Nao-Rei, Region 774
Station 774 was a tiny place. Its overgrown tracks, a small platform of gray stone, and a modest five-table diner doubled as a cherished cultural landmark.
A stocky woman in her forties with a broad, unremarkable face sat behind the counter, engrossed in a well-worn, dog-eared book. On its cover, a slender beauty arched dramatically in the arms of a tanned man wearing an open white shirt. Lyuta—that was her name—had read the book many times before. But at this moment, she was captivated by the scene: a young baroness investigating her uncle’s murder had decided to hire a rugged bandit. The bandit, meanwhile, found his hardened heart unsettled by the sight of the young lady in lace.
The soft hum of fat summer flies circled above the freshly baked rolls, covered with a napkin on the counter. As usual for this early hour, the diner was empty. Lyuta, savoring the rare chance to indulge in the romantic escapades of the baroness, felt little urgency to do anything else. She had never met a real baroness, nor left her quiet little village, and doubted she would ever encounter such elegance—even if she moved to the capital. The world of lace parasols and white gloves seemed almost magical to her.
News about aristocratic life rarely reached Nao-Rei. Occasionally, the television mentioned social events in the capital, but never with any details. Lyuta's entire understanding of the lives of the wealthy and noble came from books like the one she now held. She wasn’t ready to tear herself away from the faded pages, but the peaceful summer day was suddenly interrupted by the sharp whistle of a relay transmitter, signaling an approaching train.
The first signal—technical gates activated. The second—a train was nearing. And the third—a stop! Lyuta slammed the book shut, carefully folding a corner to mark her place, and rushed to tidy the counter, shoo away flies, and polish the surface. A stop! What a joy!
Somewhere in his little booth, the station technician stirred from a nap. A dog barked in its kennel, and a group of boys suddenly materialized, shouting and darting around. The third signal carried far beyond the station, shaking the sleepiness from what felt like the entire village.
Nao-Rei—a region known in official records only by its number, 774—was a quiet, isolated place. Sparsely populated, it consisted of a handful of small settlements, none large enough to qualify as a town. Its people had little cause to dream of better prospects. Trade routes connecting the major fragments of the Confederation bypassed the region entirely.
Nao-Rei didn’t even have its own official Potern, which could have enabled residents to travel between neighboring regions and establish basic commerce or industry. The wild tunnels used by hunters mostly led to marshes teeming with unpleasant wildlife and hostile pagans, making them dangerous and unsuitable for integration into the Confederate Transportation System.
The only link to the rest of the world was a short railway loop—a warped stretch of tracks about half a kilometer long. The surrounding regions, largely consisting of swamps or lands unfit for human habitation, made the station a rare stop for trains, whether freight or passenger. Only under specific circumstances, such as emergency repairs, refueling, or recalibration, would a train slow down temporarily before hurrying away from this meaningless patch of land.
Occasionally, strangers—merchants or travelers—would arrive with these trains, though never by choice. A stop at such an insignificant place could only be accidental or out of necessity. Each arrival was an event akin to a holiday for the local youth, hungry for news from the outside world.
But this train surpassed all expectations. It was significantly smaller than usual. The gates whirred to life, spinning their conducting plates in a circle. A loud pop echoed as the head car emerged through the rotating frame, vibrating above the tracks and pressing down on the stubborn grass. Yet, no cars followed.
The sight was unsettling. It looked as though only the head of a snake had appeared, with no body behind it. Unlike the streamlined freight trains the locals were used to, this head car was ornate. Its tall windows were concealed behind heavy velvet curtains tied with golden cords. A private train. The kind people here only read about in newspapers, doubting such things truly existed.
The driver requested the switch to the sidetrack, which screeched in protest before guiding the car to its new position. The train gently settled onto the rails, its engine silenced. The curtains stirred slightly.
In the ringing silence, a wide door decorated with intricate carvings slid open. Two figures stepped out. The first was a stately man in his middle years, dressed in a crimson Protectorium uniform, his bandolier filled with charged crystals. Following him, to the astonishment of the onlookers, was a boy—or so it seemed at first—in a black coat with wide cuffs, beneath which lace sleeves peeked out.
His impeccably polished boots touched the platform, raising a faint cloud of dust, which quickly dulled their shine. The boy’s lips curled in disdain as his sharp eyes scanned the station. With a faint humph, he headed toward the only nearby building: the diner.
Lyuta, frozen in the doorway with her mouth slightly open, watched as the man in the crimson uniform followed the boy, respectfully keeping a meter’s distance rather than leading the way. Snapping her mouth shut, she hurried behind the counter, thrilled to be the first to get a close look at these visitors.
Visitors from another life. A life where men wore lace shirts instead of oil-stained tank tops, and young baronesses in elaborate dresses attended grand balls.
Outside the diner, the tousled heads of village boys bobbed by the window, though none dared to peek in. The enigmatic visitor took a seat by the window, quietly saying something to his companion. The man nodded briskly, military-like, and disappeared toward the maintenance station.
The boy remained, his gaze wandering with interest.
Lyuta realized, with a start, that the visitor was likely waiting for someone to approach him and take his order. She had heard of such practices in city restaurants, where servers asked guests what they desired rather than having them fetch their own food. Until now, she had dismissed this as nonsense. But suddenly, it became clear there was no alternative. She couldn’t possibly leave such a polished gentleman, accompanied by a bodyguard no less, to select his meal from trays of stale rolls or vats of thin stew.
With trembling legs, Lyuta approached his table and awkwardly curtsied, having read that this was a sign of respect among the wealthy. Raising her eyes, she finally got a closer look at the boy, and her heart—already stirred by the “Incredible Adventures of Baroness de Buffe”—fluttered chaotically.
He was far from 15, as she had initially thought from afar. And without his broad-shouldered companion nearby, his figure no longer appeared slight or fragile. Instead, he struck her as remarkably refined, almost regal.
He wasn’t anything like the tanned, muscular bandit on the book’s cover. Instead, the word that came to her mind was “aristocratic.” He seemed unbelievably handsome to her, with a lean but strong frame, elegant hands—gloved, she noted with delight—and an unnaturally slim waist for a man. His smooth face, with delicate, almost feminine features, was framed by jet-black hair cascading in soft strands. His skin was so pale it might have suggested illness, but his movements and gaze were confident and full of energy.
Perhaps this was what her books meant by “aristocratic pallor,” she thought. At her age, Lyuta had long since stopped fancying young boys, preferring men with the maturity to fix a car, mend a roof, or chop firewood. Clearly, this refined young man was incapable of any of those things. Yet there was something about him—a quality that sent a chill down her spine even on this warm day.
The boy smiled, flashing teeth so white that Lyuta doubted she had ever seen their equal on a living person.
“Dear lady, would this fine establishment have something for breakfast? Perhaps a poached egg, a croissant, and a cup of coffee?” he asked, his tone light yet authoritative.
Lyuta smiled, nodded eagerly, and curtsied again, before retreating on stiff legs to the kitchen. She vaguely suspected that “poached” and “croissant” were names of dishes, though she wasn’t entirely sure. In fact, there was no real cook in the kitchen; the meals were delivered each morning in metal containers. But there was no way she could admit that to this gentleman.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Meanwhile, the young man’s bodyguard had stepped out onto the platform, swiftly setting things in motion. Within minutes, he had the calibration technician inspecting the train’s drive mechanism and sent someone to the depot for an omnimobile.
The commotion quickly spread through the village, drawing curious onlookers, from boys peeking around corners to adults suddenly finding errands near the station. Even old Shura, who usually shuffled along with the help of a cane, made her way toward the scene.
It turned out that the omnimobile, which the village head had been using for his personal errands for the past three years, was officially registered at the depot as a "reserve vehicle for emergencies." For inspections, of course, it was washed and parked in the garage so that a minor bureaucrat-inspector could take a glance, check it off, and leave. But now, the vehicle had to be urgently retrieved from the village head’s house, and it seemed no one had a convincing explanation for the delay at the station.
A single command from the Protectorium officer, delivered in his authoritative bass, could terrify even a swamp wraith—a creature that thrived on fear. The technician, not known for his courage, was entirely unprepared for such sudden responsibility.
“That’s no small fry, that one. See, Protectorium’s no joke. Now they’ll haul our technician off to the capital, toss him in a pit, and let him rot. I’ve said it before—taking on such burdens is a sin,” croaked the milkman with an air of authority, his words drawing awe-filled gasps from the eavesdropping boys.
“It ain’t him they’ll take, you fool, but our village head,” barked old Shura with equal conviction. “Serves him right, hoarding village property like that. He’s the one responsible!”
“Wouldn’t be a shame to lose either of ’em,” Glafina chimed in, spitting a sunflower seed husk onto the ground. “If you ask me, they can take the whole council. Maybe we’d finally get someone with some sense around here.”
When Lyuta entered the hall, balancing a tray of food in her hands, the village head was already seated on the edge of a chair across from the guest, nervously twisting his cap in his hands. The young man was speaking softly, yet with firm authority, delivering what seemed to be a stern and unpleasant reprimand. The back of the village head’s shirt was soaked with sweat, a dark stain spreading between his shoulder blades despite the day being far from sweltering.
“…is not prepared for departure within the next fifteen minutes, you will find yourself becoming far better acquainted with the full machinery of the Protectorium, whose workings you have so recklessly chosen to obstruct,” the young man said, his tone refined yet edged with cold finality.
He fixed the stocky man with a piercing gaze, each word making the village head shrink further into his broad shoulders. The young man did not rush to finish his sentence, drawing out the threat with deliberate precision. His pale gray eyes, nearly devoid of color, gleamed like glass beads, their dark rims and sharp pupils evoking the sight of a weapon’s targeting scope.
There was no need for further threats; the village head’s own imagination was doing the work just fine. Lyuta even began to worry he might have a stroke right there, as the vein on his temple swelled dangerously.
Then the young gentleman shifted his gaze to Lyuta and, in an instant, his demeanor softened. Leaning back slightly, he gave her room to place the tray before him.
She set the tray down with a sense of pride, pleased to have turned the unremarkable supplies delivered from the factory into a passable breakfast. The young man paused for a moment, as if taken aback, then critically examined the meal: a fried egg, a generous bowl of pâté, a chicken pastry, and a mug of coffee served in a metal cup decorated with painted flowers.
With a sigh, the guest deftly produced a white handkerchief from his sleeve, tucked it into his collar, and began eating, unperturbed by the humble fare.
As he ate, his conversation with the village head resumed, though Lyuta found it too awkward to linger and eavesdrop. She retreated to her spot behind the counter, watching from a distance as the most respected man in the village alternated between blushing and paling under the young man’s unyielding gaze.
Within minutes, the head abruptly stood, hastily excused himself, and rushed out of the diner, sparking another flurry of activity and panic on the station platform.
When the guest finally finished his meal—having eaten half the pastry, two egg yolks, a few spoonfuls of pâté, and drained two mugs of coffee almost in one gulp—the omnimobile was already humming on the departure platform.
The vehicle was a one-seater “Bumblebee,” a small, rounded machine with overhead blades and bulbous exhausts that gave it an insect-like appearance. Such nimble vehicles were invaluable in remote and rugged areas, capable of traveling efficiently on both land and through the air, withstanding significant jumps.
Dabbing his lips with the handkerchief, the young man casually tossed it onto the table, thanked Lyuta politely, and without further ado, climbed onto the Bumblebee’s platform.
Before the door shut, he laughed suddenly—a clear, ringing sound—gesturing to his companion and pointing at something inside the cabin. The bodyguard chuckled in response, offered a formal bow, and stepped back to a safe distance as the vehicle prepared for takeoff.
The Bumblebee shuddered, lifted slightly, then began to ascend with a low hum.
To the villagers’ dismay, the Protectorium officer returned to the station, this time demanding the technicians prepare the train for departure and provide the full registry of responsible personnel for a report to the central administration.
Although the officer had no direct authority over the station workers—since the Confederation’s Transportation System was managed by the Yellow Branch rather than the Crimson—it seemed the young man was influential enough to create waves wherever he went.
When the ordeal finally ended and the train departed, the village head—now looking a decade older—slumped heavily onto a stool at the counter. He pulled a flask from inside his coat and took a deep sip, filling the room with the sharp scent of alcohol.
“Lord have mercy on our sins…” he muttered, shaking his head.
“Who was that, anyway?” Lyuta asked as casually as she could, handing him a raisin bun, which he eagerly took to chase down his drink.
“The junior Lyuteakh,” he replied, his tone both awed and resigned. “The Left Hand. Falconet of the Protectorium.”
Lyuta’s eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. It was the second time that morning she found herself unable to close it. In her other hand, she held the lace handkerchief left behind on the table.
It smelled, quite simply, divine.
Teak-An, 001. Evening of the Same Day
Even though he was 25 years old, the age of a mature man, he stood before his father, Morveyn Drael Lyuteakh felt like a reprimanded schoolboy. The fearsome Menno Lyuteakh, known as the Crimson Hand of the Protectorium and nicknamed Lanius, inspired dread not only in his enemies but also among his subordinates. His harsh and uncompromising nature demanded absolute obedience and strict adherence to orders. He made no exceptions, whether dealing with high-ranking military officers or members of his own family.
Morveyn had spent years learning to endure his father’s temperament, long before joining the Protectorium and rising to the rank of falconet. Malicious rumors claimed that the son of such a formidable general had his career preordained from childhood. They were unsurprised by his rapid ascent to the position of the Left Hand. However, anyone who had ever witnessed Menno’s relentless treatment of his son would attest that it was anything but favoritism.
If anything, Morveyn’s actions seemed to spare other officers from the Protectorium’s harshest burdens, as he often took on the most unpopular decisions and the responsibility that came with them.
It wasn’t difficult to understand the origin of the rumors. Morveyn’s appearance bore little resemblance to the battle-hardened, rugged warriors who protected the Confederation of Allied Regions (CAR). Standing next to his father’s broad, tree-like figure, he seemed fragile, almost ethereal. Without the elegant and strict falconet’s uniform—a narrow black coat with silver buttons, fitted trousers, a short mantle draped over one shoulder, and tall boots with heavy soles—he might easily have been mistaken for a teenager.
As always, when his father was displeased, Morveyn knew the best course was to endure the storm silently. Once Menno had calmed, Morveyn could present his arguments more effectively. Many high-ranking nobles would have their knees trembling if Lanius, his eyes blazing, unleashed such a torrent of reproaches upon them.
“Hundreds! Hundreds dead, hundreds of workers trapped in the destroyed territory! Do you even comprehend what this will lead to? The masses will riot against the Protectorium! The crowd demands blood!” Menno’s voice boomed as he punctuated his words by striking the table with fingers as sharp as claws.
Morveyn stood silently, meeting his father’s gaze. To look away would be to admit defeat. He clasped his gloved hands before him with calm determination. After a moment of tense silence and Menno’s piercing glare, he spoke firmly:
“The blight was spreading at an alarming rate and threatened to breach Teak-An. I took the only measures I deemed possible. It was imperative to seal the portal immediately. We saved as many as we could, and many of those were already affected by minor distortion. Had we delayed, the wave would have overtaken the garrison and everyone we managed to evacuate. Those left behind in the collapsing Ao-Teien were already doomed.”
“And on what basis did you determine that a rupture of the Schism was imminent? Will you be able to justify this to the council?” Menno’s tone was heavy with meaning as he fixed his gaze on his son. “Without unnecessary details?”
Morveyn lowered his eyes. He had anticipated this question and prepared for it mentally. The Schism—referred to simply as the blight—was nearly imperceptible to the human eye. Its flows and spread could only be tracked through signs of destruction. Predicting its sudden emergence and rapid rupture without highly sensitive and bulky sensors, or complex multi-day calculations, was simply impossible.
So how had the young Lyuteakh determined that evacuation needed to be halted immediately, and the portal sealed, just moments before the deadly wave consumed everything in its path? Both Menno and Ayzel—the second falconet and Menno’s Right Hand, who had also been stationed at Ao-Teien’s portal that day—knew the answer.
But what could be said to the Council of Elders? How could this illogical and abrupt decision be explained as anything other than a fortunate coincidence or the cruel whim of a young falconet?
“Intuition?” Morveyn offered a faint smile, fully aware that such an answer would satisfy neither his father, nor the council, nor the murmuring crowds of refugees filling the streets.