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.

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.

The train fell into a sudden, heavy silence. Every pair of eyes locked onto Chief Hogswind, his large frame illuminated by the swaying, fiery lamp overhead. Shadows and moonlight brushed across him with each jolt of the train, lending his already imposing figure an almost mythic quality.

Bolton’s gaze followed Chief Hogswind as he approached with deliberate, measured steps. A growing unease settled in his chest, tightening as his eyes flicked toward the bar. Behind it stood Pistol, a figure just as formidable as the Chief. Barrel-chested and shirtless, his sweat-slicked skin gleamed under the dim light, barely contained by grease-streaked overalls. His bald head reflected the glow of the lamps, and his long, smoke-stained beard, tangled and streaked with white, hung down his chest like a wild emblem of his strength. He was a mountain of raw muscle, his presence as unyielding as iron—a match for Chief Hogswind in every way.

Standing just beneath Pistol’s chin, Sarah moved fluidly around the bar. Her bright orange hair, tipped with fiery red, shimmered beneath the swaying oil lamp, and her large, expressive eyes seemed to catch every flicker of light, including the faint glow from Pistol’s beard. Her uniform was striking, not for its standard design but for the way she’d made it her own. The fitted vest was fastened with mismatched brass buttons, and a small chain dangled from one pocket, ending in a charm shaped like a clockwork key. A slight hitch in her skirt revealed worn leather leggings beneath, their scuffs telling stories of use and care. Around her waist, a utility belt swayed lightly, its pouches and tools suggesting she was prepared for more than just serving drinks.

She moved with effortless grace, wisping trays over her head with a flick of her wrist and humming a soft tune that carried through the still air. Her very light skin seemed to glow faintly under the swaying lanterns, lending her an almost ethereal quality that was hard to place. Despite the spark of rebellion in her attire, there was a precision to her movements, an unspoken harmony with her surroundings that defied the chaos of the train.

Bolton couldn’t shake the sense that there was more to her than what met the eye, though the thought was fleeting as she glided past him, her hum carrying on like the steady rhythm of the train itself.

As Chief Hogswind drew closer, Bolton’s gaze wandered over the dimly lit train car. The miners, scattered in booths along both sides, looked different now. The train's low hum reverberated through the metal frame, blending with the clink of glasses and the shuffle of boots on wood. Their uniforms caught Bolton’s attention. No longer clad in the black-and-blue of the past, they now wore denim overalls with striped white shirts and flat caps. Though the attire had changed, the grime on their boots remained, clinging stubbornly—a badge of their endless labor in the earth’s veins.

His attention shifted back to Chief Hogswind. The man’s black-and-blue overalls were relics of another era, stained and worn from years underground. Dirt embedded itself in every crease, as though the mines refused to let go of him.

Before Bolton could linger on the thought, Pistol’s sharp voice broke through the uneasy quiet.

“Cut it out, will ya?” Pistol snapped, his fist tightening against the counter. “Bolton’s about as useful as a one-winged bird. His crown’s on the ground next to your vacation, my pay, and—”

“And my conductor’s license?” Sarah chimed in, her voice light and teasing. She flashed a fleeting smile before turning back to her work, polishing gourd-shaped glasses and barrel mugs with practiced ease.

“I’m in no rush to leave the Yardrat life! It’s all I’ve ever known!” Hogswind’s booming voice reverberated through the train, shaking the walls. “It’s all we’ve ever known. You escaped it, Pistol. Bravo! But how many carts does this Midnight Train, this Whisky Sunday, need before you realize it’s just another shaft, another tunnel, another damn cave? You and I—we’re Yardrats! Born to live in tubes, tunnels, and lamp-lit adventures!”

Chief Hogswind’s gaze bore into Pistol’s, his cheeks flushed and his flask leaking liquor with every sway of the train. His brows furrowed, not with anger, but with something heavier—a weight borne from years of digging and surviving.

“Nicholas?” Pistol exhaled, shaking his head. “Life’s just a series of endless tubes and tunnels, no matter how you cut it. You and I both know it’s best to face a bucking horse from the front.”

The Chief paused, his boots squeaking against a metal sheet laid over the wooden floor. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling like bellows. A single nod passed between the two men—a truce forged in unspoken understanding. Then, Hogswind’s gaze shifted to Bolton.

Each step he took grew heavier, the vibrations traveling through the train and settling in Bolton’s chest. His pulse quickened as Hogswind’s massive frame loomed ever closer, the space around him shrinking.

“Whisky Cream, anyone?” Sarah’s cheerful voice pierced the tension, holding up a bottle with exaggerated enthusiasm. The brightness of her offer clashed awkwardly with the thickening atmosphere. “Bad time for a drink…” she mumbled, retreating to the bar.

“Right time! Always!” Hogswind roared with a disarming grin, his tone briefly breaking the tension.

Bolton pressed himself further into the booth, his body stiff and aching. His eyes darted between Hogswind and Pistol, frantically searching for an escape. But it was hopeless—he felt cornered, like prey trapped between two predators.

“Best follow me, Prince!” Hogswind thundered, his voice cutting through the room with finality. “A New Dwardian denizen would like a chat. A rare opportunity, I imagine.”

Bolton’s hands instinctively dove into his pockets, his mind racing for a weapon—or anything—to defend himself. His fingers closed around something familiar: his locket. Pulling it free, his breath hitched as something strange caught his eye.

The locket trembled faintly in his hand, a vibration pulsing through his palm. Unease crept up his spine as he flipped it open. Inside, the black-and-white family photo stared back at him: Michael, sharp-eyed and composed; Amelia, smiling faintly, exuding quiet confidence; and himself, grinning with an optimism he could barely recall.

The sight tugged at something deep in his chest. He could almost hear their voices: Michael’s steady advice, Amelia’s teasing laughter, and their mother’s gentle reminders to stay close. For a fleeting moment, the ache in his ribs dulled, replaced by a pang of longing.

But below the photo, the heart of the Gigarock pulsed violently, casting faint blue ripples of light that danced across the locket’s interior. The glow shifted, almost alive, and Bolton’s stomach twisted as the locket grew warm in his hand.

The world around him blurred, the rhythmic clack of train tracks fading into the background. The locket’s pulsing light dominated his senses, each beat syncing with his own heartbeat.

“What is this…?” he whispered, his voice trembling as he stared into the strange core.

The light flickered erratically, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw something moving within the core—a mechanical-fleshy construct, writhing as though alive.

“Why attack me…? Why kill Vermolly?” he thought, the questions hammering in his mind as his grip tightened on the locket.

“What’s that in your hand?” Hogswind’s booming voice jolted Bolton from his trance. The Chief’s massive hand clamped down on his shoulder, dragging him back to reality. “I’m trying to inspire here, and you’re fiddling with some freak watch?”

Hogswind’s sharp tone cut through the fog clouding Bolton’s mind, leaving him wide-eyed and frozen as the train’s swaying motion pressed forward.

Hogswind leaned in, squinting at the pocket watch. His eyes lingered on the strange, pulsing core for a long moment, his brow furrowing deeply. Then, with a low grunt, he straightened up and turned away.

“Ahhh! Gigarock,” he muttered, his voice thick with reverence. “We’ve seen it all down in the mines… But this…” He jabbed a finger toward the pocket watch, his tone lowering. “This is S-class. Never seen one up close. Beautiful, ain’t it?”

His gaze grew distant, as if recalling some long-buried memory. “They say S-class Gigarock can encase a soul,” he continued, his voice almost a whisper. “Explains the flesh in its core, don’t it? Question is…” His eyes flicked back to Bolton, sharp and searching. “Whose soul is in there? ‘Cause we ain’t all chosen to be envoys of Yerro.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, thick and heavy. Bolton’s grip on the locket tightened, his knuckles whitening as he lowered his gaze to the photo within.

The black-and-white portrait stared back at him, haunting in its familiarity. There was Michael, sharp-eyed and composed as always, exuding a confidence that bordered on unshakable. Amelia stood next to him, her faint smirk practically daring the viewer to underestimate her. And then there was Bolton—grinning with a boyish optimism that now felt distant, almost alien to him.

The pulsing core below the photo drew his attention, its faint blue glow rippling like water. Each flicker cast shifting shadows across their faces, the light almost alive in the way it seemed to breathe. The rhythmic pulse synced with his heartbeat, loud and insistent, like a drumbeat he couldn’t ignore.

Michael.

The name brought a sharp pang of memory, one that made his stomach twist. His mind slipped back to the second trial of the Greisha Ceremony, a race he had thought he would win.

The Gearpress race was New Dwarden’s pride—its most celebrated sport. Sleek machines, powered by compressed air and outfitted with sails for gliding, raced through a massive sewer-inspired track. Half of the course had been cut away to give spectators a clear view of the action, turning the trial into a spectacle of skill, cunning, and pride.

Bolton had started strong, dominating the early portion of the race. The first trial had already been his victory, and he was determined to secure another. His Gearpress responded like an extension of himself, gliding effortlessly through the tight turns and sharp corners. The roar of the crowd above only fueled his focus as he pushed for the golden ribbon at the finish line.

Michael, as expected, had been relentless. He wielded his Gearpress like a weapon, using sharp gusts of compressed air from his sail to disrupt Bolton and Amelia. Bolton could still feel the force of those waves, each one a calculated move to push his siblings off course. But Bolton had countered with precision, weaving through the chaos and maintaining his lead.

Amelia, though, was different. She didn’t rely on brute force or clever maneuvers. She stayed close, matching his speed and rhythm with a quiet determination that unnerved him. When he sabotaged her sail with a well-placed kick, bending it just enough to hinder her glide, he had been sure the race was his.

But Amelia always found a way.

In the final stretch, Bolton’s eyes locked on the ribbon fluttering ahead. He hyper-focused, every muscle taut with determination. And then, she struck.

Amelia leapt from her damaged Gearpress onto his, her foot planting firmly on his chest. He remembered the shock, the disbelief as he lost his balance. The cold water below rushed up to meet him, stealing the air from his lungs as he plunged into the current beneath the track.

When he resurfaced, sputtering and gasping, the crowd’s cheers had already erupted. Amelia had crossed the ribbon. Her smirk of triumph as she stood on the podium haunted him to this day, but it was Michael’s faint glance—cool, unreadable—that lingered most. It wasn’t disappointment, nor was it approval. It was something in between, as if Michael were silently asking him, Why weren’t you better?

Bolton’s jaw tightened as the memory faded, his fingers curling around the locket. The rhythmic pulse of the Gigarock beat heavier now, almost as if mocking him. His chest ached, not from his injuries, but from the weight of the moment.

“Why attack me…? Why kill Vermolly?” The questions swirled in his mind, colliding with the memory of his failure. His gaze darted back to the Gigarock, its faint glow persistent, relentless, like an unspoken accusation.

“Why murder the only somebody who’s been at my side when nobody else was?” Bolton’s voice was barely a whisper, the words slipping out like a secret he hadn’t meant to share. His grip on the locket tightened, his knuckles pale as he stared at the faint blue glow of the Gigarock.

The pulsing light felt relentless, syncing with his heartbeat and mocking him with every beat. It dragged his failures and fears to the surface, and for a moment, the weight of it all threatened to crush him.

Hogswind’s sharp eyes narrowed as he caught the strained, haunted look on Bolton’s face. Without a word, he reached into the pocket of his grease-streaked overalls and pulled out a small silver pocket watch. The surface gleamed faintly in the dim light, engraved with an elegant spiral, its edges worn smooth from years of use.

“Take mine,” Hogswind said, his tone gruff but not unkind. He held the watch out, and Bolton hesitated before slowly reaching out to take it.

Bolton turned the watch over in his hand, its intricate rotating cog system ticking softly. It was cool to the touch, light and functional. Practical.

“This one’s better,” Hogswind continued, his voice steady. “Got less weight to it—and it actually tells time.”

Bolton’s gaze shifted back to the locket in his other hand, its pulsing glow faintly visible through his curled fingers. The warmth of the Gigarock radiated upward, heavier than the silver watch. It wasn’t just weight, he thought. It was something else entirely.

“Now,” Hogswind said, clapping Bolton firmly on the shoulder, “look forward. I’m tryin’ to inspire here. Can’t do that if the only Royal in the car is fiddlin’ with some freak watch.”

Hogswind’s voice was loud, almost playful, as he turned back to the rest of the train car. His booming presence filled the space, his words carrying an air of command as he addressed the miners.

But Bolton barely heard him.

He stared down at the silver watch in one hand and the locket in the other. The soft clicking of the gears within Hogswind’s watch was precise, measured, as if it belonged in a world of order. Yet the locket’s pulsing light seemed alive, chaotic, and unrelenting. For a moment, he wasn’t sure which one felt heavier.

The rhythm of the Gigarock echoed in his chest, persistent as ever. Bolton tucked the silver watch into his pocket, its weight barely noticeable. His grip tightened around the locket, the warmth of its glow refusing to let him go.

Hogswind’s sharp eyes bore into Bolton, the faint flicker of lantern light casting long shadows across his face. His voice rumbled low, carrying the weight of judgment. “Boy, if you were a Yardrat, I’d have ya right behind our canary. Someone with so much to give, waddlin’ down to their knees, givin’ it all up.”

Bolton’s chest heaved, the words hitting him like a lash. His grip tightened around the larger pocket watch, its glow faint but persistent in his hand. His heart hammered as anger boiled over, surging past grief and self-doubt.

“This thing’s got Quadrant Leaders seeing red for it!” he shouted, shoving himself to his feet. The sudden movement was jarring, and pain flared in his ribs, but he ignored it. He stood tall—or as tall as he could, staring directly into Hogswind’s imposing frame.

Bolton stepped forward, almost chest-to-chest with the Chief, their size comparison laughably different but his defiance unwavering. “Sick of seeing people go! What’s a rock picker like you got anything to do with me!? See what I’ve seen! Do—”

Before he could finish, Hogswind’s massive hand shot out, grabbing Bolton by the bandages wrapped tightly around his abdomen. With a single motion, Hogswind hauled him forward, and his other fist connected squarely with Bolton’s face.

The force sent Bolton spiraling backward, crashing into Pistol’s bar. The impact shattered the tall wooden stools and sent splinters scattering across the floor. Bolton slumped to the ground, dazed, as both of his watches tumbled free from his pockets.

The faint metallic clang echoed in the sudden silence. The larger pocket watch lay on the left, its faint blue glow pulsing weakly, while Hogswind’s silver pocket watch rested on the right, its intricate cogs clicking softly.

“Pistol!” Sarah’s voice rang out, sharp and furious. She turned toward him, her freckled face flushed with anger. “Say something, you old beard!”

Pistol’s weathered hand came up gently, resting on her shoulder. He shook his head slightly, motioning for her to look toward the rest of the train.

Bolton groaned, shifting slightly as his blurry vision cleared. He followed Sarah’s gaze, his eyes landing on the other passengers. The miners, scattered in the shadows of the swaying lanterns, stared at him in silence. Their eyes were sunken, their faces unreadable, as though they were hiding something in the moonlight or the dim glow of the train.

The oppressive quiet broke as Hogswind’s voice cut through the air, commanding and sharp. “Pick up the watches, child.”

“I—” Bolton tried to speak, his voice hoarse, but Hogswind’s hand came down hard on the bar.

“Pick up the damn watch,” Hogswind barked, his words slurring slightly as he took a long swig from his flask, the word Chief etched boldly across its metal surface.

Bolton scrambled forward, his trembling hands reaching for the watches. He paused, his fingers brushing over the cracked black-and-white photo in the larger pocket watch. His family stared back at him: Michael, sharp-eyed and composed; Amelia, confident and daring; and himself, grinning with a boyish optimism that now felt like a lifetime ago.

His chest tightened as tears welled in his eyes. The watch’s rhythmic pulse throbbed in sync with his heartbeat, almost as if mocking him. The rhythmic pulse synced with his heartbeat, loud and insistent, like a drumbeat he couldn’t ignore. For a fleeting moment, the ache in his ribs dulled, replaced by a pang of longing.

The weight of the moment pressed heavily on his shoulders. Bolton closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. Images of Vermolly filled his mind—her mangled body, her laughter, her guidance during his time in Quadrant nine.

They would take scraps from old machines, crafting makeshift Gearpresses to fly higher and faster, Bolton always hoping to one day captain an Akiyoma airship. But that dream felt impossibly far away now, lost in the weight of everything he’d endured.

“Used to work, you know… the time?” Bolton murmured, breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, almost to himself, as he swung open the cracked glass window of his pocket watch and carefully removed the black-and-white photo inside.

The train lanterns swayed above him, their flickering light dancing across the worn photograph. Bolton’s fingers brushed over the edges of the picture, his touch soft and reverent. There they were—Michael, sharp-eyed and steady as a compass; Amelia, smirking faintly with her defiant confidence; and himself, grinning with a boyish optimism that now felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.

“My pocket watch used to work,” Bolton said, his gaze fixed on the photo. “Now it’s stuck turning backwards, and I don’t know why.” He tilted the watch closer to the lantern light, peering into its exposed interior. “No matter how many times I break it open and look, the gears are always turning backwards. And somehow…” He trailed off, narrowing his eyes at the frozen hands of the watch. “Now. Somehow. They’re completely still.”

The stillness in his voice hung in the air like the faint hum of the train. Bolton exhaled slowly, grounding himself as he folded the photo carefully and slid it back into the watch. The cracked glass window clicked shut, but the faint weight of the moment lingered.

He reached out, his hands trembling slightly as he picked up both watches. His larger pocket watch, with its cracked window and broken gears, slipped into the deep pocket of his loose pants, its weight a persistent reminder against his leg. The smaller silver pocket watch—the one Hogswind had given him—hung lighter, more delicate, as he looped its chain around his neck.

The train car was silent now, the swaying lanterns casting shifting shadows across the miners’ faces. Bolton felt their eyes on him, a quiet judgment or curiosity lingering in the air.

Hogswind’s gravelly voice cut through the tension, steady but pointed. “See?” The Chief’s lips curved into a small, knowing grin as he leaned back in his seat. “They both weigh the same. Don’t they. My watch even…tell’s time.”

Bolton didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced down at the silver watch hanging around his neck, its precise cogs ticking faintly, and then at the weight in his pocket, where his broken watch rested. He could feel it—one heavy with memory, the other almost too light, as if offering him a path forward.

His chest tightened as he thought of Vermolly, of the shop they’d built together, the dreams they’d shared, and the makeshift Gearpresses they’d cobbled together from discarded parts. She’d been the only constant in his life after everything else had fallen apart.

He swallowed hard, forcing the memories to settle. Slowly, Bolton straightened his shoulders, his grip tightening briefly on the edge of the bar. “They do,” he murmured finally, his voice barely audible, though it carried an edge of resolve.

For a moment, the train car was silent, the tension heavy in the air. Then, as if a dam had broken, the Yardrats erupted into cheers and hollers, their voices reverberating against the wooden walls and swaying lanterns.

“I sniff a Yardrat?! One for the mines!” one voice bellowed, followed by another round of roaring laughter.

“Who’s just about seen somedie right before ’em?” another miner shouted, raising his mug high. Nearly every hand in the car shot up, followed by a roar of laughter that shook the train car.

“Might be a Royal, but he’s got grit!” shouted another, thumping his fist on the table.

The energy surged, the miners clinking their mugs together, stomping their boots against the floorboards in a steady rhythm that matched the hum of the train. The swaying lanterns cast chaotic shadows across their faces, amplifying the celebratory chaos as mugs were raised high and drinks spilled freely.

Even Sarah, who had been lingering near the shadows, couldn’t suppress a grin. She leaned closer to Pistol, her voice just audible over the noise. “Is this really how men become friends?”

Pistol, ever calm amidst the chaos, chuckled softly as he wiped down another mug. “It’s how one becomes closer,” he replied, his tone carrying a quiet certainty.

Bolton, still gripping the edge of the bar, exhaled deeply, his ribs aching but his resolve hardening. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, his shoulders straightening as if bracing against the weight of the moment. His gaze flicked toward the miners, who roared with laughter and raised their drinks, their energy infectious.

The energy surged, the miners clinking their mugs together, stomping their boots against the floorboards in a steady rhythm that matched the hum of the train. Even Sarah, who had been lingering near the shadows, couldn’t suppress a grin. She slid a mug toward Bolton, her freckled face lighting up with a mischievous smile. “This one’s got a burn,” she said with a wink.

Bolton hesitated, the warmth of the mug seeping into his palms. It was heavy, unfamiliar—just like everything else in this moment. But Sarah’s grin lingered, coaxing him to take the plunge. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and raised the mug to his lips.

The sharp heat of the drink hit him instantly, burning down his throat before settling warm in his stomach. He coughed once, unprepared for the intensity, but forced himself to swallow it down.

A soft laugh escaped Sarah as she leaned against the bar, clearly amused.

“First time tryin’ something stronger than ginger ale?” she teased, her tone light but kind.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Bolton wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to mask the burn still tingling in his throat. “Is it that obvious?”

“Little bit.” Sarah’s grin widened. “But hey, even alcoholics start somewhere.”

The raucous cheer of the Yardrats swelled again as mugs clinked and laughter echoed through the car. Bolton allowed himself a small, fleeting smile, the warmth of the drink mingling with the strange, almost comforting energy of the room.

For a brief moment, the weight he carried felt a little lighter.

Pistol didn’t answer immediately, a quiet pride flickering in his eyes as he wiped a mug clean. “it’s how one becomes closer,” he said with a small nod, his voice low enough that only Sarah could hear.

Meanwhile, Chief Hogswind leaned back, his massive arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the car with a broad, toothy grin. “Yardrats! Prepare for a feast! We’ve less than half a day’s trip before we arrive in Quadrant nine again! Smile and thank Pistol! Ain’t no better host than a former Yardrat!”

The crowd roared louder, their energy infectious, sweeping even Bolton into its tide. He stood at the bar, his chest still tight but his stance steady, the faint hum of the pocket watch in his pocket grounding him amidst the chaos.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the weight of the train’s energy didn’t crush him—it lifted him.

“You’ve got a lot of faith in that boy, Pistol,” Hogswind said, his tone sharp and edged with disbelief as he cast a pointed glance at Bolton before turning back to Pistol. The noise of the train car didn’t seem to bother him; if anything, the cheers and boisterous laughter only made his voice resonate louder.

“Not the boy, Nicholas. Like I said, just a favor,” Pistol replied, his voice calm and casual, as if discussing the weather. He didn’t even look up, his focus on the mug he was wiping down.

“The Legendary Rock Brawler, ‘Pistol’ of the Kenton mines, doing a favor?” Hogswind barked, his booming voice cutting through the din of clinking mugs and stomping boots. “Tell me that doesn’t sound like the beginning of—”

“…another complicated bare-assed adventure,” Pistol interrupted with a half-smile, swaying his head in disbelief.

“Ah, who’s to know what the future holds anyway!” Hogswind’s scraggly laughter rose above the raucous chatter of the Yardrats, his voice carrying a rough, unrefined joy. Around him, miners thumped their mugs on the tables in rhythm with his laughter, adding to the growing chaos. He took a seat at the bar, settling into Bolton’s right with a wide grin. “Now. Do I drink with this potential threat?”

Bolton tensed, his chest tightening as his ears caught every word. The car’s noise seemed to press in on him—the rhythmic stomp of boots on wood, the cheers rising and falling like waves. Still, he kept his gaze down, pretending not to listen.

“Threat?” Pistol cut in, his tone smooth and unbothered, standing out amidst the rowdy crowd. He raised a barrel mug to his lips, taking a long, deliberate swig before continuing. “Sounds to me like you’re afraid of—” He lowered the mug with a sly grin, “—a mere boy.”

“Mere boy?” Hogswind chuckled, his voice dipping low and rough like gravel. “Since I met you many ticks ago, I’ve learned not to underestimate what a mere boy is capable of.”

The train car erupted into laughter, the noise cascading like a burst dam. Miners slapped their knees, shouted over one another, and raised their mugs in exaggerated toasts. The swaying lanterns overhead cast chaotic shadows on the walls, flickering like firelight in a cave.

Bolton’s heart pounded, but he stayed still, straining to hear more as the noise of the car swirled around him.

Hogswind leaned back in his seat, letting the chaos simmer for a moment. His sharp eyes flicked to Pistol, and his grin widened. “Now, let’s try that legendary drink. Ain’t too often a ‘mere’ Yardrat gets to ride the Midnight Train. These things are legendary. Learned not to questions why we get picked for rides on these things.”

Pistol nodded in agreement, finally setting his rag aside. The raucous energy of the room seemed to hum with anticipation as he grabbed a mug and moved toward one of the massive barrels mounted on the walls. The miners’ cheers subsided slightly, replaced by the rhythmic clinking of empty mugs as they tapped them against the tables, waiting impatiently.

"How many of these Midnight Trains are there? And do they all serve drinks?" Hogswind asked.

"Thirteen that I know of," Pistol responded. "Like everything in New Dwarden—secrets wrapped in secrets."

Hogswind let out a low chuckle. "That number sticks to everything New Dwardian like flies on shit." He took a swig from his mug. "In my thirty-plus bleedin’ years as a Yardrat, I’ve only been on Harry’s and Bart’s trains. Sadly, no mead on one and no talking on the other."

Sarah slid behind Hogswind, refilling mugs with practiced ease. **"Each conductor runs their train their own way. Midnight Trains are almost alive in a way. They see and feel the heart of their conductor—and those who ride within." She glanced at Bolton, who was staring into his reflection in one of the large, barrel-shaped mugs—common as the rails themselves on this train.

"Lucky we got the one with you, innit?" Hogswind said with a grin.

Pistol scoffed. "Greater powers decide who steps on and off this train. Luck’s got nothin’ to do with it. You want predictable transport, stick to the regular routes."

Hogswind barked out a laugh and raised his mug. "No thanks. Mead’s better here anyway."

Golden, frothy liquid flowed from the barrel, and the miners gripped their mugs tightly, their eyes following every drop. The scent of the drink—warm, spiced, and comforting—filled the air, quieting even the rowdiest of the Yardrats as the first mug overflowed.

When Pistol snapped the tap shut, a collective sigh of anticipation rippled through the car, quickly followed by murmurs of approval. He had the train car prepared—mugs and glasses neatly arranged in compartments that seemed designed to survive the rowdy energy of its passengers. The flickering firelight reflected off polished glass, lending the scene a warm, almost surreal glow.

All eyes were on Hogswind as Pistol slid the frothing mug across the bar to him. The Chief caught it in his massive hand, his grin widening. The room fell into an expectant hush, save for the faint hum of the train’s movement and the soft creak of swaying lanterns.

All eyes were on Chief Hogswind now. The men watched with bated breath, eager to see his reaction as he wrapped his massive hand around the mug. Pistol, too, stood still, his rag forgotten over his shoulder as he leaned slightly forward, waiting. The glow from the fire reflected off the drink, casting an inviting shimmer as Hogswind slowly lifted the mug to his lips. Every miner leaned in, the moment drawn out, thick with anticipation.

Even Bolton, despite everything, found himself caught in the moment, watching intently as Hogswind prepared to take his first sip of Pistol’s alleged ‘legendary’ drink.

“By the damn green, Pistol!” Hogswind bellowed after a long gulp, his voice slicing through the air. “You’ve outdone any man, god, or Colossus. I’d drink this off the rim of a loo!”

Laughter erupted through the train car, quickly followed by a roaring cheer that seemed to shake the very walls.

“The Yardrats will drink good tonight!” Chief Hogswind shouted, rising triumphantly from his seat, his booming voice igniting another wave of celebration.

“I know it’s been decades, but you know this boy ain’t no threat,” Pistol said, chuckling deeply. “I’ve known you to sniff out a spent cigarette in a loo.”

“Why not let the act play out?” Hogswind grinned, wiping foam from his mouth as he glanced at Bolton. “Bolton, this is Nicholas Hogswind! Always makes a grand entrance. Exclusively drunk too,” Pistol teased, tugging at his beard.

“Call me Chief,” Hogswind said warmly, leaning back into his seat at the bar. “A friend of Pistol’s is a friend of mine. Practically an obligation.” He settled in, his posture relaxed but his presence still commanding.

“The name’s Sarah,” sprang a voice to Bolton’s left. “I’m something of an assistant here.”

Bolton turned to see Sarah standing next to him, her fiery orange hair flaring at the tips. As she slipped off her orange gloves, Bolton noticed her freckled face, the spots tightly packed around her nose like scattered embers on her pale skin. She leaned her elbow on the bar, a grimace on her face that even made Pistol uneasy.

“The old guy in front of us?” She nodded toward Pistol. “He’s the sweetheart who made sure you were doing okay,” she said with a large smile. Her eyes sparkled in a way that made Bolton momentarily forget his pain, lost in the warmth of her gaze.

“Delivered to you by—”

“Someone… who really cares for you,” Pistol interjected, guarding the secret.

“Yes,” Sarah added, her voice softening as she caught Bolton’s eye again. “If you need anything, just let me know. I know you’ve got questions, but for now, sit tight and enjoy a drink. Sounds like you’ll need it.”

Bolton stole a glance at Sarah, his mind briefly drifting. The soft hues of her loose skirt contrasted with the warm firelight, and her bright eyes flickered with a quiet kindness. For a moment, he found her undeniably charming.

But now wasn’t the time. He tore his gaze away, refocusing on the looming figure of Chief Hogswind.

Chief Hogswind downed the last of his drink before leaning in with a broad smile. “Now, what’s Primarian ex-Royalty…” he burped, grabbing the top of Bolton’s and forcing him to meet his eyes, “doing on a Midnight Train?”

Bolton heard Sarah recede into the shadows behind him, her boots softly thudding as she tended to the booths. He had no choice but to meet Hogswind’s reddened, weary eyes. The smell of liquor was heavy on his breath.

“Leave the boy alone. He doesn’t know much. Got banged up from a fight,” Pistol interrupted, pouring another drink for Bolton.

“With whom?” Hogswind’s voice turned sharp.

Pistol glanced at Bolton, eyes narrowing, as if warning him to remain silent. Bolton leaned forward slightly, eager to piece together how he ended up on this train, how much time had passed since the fight.

“Doesn’t matter. He ain’t dead,” Pistol said firmly.

Bolton frowned, struggling to remember. "It wasn’t a fight. I didn’t stand a chance," he muttered, looking down at the stained bandages wrapped around his waist. "... My friend... she was killed. Then—"

"What kind of drink did ya serve me, Pistol?" Hogswind cut in, his voice light but firm, steering the conversation away as Bolton’s words faltered.

Pistol raised an eyebrow. "To name a few ingredients—Orange Smooth Honey from the Gallup Mountains. A kick of allspice from the Essessel Woods."

"Well, give it to Bolton—and double the potency!" Hogswind boomed, his laughter filling the car. "Everyone on this train deserves more than just a drink, huh?" he roared, riling up the passengers once more.

"Here’s a secret, my royal... eh, understudy!" Hogswind’s deep belly laugh shook the air as he smoothly swiped a shot of liquor from Pistol’s hand and passed it to Bolton. "Drink makes things a little easier, but money..."

Pistol smirked, finishing the thought with a knowing gleam. "Money is always the result of someone’s hard work—no matter how you've swiped it."

He gave a satisfied nod, watching as Bolton hesitated... then, reluctantly, downed the drink.

Hogswind stood tall, raising his mug high. “On my mark, Yardrats! We cheer! We drink! And we forget the damn night! Cold as it is!”

The miners, their empty mugs clutched in eager hands, leaned forward, eyes flicking between Bolton, Pistol, and their Chief, waiting for the signal.

Then—the roar came.

"Chief! Hogswind! Chief! Chief Hogswind!" The chant erupted from the crowd, voices rising between the booths lining the train. Boots pounded against the wooden floorboards, shaking the car in a rhythmic thunder.

Mugs slammed onto tables. The energy surged like steam building in an overworked engine.

"Oi, Yardrats! Half past the time to scratch your arses! If you want the drinks ya earned, then eyes on me!" Chief Hogswind bellowed, his voice booming through the train, rattling the flames of the lanterns above.

"Sir, MY HEART IS FOR SIR!" one side of the train cheered.

"Sir, MY ARMS IS FOR SIR!" the other side shouted even louder, eager to outdo their rivals.

Hogswind leaned over the bar, scanning the rows of oddly shaped bottles—meads, exotic juices, liquors—before settling his gaze on Bolton, who was still reeling from his first swig of mead.

"Boys! Some bigwig from Dwarden City, maybe a Quadrant Leader—hell, could even be the King—saw fit to reward those who keep the pistons pumping and gears churning by lettin’ us ride this Midnight Train! A rare honor!" His voice boomed over the crowd, commanding their attention.

He gestured toward Bolton. "But rarer still, we got royalty among us. This here is Bolton Woltwork, a man who's likely been through—"

Bolton stiffened, his fingers tightening around the rim of his mug.

"Celebrate without me," he muttered. His voice was even, but the weight behind it was undeniable.

Hogswind paused, his grin not quite fading. "A man who's likely been through—"

"I’m not royalty. Never will be." Bolton’s tone was calm, but it carried an edge.

"And I ain’t rich. Never will be," Hogswind shot back without missing a beat. "Yet here I am, lungs full of soot and dirt, and still breathing just fine."

He leaned forward, his massive frame casting shadows in the lantern light. "Breathin’s enough, ain’t it?"

Srah let out a small breath, shaking her head. "Look around you, Bolton." Her voice was softer now, but sure. "These guys don’t see ya as some crown polisher. You may as well be King Michael to them."

The train car seemed to exhale, the rowdiness dimming—not gone, just waiting.

From behind the bar, Pistol took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing on Bolton with quiet interest. Sarah stood still, tense, her gaze flicking between the Chief and Bolton.

"Lay off! He's clearly been through a lot, you rock ogre!" Sarah snapped, stepping forward. Her tray wobbled precariously in her hands, but her voice was steady.

Hogswind didn’t even glance her way, his focus entirely on Bolton. The train car fell into a thick silence, the lantern flames swaying in the still air.

“Nicholas,” Pistol called, his voice calm but deliberate as he wiped down a glass, “you remember when we were first conscripted as Yardrats?”

Hogswind exhaled, his expression shifting. "Ah, yeah… we’d just finished kicking some teeth in at Whistletop’s adult section. Four sorry excuses for men and their monster, knocked down into the dirt like human pegs."

Pistol’s lips twitched in amusement before turning somber. "...You remember why?"

“We were rounded up quickly. The Primarian Arc’s just as ruthless with children as with adults.” Hogswind’s voice grew heavier. “The rest… well, we know how that went.”

Sarah eased her stance, glancing at Bolton. He sat quietly, watching the two men recount their past, his gaze flicking between them. His fingers curled around the rim of his mug, the weight of everything pressing on him like a vice.

Seizing the moment, Sarah leaned in toward Bolton.

“Trust Pistol,” she whispered, her voice softer now. “He’s the conductor of a Midnight Train. These things run on a little more than just steam—think goodwill and soul magic.”

Pistol visibly tensed. "Wha—?" His confused voice cut through, his eyes darting toward Sarah.

She gave him a playful glance before turning back to Bolton. "He’s a good guy, and he knows your brother. More importantly, he knows the Quadrant Leader who saved you."

She hesitated, then added with a wink, "And hey—you’re still breathing, so that’s something."

Bolton sat up suddenly. “Who saved me?”

Sarah tilted her head. "Aurous," she said, matter-of-factly. "Smelled like a sewer, but yeah—Quadrant Leader One. Aurous."

The name hit Bolton like a lightning strike.

“Aurous!” Bolton shot up from his seat.

Pistol, mid-conversation with Hogswind, froze, the glass hovering just short of his lips. His jaw tightened—barely, but enough to notice.

Sarah, catching it, grinned mischievously before gently tapping Bolton’s shoulder.

“You’re not invincible,” she murmured, nudging him back toward his seat. “But you’re very protected.”

Bolton’s body tensed, his muscles aching from the sudden movement. His mind was still racing, struggling to piece everything together.

Sarah, watching him carefully, let out a small sigh. “If you’re lookin’ for that harness you were wearin’ when we found you, don’t bother. It’s done for.”

Bolton blinked, his breath catching slightly. “What?”

“Whatever that air compression thing was, it was wrecked beyond repair,” she explained, nudging him gently back into his seat. “Torn to shreds, and what’s left of your clothes are in the far cart. We had to get you out of it just to stop the bleeding.”

His fingers twitched at the mention of it. He vaguely remembered the harness, the pressure of it against his chest, the way it had whined as it strained against gravity before—before everything went black.

Sarah leaned against the bar, arms crossed. “You were lucky Pistol pulled you in when he did. Whatever happened before this train found you—you weren’t walking away from it.”

Bolton’s gaze drifted downward, his mind clouded with fragmented memories. The hum of the pocket watch against his leg, the rhythmic sway of the train—it was all grounding him now, but the weight of what happened before still lingered in the back of his mind.

Pistol, catching Bolton’s distant stare, exhaled through his nose. "Don’t overthink it now, kid. You’re breathing. That’s what matters."

Sarah gave a light shrug. "Yeah. And at least now you’re dressed proper. That scrap heap of an outfit wasn’t exactly royal material."

Bolton exhaled, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips—but it felt like someone else’s.

The name Aurous echoed in his mind.

A man of legend within the Primarian Royale—so boisterous and enigmatic that his very presence commanded respect. Aurous, the creator of Quadrant Nine. His name was spoken with equal parts reverence and fear.

Bolton had heard the stories—how the man’s strength and cunning had shaped an entire Quadrant, his laughter shaking the halls of the Royale as easily as he moved armies. The idea that Aurous had saved him?

Surreal. Impossible.

His thoughts swayed—or maybe that was just the drink finally catching up to him.

He steadied himself, blinking through the dull warmth settling behind his eyes, his mind trying to line up the names in order.

Quadrant Four—Enton, the Bear. Unyielding. Immovable.

Quadrant Five—Hios, the Giant.

Quadrant Six—Drock, the Toad. Sly. Adaptable.

Quadrant Eight—Glassford, the Owl. Silent. Wise.

Quadrant Nine—Aurous, the Ape. Boisterous. Cunning.

Quadrant Ten—Davina, the Cat. Graceful. Elusive.

Quadrant Eleven—Newton, the Ignorpa. A beast of instinct and speed.

And the others—he knew them. He did. But their names drifted just out of reach, slipping from his grasp like spilled mead over a bar top.

Sarah’s voice yanked him back before he could chase them further.

“Oi, Woltwork—don’t pass out on me.”

Bolton blinked, realizing he had been staring too long at nothing, his head dipping slightly forward.

"Don’t think I can. Too much on my mind." He pushed himself up, trying to stabilize himself.

"Said the man with a swish and sway in his step," Sarah laughed, shaking her head. "Almost had me convinced we were sailin’ off from Quadrant 13’s shoreline."

Her smirk flickered in his periphery, but her presence felt grounding, pulling him back from wherever his mind had started drifting.

The bar top felt cool beneath his fingertips as he planted his hands against it, exhaling slowly.

He smirked faintly, but even as the warmth of the drink settled in his stomach, a thought lingered in the back of his mind—those missing names.

They were there. Just out of reach.

Before Bolton could recall the rest, the weight of the present dragged him back. That creeping sense of unease tightened in his chest, the feeling that danger was still out there, waiting.

But then—Sarah.

Her calm expression, paired with the revelation that an old friend had come to his aid, took the edge off the panic clawing at his ribs. His heartbeat slowed. His breath, once caught in his throat, evened out.

Then he felt it.

A warmth creeping through his limbs, his thoughts just a fraction slower. Not enough to be noticeable—but he noticed. The drink had settled in heavier than expected.

Damn.

His brows furrowed slightly. How strong was Pistol’s brew?

Sarah’s fingers drummed lightly against the counter, a barely-there motion that caught Pistol’s attention. She didn’t speak—she didn’t have to. The old man caught the signal immediately, letting out a small grunt before turning his back, already cutting Bolton off from another pour.

Bolton barely had time to register that exchange before Sarah’s hand found his elbow, a light but deliberate touch as she helped guide him back onto the barstool.

He wasn’t exactly stumbling, but she did it anyway. And she knew it.

“You’re steady enough,” she murmured, her fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary before she let go.

Bolton huffed. “I was fine.”

Sarah smirked. “Sure.”

He exhaled, sinking into his seat, his gaze shifting toward Pistol and Chief Hogswind on his right. Their conversation pulled him—reluctantly—back into the moment.

Pistol cleared his throat, speaking a little louder, as if signaling Bolton to pay attention.

“Anyway, that memory is growin’ dust. We did the right thing back then. Just got caught in…”

“In the fuckin’ middle,” Hogswind finished, nodding in agreement.

Pistol leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “I’d suggest we’d be in something similar today. Quadrant Leader Aurous rides with us on the Whisky Sunday—two carts ahead, near the front of the train. He expects the boy at a destination, to meet with another. The less we know, the better.”

Hogswind scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. "The boy’s been through hell…" he muttered, almost as if thinking aloud. “Should recruit him into being a Yardrat at this point.”

Pistol’s voice cut through the space between them, quieter but heavier. “Aurous saved the boy after he saw his best friend murdered in front of him.”

Bolton’s shoulders tensed. His fists clenched—briefly—before he forced them to loosen. His eyes burned with disgust as they flicked to Pistol, but the anger drained from his expression the moment he met the old man’s steady, knowing gaze.

Pistol didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

The slight nod he gave Bolton said more than words could.

“Familiar,” Hogswind muttered, watching the silent exchange.

Sarah exhaled sharply. “So maybe we take a little more caution when speaking with Bolton,” she chimed in, her voice gentle but firm.

Pistol’s lips twitched into a soft, knowing smile as he gestured for her to leave it be. There was no disapproval in his expression—only something quieter, warmer, as if silently thanking her.

Sarah caught the look, and for the first time, her usual teasing edge softened. Without another word, she slipped behind the counter, her hands already moving to prepare the next round of drinks.

But Hogswind wasn’t done.

He exhaled through his nose, his fingers drumming against the bar before speaking—not to Bolton, but to the train itself, through the mead’s reflection before him.

"The title of Yardrat is a prestige… awarded to those who don’t quite fit… New Dwardian social standards." His voice was loud, but measured, carrying through the air like an old sermon.

"It is for those who need a second chance. For those caught by the Primarian Arc for merely the thought of a crime. Or for those who crave a thankless adventure."

He lifted his mug slightly, turning his head toward the scattered Yardrats seated throughout the car.

"For the stinky. The sublime. The shitty. The ones who don’t make it on time."

A few of the Yardrats grinned, raising their mugs. The rumble started slow—a deep, rhythmic thump-thump as wooden cups hit tables, boots tapped against the floorboards.

Hogswind’s eyes met theirs, the grin returning to his face.

"A Yardrat serves his time!!"

The chant erupted, the words rolling through the train car in ragged, boisterous voices.

"A Yardrat serves his time!!"

Mugs slammed, boots stomped, and the swaying lanterns above flickered wildly in the growing momentum.

Bolton barely had time to process the shift before Hogswind turned back to him.

He leaned forward, his sharp eyes locking onto Bolton.

"Are we certain we don’t understand each other, Bolton Woltwork?"

Bolton’s gaze flicked up, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

“You were exiled, weren’t ya? At eighteen?”

Bolton’s breath hitched—barely noticeable, but enough. He slumped back in his seat, the weight of the words settling into his chest.

“Right!?” Hogswind barked, his massive hand grabbing the edge of Bolton’s stool and spinning it sharply to face him.

The thunder of boots, clanking mugs, and roaring voices didn’t stop—if anything, it surged. The chant had become a beast of its own, pulsing through the train like a living heartbeat.

Hogswind, emboldened by the moment, threw his massive arm around Bolton, his grin wide, his breath thick with mead and mirth.

“Clearly, we choose to live again!” he bellowed, swigging deep from his flask. “The monsters fail again! And we—we drink again!”

His words were met with a fresh wave of cheers, fists pounding on tables, boots hammering against the floorboards. The very walls of the train seemed to rattle in agreement.

Hogswind turned to Pistol, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “So, with your permission, Pistol—are we ready?”

Pistol smirked, knowing full well that permission had already been granted by the riotous energy in the air.

“What say you, Sarah? Ready for a night on the tracks?” he asked, his voice lifted just above the growing chaos.

Sarah exhaled, wiping an imaginary bead of sweat from her brow. “Glasses and mugs are served,” she sighed, standing behind him with a tray full of fresh pours. “Guess all we gotta do is open the tap.”

Pistol chuckled, then turned to Bolton, his voice steady beneath the storm of voices.

“What say you, Bolton? Our destination is still half a day’s journey. Care to join us?”

The question hung in the air for a moment, and for the first time since stepping onto the Whisky Sunday, Bolton hesitated.

His fingers tightened around his mug. His mind drifted—to his father, Daniel Woltwork, the former king, and the words he had once spoken:

A parent’s duty is to smile alongside his children when possible.

The memory hit him like a wave, pulling him between past and present. His father’s voice seemed to linger, urging him forward, reminding him that even in the darkest of times, there was still room for joy.

His grip relaxed. He took a deep breath, lifted his mug—then, with a grin spreading across his face, he shouted:

“OPEN ’EM!”

The train car erupted.

Mugs slammed together, voices roared, and the footfalls of miners swarmed toward the center bar like a stampede. Sarah rushed to refill tankards, the swaying lanterns above casting flickering light over the wild, pulsing energy below.

The celebration had truly begun.

Music emerged from the chaos—at first, just humming. Then, the rhythmic banging of mugs against tables, boots stomping in perfect unison, the train itself seeming to rumble with them.

Pistol leaned toward Bolton, speaking just loud enough for him to hear, his voice steady amid the storm of laughter and song.

“In times where life seems its bleakest, it’s important to celebrate with those who may very well carry you from the darkness,” he said, his eyes sharp with something deeper, something that held weight. “And Yardrats—former or otherwise—are adept at fighting things from the dark.”

Before Bolton could respond, a miner leapt up onto a table, slamming his mug down with enough force to send ale flying.

His voice, raw and bold, boomed above the crowd.

Coffins With Mead

Miner 1:

My mother once told me, It'd be best if she’d left for a bucket of mead (Miners together: Ha!)

She bit her lip, her lip quivering pissed, and she spat her rum on me! (Miners Togethers: Ha!)

All Together:

She was a whore! A stinkin fat boar!

A pig foul indeed!(Together)

One hundred adored, a hundred on four,

for being on her knees! (Together)

We drink to the whores, we drink out the door,

We’ll drink a barrel on me (Together)

Brothers and sisters!

Fuckers and fisters!

Prepare our coffins with mead

Miner 2:

My mother once told me, love is a bet, my lassie’ but a dream (Miners Together: Ha!)

She quivered her lip, the cunt royally pissed, and she poured her rum on me (Miners Together: Ha!)

All Together:

She was a whore! A stinkin fat boar!

A pig foul indeed!(Together)

One hundred adored, a hundred on four,

for being on her knees! (Together)

We drink to the whores, we drink out the door,

We’ll drink a barrel on me (Together)

Brothers and sisters!

Fuckers and fisters!

Prepare our coffins with mead

Miner 3:

My mother last told me, life is best, licken those accursed bottles clean (Miners together: Ha!)

She ran her lips, her breath burnin’s of piss, then she-

The swaying lanterns of the Whisky Sunday’s train car flickered wildly, the raucous Yardrat cheers reverberating through the air. Bolton stood at the bar, the faint warmth of leftover mead still clinging to his lips as he struggled to push away the storm of his own thoughts.

Then, the train lurched.

The floor shuddered beneath them as a guttural, distorted howl split the air. The sound was unholy—a broken symphony of growls, mechanical grinding, and the screech of metal tearing against itself. Every Yardrat froze mid-celebration, their mugs clutched tight, faces pale.

The far doors to the train car burst open, splinters flying as hinges screeched. A heavy, unnatural thudding echoed into the space, rhythmic and deliberate, like the heartbeat of something not meant to live.

A shadowy grotesque creature stepped into the light.

It was a grotesque amalgamation of raw flesh and exposed metal, its massive, muscular body glistening with sinew and oil. Tufts of fur jutted out in patches, mismatched like a botched taxidermy experiment. Thick pipes twisted along its ribcage, hissing steam with each breath. Its limbs were disturbingly uneven—one leg thick and powerful, the other spindly and threaded with wires, its exposed bones plated with jagged steel. Its tail whipped behind it, a chain-tipped horror that clattered against the floor with each step.

But its face—its face froze them all.

The creature’s head was canine in shape, but wrong in every way. Skin stretched too tightly over a metal skull, jaws overextended and packed with jagged teeth that didn’t align properly. The glowing red lenses of its eyes swirled erratically, like a machine struggling to process the world around it. Despite its grotesque appearance, it radiated a primal, predatory malice, its snapping jaws producing sickening clicks as it advanced.

Pistol remained stoic behind the bar, his hand calmly wrapping around the handle of a heavy iron wrench. Chief Hogswind, in stark contrast to the trembling Yardrats, stepped forward, his massive frame looming, arms crossed. His voice boomed with defiance.

“Yardrats!” Hogswind barked. “This is what we fight in the dark! If you still call yourselves tunnel men, then stand tall now! And if you run—best not turn your head back this way!”

His words struck like a hammer, but the fear in the car was thick. Mugs trembled in shaking hands. The word monster passed between them in hushed whispers.

Bolton couldn’t move. His breath caught as the creature tilted its head unnaturally, jaws snapping at the air as though testing the sound. Then, its glowing eyes landed on him.

And it crouched.

It was preparing to pounce.

Then came a new sound—the dull thunk of mugs lifted from uncertain hands.

Enton stepped from the shadows of the doorway, plucking two mugs of mead from the miners without so much as a glance. He raised them, as if weighing their worth, before taking a slow swig from both. His sleek black robe clung to his broad shoulders, and the pistons along his spine hissed softly, releasing thin trails of steam. His expression was unreadable. Cold. Calculating.

“Not used to these in the dark, eh?” His voice cut through the air, smooth and unshaken. “A machine’s interpretation of life. Flesh and steel, melded in perfect chaos. Creatures known as Malice—the will of Yerro, in its truest form. Here to collect.”

He stepped forward, resting a hand on the creature’s grotesque head. The Malice rumbled low, but did not snap at him, its attention still fixed on the crowd.

“If your name isn’t Michael, Amelia, or Bolton Woltwork, you’ve got nothing to fear,” Enton murmured, stroking its patchy fur. “Do not mistake these for the fodder in the mines.”

Bolton’s pulse pounded. He clutched the counter behind him as Enton’s gaze locked onto him, sharp and unyielding.

“Your brother fought well, Woltwork,” Enton said, voice measured. “Even managed to save your life, with the help of a traitor.” He gestured toward the train car door.

A shadow filled the doorway.

Aurous.

The Quadrant Leader’s four massive arms gripped the frame as he ducked inside, his towering, ape-like form nearly scraping the ceiling. His human torso gleamed with sweat, and his loincloth swayed as he moved. A grin stretched across his face, teeth flashing like a crescent moon.

“Free will now, brother!” Aurous bellowed, voice rich with wild energy. “Free to choose! Life from death! Machine to life! Honey from ham!” He grabbed a nearby tap, poured himself a beer, guzzled it down, then slammed the dented mug onto the counter. The wood cracked beneath his fingers. He crouched, his massive upper body shifting into a ready stance.

“Care to test my choice?”

Enton didn’t flinch.

His voice, however, sharpened. “Go ahead. Keep pretending you’re human or otherwise. Since when does a cog question where it spins.”

His gaze swept the Yardrats. “Look at me. Remember this moment. I am not your enemy.” He placed his hand once more on the Devil Dog’s patchy fur. “This creature—this is the truth of Yerro’s will. Yerro wants to awaken. The King refuses to allow the natural order. I am it’s selected envoy.”

Bolton exhaled, his voice barely a whisper. “Wake Yerro and…that’ll destroy all thirteen Quadrants.”

For the first time, Enton hesitated. A flicker of something—pain? Frustration?—cut through the iron in his voice before he pushed forward, his words harder now, desperate.

“Yardrats! Tell me—how many of your own have been killed?” His gaze swept the room, the flickering lanterns casting long, uneasy shadows. “How many have been dragged underground? How many have vanished into the dark, leaving nothing but blood in the dust?”

A silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Then, from the back of the train, a voice. Weak.

“M-My brother. He… he was pulled under by a Mud Gutter.”

Enton turned, eyes narrowing. “Spider-like, yet easy to dispatch… except as of late, correct?”

A low murmur of agreement rippled through the train.

"Yerro suffocates beneath this city. And as he withers, the things below grow stronger. The creatures grow bolder. The mines run barren." Enton’s voice cut like a blade. "The Quadrant Leaders must submit their souls. Or more of you will be dragged into the sewers, your names lost in the dark."

"Yerro was corrupted long ago!" Aurous snapped. "Little by little, sure—but now we have something like free will! Do as Yerro says, and we lose it! We go back to being nothing but spinning cogs!"

Enton’s face twisted, frustration bleeding into his voice. "That’s exactly what we are! Cogs! Machines, organics—it makes no difference! We all have a place! Tell me you don’t feel the confusion gnawing at you!"

"Confusion?" Bolton’s voice came quiet but firm. "That’s choice." He wasn’t looking at Enton anymore—his gaze had drifted past him, distant and unreadable. The eerie blankness in his eyes sent a rare ripple of unease through Hogswind.

Enton’s jaw clenched. "We lost our purpose, Royal. Just like you. Now we meander broken roads, waiting for something to set us right again."

"So we gather all thirteen of us—then what?" Aurous challenged, stepping forward. "The Colossus wakes up and just walks away? You understand that Malice ain't that much different from what we used to be!"

Enton exhaled sharply, his patience fraying. "Cooperation is ideal, but not required!" He threw a hand toward the Malice, its jaw snapping at the air in agitation. "This is what awaits us all if we keep suppressing Yerro. Lawless husks, thrown to the wind, our souls harvested into beasts until Yerro awakens anyway. Why must I explain this to you, brother? We are stealing what was never ours to begin with!"

The tension thickened. The Devil Dog let out a guttural growl, its fangs glinting under the swaying lanterns.

Pistol exhaled slowly. His voice came steady, calm. Certain.

“Sarah. Take Bolton to the back.”

Sarah hesitated, shifting from foot to foot. Her hands clenched at her sides. “But—”

“Now.” Pistol’s grip tightened on the wrench. “This fight ain’t ours. Not yet.”

Aurous cracked his knuckles, the sharp pop echoing through the silent train car. His grin widened, wild and sharp as a beast let loose from its cage.

“Come on then, brother.” His stance shifted lower, massive hands ready. “Let’s see if Yerro’s will is enough to stop me.”