. Like the surface of something meant to be warm but made elsewhere—crafted, rather than born.

  She looked different. Almost unrecognizable.

  Paler. Almost porcelain.

  The freckles he swore he had seen just moments ago were gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished ivory. Her skin, once kissed by warmth, now carried an unnatural sheen, like polished ceramic.

  A wind-up figure caught between movement and stillness.

  Bolton tightened his grip just slightly, anchoring her, as if holding her hand might keep her from slipping further into whatever she was becoming.

  For a fleeting second, the warmth flickered back, the illusion resetting.

  And then—it was gone.

  Then, as if reality itself flickered, she shifted.

  For a brief moment, warmth returned to her skin, the light from the swaying lanterns casting soft freckles across her nose, a faint flush blooming on her cheeks. The Sarah he met on the Whisky Sunday, sharp and full of life, stood before him.

  Then—gone.

  Her features paled again, porcelain overtaking flesh. The change wasn't instant, nor was it fluid. It came in flickers, as though the illusion of her humanity was being tuned like a faulty radio signal. A glitch in something larger than her.

  The space around them seamlessly morphed to match.

  Bolton’s gaze drifted beyond her, taking in the impossible landscape of the train cart. It was no longer metal and bolts. The space stretched into something organic, like a narrow section of a bayou, with a wooden dock beneath his feet, gently rocking atop an unseen river. The water below was black and depthless, its surface reflecting nothing.

  Sarah stood at the edge of the dock, watching him with those firefly-glow eyes—eyes that flickered between something warm and something cold, something human and something built.

  Without a word, she reached out, gently taking Bolton’s hand and lifting it to her own. His fingers rested against hers—warm skin meeting something that wasn’t quite flesh.

  “Are you afraid now?” she asked, her voice neither mocking nor soft, but something in between.

  Bolton swallowed. His pulse hammered beneath her touch.

  "I am..." Bolton muttered, his voice barely above a breath.

  A pause.

  Sarah exhaled, her grip on his hand tightening for just a moment. Then, softer—**almost as if confessing a secret—**she whispered, "Me too."

  A single tear slipped down her cheek.

  For a fleeting second, it shimmered like glass—reflecting light like a perfect, polished droplet. Then, just as quickly, it flickered—turning metallic, cold, unnatural.

  Bolton watched as it trailed down her skin, caught in the flickering shift between human and machine.

  Then, in a voice that wavered between warmth and something unsettlingly precise, she murmured,

  "We keep moving," Sarah said, her voice softer now.

  But then—something shifted.

  The porcelain sheen of her skin flickered, warmth bleeding back into her features like color returning to an old photograph. The stark, eerie glow of her eyes softened, pupils contracting, their blue hue deepening. Her freckles returned in a slow bloom across her nose, the faintest flush rising in her cheeks.

  Then—click.

  A faint, rhythmic ticking stuttered, then smoothed out, like the final, settling ticks of a wound clock finding its rhythm again. For a moment, the sound felt too large for such a small thing—a whisper of machinery woven into the silence.

  Sarah blinked, looking away for a moment. Then, almost shyly, she looked back up at him—not with gears turning behind her eyes, but with something undeniably human.

  “The Whisky Sunday never has passengers,” she murmured, her voice lighter, laced with something playful. “It wasn’t meant to.”

  Bolton hesitated, his fingers still laced with hers. For a moment, neither of them let go.

  Then, slowly, their hands separated.

  And for the first time, Bolton didn’t argue.

  Then he looked up—and his stomach twisted.

  The sky was within reach. It stretched overhead, so close that if he only jumped, he could touch it. Wisps of clouds drifted lazily past his head, brushing against his skin like passing breath.

  Sarah took a slow step forward, her gaze distant. “Pistol’s secret ingredient in the Golden Mead,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Gochican Honey. Warmed to a specific degree. He said I was the only one who could get it just right.”

  She hesitated, her voice quieter now. “That was when he found me. Long ago. When I wasn’t me anymore.” A breath. A pause. “Something took my humanity… it looked human, but it was the furthest thing from it.”

  Bolton swallowed. “Is Pistol really just a bartender?”

  Sarah blinked—then laughed, a real laugh this time, warm and familiar, though something behind it trembled. “Hardly.” She turned slightly, shaking her head, a soft smile playing on her lips. “He’s the conductor of the Whisky Sunday. A Yardrat through and through. And quite frankly—” she shot Bolton a teasing look, “he makes more than just any mead.”

  Bolton didn’t reply. He just watched.

  Then, without warning, the ticking in his head sharpened.

  A memory uncoiled, unbidden. A massive gear-driven door, deep in the heart of the Primarian Arc. A cold room, lit only by the pulse of something immense beyond the metal walls. His father’s voice—his mother’s hand on his shoulder. A gift placed in his palm.

  The pocket watch.

  A whisper, lost to time: You’ll understand someday.

  The memory snapped shut as quickly as it had come. Bolton exhaled sharply, his fingers brushing against the pocket watch in his coat, grounding himself in the present.

  Sarah’s skin grew whiter, the soft hues of life draining away, leaving only the rigid, doll-like texture of something artificial. Thin red lines bled from the corners of her mouth, as though the paint of a long-forgotten smile had begun to crack.

  She was becoming what she truly was.

  Then—a half-smile.

  “Do you know what happens when you die?” she asked.

  Bolton’s breath hitched. “Aren’t we running…?” he muttered.

  Sarah tilted her head slightly, watching him. “Once we transfer train carts, we’ll always be within reach of the front of the train. However…” she let the words linger, her tone cryptic, almost amused. “We’re just as close to the end, too.”

  Bolton frowned. “What does that mean?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, her gaze drifted toward the floating firefly-like creatures, their golden glow reflecting off the glass-like surface of the water below.

  Some of them landed on lilypads, their soft bodies brushing against frogs that seemed to manifest from the depths, born from the bayou’s quiet breath.

  Bolton followed her gaze, his expression distant. “My father said Midnight Trains are like pocket worlds. Bridges connected by Yerro. Allowed by Yerro.” He muttered, almost to himself.

  Sarah’s smile flickered, unreadable. “More like pocket minds.”

  She turned, her movements light—almost too light—as if gravity had loosened its grip on her. Then, she gestured toward the water.

  “Sit.”

  Bolton hesitated, scanning the train cart—a world within a train cart, a bayou suspended in the belly of the Midnight Train. His own reflection in the water stared back at him, distorted by the firefly glow.

  Sarah remained still, watching him. Waiting.

  “So you don’t know what happens when we die, Mr. Would-Be King.”

  Bolton exhaled slowly, gaze lowering. “We go back to Mother Green.”

  He stared at his reflection one last time before reluctantly taking a seat. Then, for the first time since the train started moving, he dipped his feet into the water.

  It was warm—unnervingly so. The surface barely rippled, as if reluctant to acknowledge his presence.

  “Why aren’t we running, Sarah?”

  Sarah’s fingers traced the edge of the dock. “Michael pulled strings so that Pistol would pick up the toughest group of miners from their riff-raffin’ party in Quadrant One. That’s where Aurous found you—brought you on with his giant lizard.”

  Bolton frowned. “That doesn’t answer my question.” He flicked his foot, splashing into his own reflection.

  Sarah let the ripples settle before she spoke again.

  “Because the train has split. Midnight Trains are truly something special.”

  She lifted her chin slightly, glancing toward the firefly-lit sky. “You know the New Dwardian jingle.”

  “A Midnight Train always meets its destination. Stars of night—” she started.

  “Will see it shine.” Bolton finished, his voice quieter now. “Yeah. My mother used to tell us that.”

  Sarah nodded. “So trust Pistol. Our destination is a moon’s lick away.”

  Bolton raised an eyebrow. “Your Quadrant Six lingo is showing.”

  Sarah smirked, but before she could reply—

  A sharp hiss of steam cut through the quiet.

  Bolton barely had time to register it before the door at the far end of the train cart groaned open. A long, creeping shadow stretched across the floor, cast by the lantern light beyond. It moved slowly, deliberately, before its owner followed—heavy boots striking against the warped wooden planks, each step unhurried, inevitable.

  Pistol stood in the doorway, his massive frame filling it entirely. The glow of the lanterns barely touched him, leaving only his silhouette—a figure carved from the very bones of the Midnight Train. His coat hung loose over broad shoulders, and his hat sat low over his eyes, shadowing his expression.

  For a moment, he said nothing. He simply exhaled, a slow, measured breath that cut through the air like steam venting from old machinery.

  Then—his voice rumbled through the car, steady, certain, the weight of iron scraping against stone.

  “Come, boy.”

  The words weren’t a command. They weren’t a question. They were fact.

  “The battle was not won.” He tilted his chin slightly, the dim light catching the edge of his weathered features. “However… it moves to another day.”

  Bolton hesitated, his fingers curling against the damp wooden dock beneath him. His thoughts were a tangled mess, but only one rose to the surface.

  “And the Yardrats?” His voice was quieter now, careful.

  Pistol turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder. For a moment, it looked as if he might not answer. Then—

  “Aurous is protecting them.” His voice was heavy with something unreadable. “All we can do is trust him. Quadrant Ten is their home. They should have an advantage. Even against a Malice like that.”

  The words sank into Bolton’s chest like stones, settling deep.

  The lanterns flickered. The train groaned.

  Pistol stepped back into the next car, disappearing into the shadows beyond.

  Bolton swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears. His muscles ached, exhaustion creeping in, but still—he stood.

  Sarah remained seated, watching him, fireflies dancing in the air between them.

  Bolton exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. Then, without another word, he turned to follow Pistol into the unknown.

  “Bolton.”

  He paused, glancing over his shoulder.

  Sarah’s expression was unreadable, her fingers brushing absently against the wooden dock. The fireflies hovered close, their golden glow casting shifting patterns across her face.

  “I was supposed to give you this.”

  Bolton frowned. “What?”

  She hesitated—just for a second—then met his gaze, her voice quieter now.

  “Aurous’ heart.”

  The train groaned beneath them, metal shifting deep in its bones.

  Sarah inhaled slowly, her grip tightening around something unseen in her palm.

  “One of the thirteen pieces.”

  Bolton’s breath hitched.

  The door behind him remained open. Pistol waited. The Midnight Train rumbled on, destination unknown.

  And for the first time in a long time—he didn’t know whether to move forward or turn back.

  The door slammed shut.

  Darkness swallowed the train car whole.