Bolton

  The first thing Bolton heard was the steady clinking of glass, the scrape of metal on wood, and a low hum vibrating deep in his bones. His eyes fluttered open to the dim glow of lanterns casting soft shadows across a rustic ceiling.

  Where am I?

  His body felt leaden, every movement resisted by a dull ache in his bruised ribs—a cruel reminder of the assault beneath the sewers, just below the hull of the Akiyoma Airship. He tried to sit up, but a sharp, searing pain shot through his side, forcing a groan from his lips. Blinking hard, Bolton struggled to piece together his surroundings.

  This isn’t the sewers.

  The air here was warmer, almost stifling, and carried the tang of puffed smoke, rich mead, and roasted meat. The subtle sway beneath him hinted at motion, though he couldn’t quite place it. Lanterns flickered along the walls, their light dancing across thick wooden beams. Nets and ropes hung decoratively from the ceiling alongside barrels taller than any man, giving the space the charm of an old riverboat. The scene was a stark contrast to the dark, twisting corridors of Whistletop Alley.

  Not the Akiyoma replica. Not the sewers. Where in Yerro’s name am I?

  Her name struck him like a thunderclap. Vermolly.

  Panic jolted through his body. “Vermolly!” he rasped, trying to push himself upright. Pain erupted across his ribs, sending him crashing back onto the narrow cot. “Vermolly…” he whispered, the weight of her absence crushing him.

  Her mangled body flashed in his mind—a cruel specter he couldn’t escape. His hand clutched the edge of the bed, his knuckles white as his heart warred with the grim truth. She’s not here. She’s gone.

  Bolton forced his gaze downward. Worn bandages were wrapped tightly around his torso and arms. His fingers brushed over the fabric, still faintly damp with blood and sweat. The rhythmic click of train tracks rumbled beneath him—a faint but unmistakable sound.

  I’m on a train?

  His pulse quickened, a knot of dread twisting in his stomach. How did I get here? Who saved me? Why am I still alive?

  Fragments of memory stirred—a fight, a desperate struggle beneath the airship, and the crushing blows of the Quadrant Leader. Darkness had overtaken him then, dragging him under. Yet someone—or something—had pulled him back. An otherworldly presence lingered in the edges of his thoughts, stinking of oil and sewage.

  But who?

  A creak nearby snapped Bolton out of his spiraling thoughts. He wasn’t alone.

  Across the cart, a large, round-bellied man stormed toward the far end where a bar gleamed beneath a row of glowing lanterns. These weren’t ordinary lanterns—their glass casings resembled inverted waterfalls, with flames spiraling upward like liquid fire. Their surreal glow rippled across the wooden walls, hypnotic and unnerving.

  The man’s boots clunked heavily against the floorboards, rattling the glasses hanging behind the bar. His voice boomed, loud and rough, echoing through the cart.

  “Pistol! This is yer brilliant Midnight Train, and brilliant for certain!” he roared with laughter, his words rumbling through the room.

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  Bolton’s heart thudded in his chest, panic rising. I can’t be here. They’ll see me. They’ll know.

  He gritted his teeth, trying once more to sit up, but the pain flared, pinning him down. His fingers brushed the rough bandages over his side, memories of the fight flashing vividly before him. The Quadrant Leader’s crushing strikes. The darkness. Then—nothing.

  But someone had saved him. Who?

  Bolton leaned slightly over the edge of his cot, scanning the room. Was it the loud man? Could he have dragged me from that nightmare?

  The scrape of a stool against the floor pulled Bolton’s attention to the bar.

  “Just boarded and already makin’ noise, Chief Hogswind,” muttered the bartender, a wiry man with weathered skin and hair streaked gray like smoke trails.

  The name struck Bolton like a hammer. Chief Hogswind. He’d heard it before—rumors of a miner turned legend, a roughneck who commanded respect in the Kenton Mines of Quadrant Nine.

  Hogswind’s booming voice erupted again, raucous and full of wild energy. “Oi, every young’un and ol’ beard here’s heard the stories! Tales of an infinite train, filled with monsters, deadly spirits, and royal arseholes from across the world!”

  The crowd erupted into cheers, their voices thunderous. Bolton shifted uneasily, his heart pounding. He peered over the edge of his cot, his gaze darting to Hogswind.

  Does he know who I am? Did he save me?

  The laughter and shouting pressed against Bolton’s frayed nerves. Hogswind’s voice roared above the din, snapping his attention back.

  “What do we see when we arrive? A fancin’ five-cart train with a tavern, a bath cart rivalin’ the Springs of Veranus, and a whorehouse to boot!”

  More laughter erupted, soot-covered faces breaking into wide grins.

  “Yardrats! We’ve earned this! Workin’ the hardest mines in all the thirteen Quadrants! After two months of lip smackin’ with our wives, we enjoy today’s final venture ‘fore we head back to Quadrant Nine to do it all over again!”

  Bolton’s head throbbed as exhaustion and panic warred within him. He clung to consciousness, fighting the haze that threatened to drag him under. Stay awake. Focus.

  His hand brushed against something crinkled in his pocket. Fumbling, he pulled it out—a small piece of paper, folded with care. As he unfolded it, a faint, citrusy scent drifted up, mingling with the salt-kissed air of ocean wind. Moonberry.

  The smell hit him with bittersweet clarity. The fruit grew high on the rooftops of Quadrant Four, where he’d scavenged after his expulsion during the Greisha Ceremony. Those days were a blur of survival, the Moonberries a rare comfort before he finally settled in Quadrant Nine and built his shop. On the note, words were scrawled in uneven strokes: "You will be okay," followed by a heart and a smiley face.

  For a moment, his chest tightened. The small gesture grounded him against the chaos. Someone thought of me.

  With effort, he turned his attention to the bar. The bartender—Pistol—glanced his way, his sharp eyes narrowing.

  “Don’t move,” Pistol’s voice cut through the noise, low and commanding. “All will be explained. Sit tight. You don’t want to make this worse.”

  Bolton froze, his breath caught between defiance and compliance. Something in Pistol’s tone left no room for argument, but the urge to run still clawed at him.

  Before he could act, a girl about his age strolled up next to him. She wore a barmaid uniform, stitched with mismatched patches and adorned with brass pins and tiny chains. Freckles framed her nose, and her orange hair, tipped with fiery red, shimmered in the swaying light of the lanterns. Large, curious eyes caught his, and when she smiled, her dimples seemed to turn the room on its axis.

  “Did you… write the letter?” Bolton blurted out.

  She paused, her mischievous smile growing as she gave him a slow, deliberate wink. Without a word, she continued toward Pistol, her stride as confident as ever.

  From the shadows, her voice called out, light but laced with amusement. “We’ve got a small problem to talk about after these guys leave. Also, where’s this whorehouse you’ve got? Can I join?”

  The woman’s joke drew chuckles from the patrons, but Bolton barely noticed, his mind racing. Something feels wrong. I need to get off this train. Now.

  Then came a shout—a gruff, primal call that echoed across the cart.

  “Pistol!!! The royal is here! I smell em’!”

  Bolton’s blood ran cold as the heavy thud of boots drew closer.

  You're on country side train. What's your beverage of choice?