"Chief! Hogswind! Chief! Hogswind! Chief Hogswind!" The crowd chanted in unison, their voices rising between the booths lining the train. Stomps shook the wooden floorboards beneath them.

"Oi, Yardrats! Half past the time to scratch your arses! If you wan’t the drinks ya earned then eyes on me!" Chief Hogswind bellowed, his voice booming through the train, shaking 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 letting us ride this Midnight Train! A rare honor!" Chief Hogswind's voice boomed over the crowd, commanding their attention. "But rarer still, we got royalty among us. This here is Bolton Woltwork, a man who's likely been through—"

"You don’t know me," Bolton interrupted, his breath shallow.

"A man who—"

"I said, you don’t know me!" Bolton’s sharp retort sliced through the air, plunging the cart into an uneasy silence.

From the bar, Pistol took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing on Bolton, intrigued by his next move. He gave a subtle nod to Sarah, who stood tense, her gaze fixed on Chief Hogswind, ready to spring at any moment. Pistol’s attention lingered as Hogswind clamped a heavy hand on Bolton's shoulder, his glare darkening with unspoken menace.

"Lay off! He's clearly been through a lot, you rock ogre!" Sarah shouted at Chief Hogswind, positioning herself behind him after handing out the barrel-shaped mugs to the miners. Her tray wobbled precariously, but her voice remained steady, her eyes locked on him.

Hogswind didn’t even glance her way, his focus entirely on Bolton, as if her words didn’t register. The train cart fell into a heavy silence, tension thickening in the air.

“Nicholas, do you remember when we were first conscripted into becoming Yardrats?” Pistol asked, wiping one of many glasses, his tone casual but intended to ease the rising tension between Hogswind and Sarah.

“Ah, yes,” Hogswind replied, his eyes distant. “We had just finished kicking some teeth in at Whistetop’s adult section. Four sorry excuses for men and their monster, knocked down into the dirt like human pegs.”

Pistol paused, his gaze falling into a moment of nostalgia. “...Ya’ you remember why?”

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

As Pistol’s face shifted from light-hearted to serious, Sarah instinctively moved closer to Bolton, her expression mirroring the grim look that had settled on Pistol. She glanced at Bolton, who seemed lost in thought, watching as his gaze flicked between Pistol and Hogswind, both momentarily caught in their own memories. Seizing the moment, Sarah leaned in toward Bolton, who rested his face on his arms, head propped up.

“Trust Pistol,” she whispered softly. “He’s the conductor of a Midnight Train. These things run on a little more than just steam—think good will and soul magic.”

“Wha—?” Pistol’s 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. And hey—” she added with a wink, “you’re still breathing, so that’s something.”

“Who saved me -Sally?” Bolton asked, quickly sitting up straight.

“It’s Sarah.” Sarah replied suddenly growing into a frown before springing in her usual happy go lucky self. “Aurous. Smelled like a sewer, but it was Quadrant Leader One—Aurous.”

“Who saved me… Sa—Sal… Sa…?” Bolton stammered, struggling to refocus as he sat up straight.

“It’s Sarah,” she corrected, her brief frown melting into her usual cheerful self. “Aurous. Smelled like a sewer, but yeah, it was Quadrant Leader One—Aurous.”

“Aurous!” Bolton shot up from his seat, the name hitting him like a bolt of lightning.

Pistol, mid-conversation with Hogswind, caught Sarah’s revelation and shot her a disapproving scowl. Sarah, seeing it, responded with a lighthearted smile before gently tapping Bolton on the shoulder.

“You’re not invincible,” Sarah said softly, guiding Bolton back to his seat, “but you’re very protected.”

Bolton’s body tensed, his muscles itching to spring into action. A part of him wanted to shove Sarah aside, storm down the train’s narrow aisle, and throw himself off at the next stop—anything to escape the growing pressure. His eyes darted toward the counter, his mind calculating how quickly he could hop over it and grab something—anything—to use as a weapon. The weight of his pocket watch pressed against his chest, a reminder of the unknown forces he now faced.

Then, the name Aurous echoed in his mind. A man of legend in the Primarian Royale, a figure so mysterious and boisterous that his very presence was enough to command respect. Aurous, the creator of Quadrant One, a name whispered with both reverence and fear. Bolton had heard the stories—how the man’s strength and cunning had shaped an entire Quadrant, his boisterous laugh shaking the halls of the Royale as easily as he moved armies. The idea that Aurous had saved him felt surreal, almost impossible.

His thoughts drifted back to the bedtime stories Michael used to tell him and Amelia—tales of the thirteen Quadrant Leaders, each represented by a revered animal in their respective domains. There was Enton, the Bear—strong and immovable. Aurous, the Ape—boisterous and cunning. Glassford, the Owl—silent and wise. Newton, the Ignorpa—a beast of instinct and speed. Drock, the Toad—sly and adaptable. And Davina, the Cat—graceful and elusive.

Before Bolton could recall the rest, the weight of the present dragged him back. The pressure inside him mounted, the sense of impending danger closing in once again.

But Sarah’s calm expression and the revelation of an old friend who had come to his aid eased the edge of his panic. Slowly, his heartbeat began to steady. Before he knew it, his legs had given in, and he found himself back in his seat at the bar. He exhaled, his gaze shifting toward Pistol and Chief Hogswind on his right, their conversation pulling him reluctantly back into the moment.

Pistol cleared his throat, refocusing the conversation with Hogswind and speaking louder as if signaling Bolton to pay attention. “Anyway, we did the right thing back then. Just got caught in…”

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

Pistol leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Yeah, keep things under your breath, but 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.”

“The boy’s mind is broken…” Hogswind began, his voice trailing as if thinking aloud.

“He saw his best friend murdered in front of him,” Pistol said quietly, his voice carrying a weight of understanding.

Bolton’s shoulders tensed, his fists clenching briefly before loosening. His eyes, hard with disgust, flicked to Pistol, but the anger drained from his expression as he caught Pistol’s steady, knowing gaze. Pistol didn’t speak further, but the way he held Bolton’s stare, with a slight nod, said more than words could.

“Familiar,” Hogswind muttered, noticing the silent exchange between the two.

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

Pistol gave her a soft, knowing smile, his eyes warm as he gestured for her to leave. There was no disapproval in his look—only affection, as if silently thanking her. Sarah’s face softened in response, and without another word, she slipped away behind the counter, preparing for the next round of service.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"Are we certain we don’t understand each other, Bolton Woltwork?" Hogswind challenged, locking eyes with him. "You were exiled, weren’t ya? At eighteen?"

Bolton met Hogswind’s gaze, anger and confusion flickering across his face before he slumped back into his seat.

"Right!?" Hogswind barked, grabbing Bolton’s stool and spinning it to face him directly.

"F—" Bolton began, but the words stuck in his throat, the weight of Vermolly heavy on his mind, his eyes welling with unshed tears.

"Greisha," Hogswind enunciated slowly, each syllable landing like a hammer. "The ceremony at eighteen, right?" He raised his voice, addressing the crowd now. "Challenges set by the Quadrant Leaders: Power, Pride, Practice. Ring any bells?" His voice boomed, the stool creaking beneath him. "The ruler chosen by the final challenge. The rest? Exiled."

"I don’t need my life explained to me! Why!? For what!? So I can be told to leave again? To wave at the people who were cheering me on minutes ago, only to never see them—or my sister—again? My brother! To go command a world that might not even need me?" Bolton screamed in a sudden outburst before slumping back down. “Why?”

"Don’t ya?" Hogswind shot back, turning to the miners. "Boys, how many of us got no home?" Cheers erupted. "How many of us come from dirt? How many of us got no families, no wives, no kids?" With each question, the train roared louder. "And at what age did life’s 'complications' conscript us into becoming Yardrats!?"

"At eighteen!" the train cart roared back in near unison, the sound shaking the air, with only Pistol, Bolton, and Sarah remaining silent.

"At eighteen, we’re expected to descend into the bowels of the underground! At eighteen, we become the necessity that keeps the city lit! At eighteen, we give up our lives in the Quadrants to fight monsters, all for a crown that’s worth little more than a train ride and a few drinks. But we’ve sharpened our purpose from a dull spear!" Chief Hogswind’s voice thundered, the crowd erupting in wild cheers.

Bolton glanced around, his thoughts drifting to Vermolly, the memories of his small workshop tucked inside Mama Alton's bakery flooding back. He recalled how Vermolly had taught him the intricacies of "machinerium"—the study of engineering using Gigarock, the precious ore derived from Yerro’s remains. His mind wavered between Chief Hogswind’s expectant gaze and Pistol’s patient, knowing one. Both men were waiting, eager to see his next move.

The warm, swamp-like atmosphere of the train blurred in Bolton's vision, his mind slipping back to the Greisha ceremony. The faces of the miners seemed to morph into the crowd that had once watched him at the ceremony. Everything swirled and darkened until he found himself floating in a black void. The voice of the former King—his father, Hios Woltwork—echoed around him: "We forfeit the right to be like everyone else, just as a parent gives their life so that their child may walk a higher path."

Suddenly, Bolton snapped back to the present, the roaring of the train and Chief Hogswind’s face inches from his own, practically crouched down in front of him.

"See, boy? You’re not alone in this. Most of us got nothing to go back to. Exiled! Darkness, tunnels, monsters, drink—repeat. That's all we know." Hogswind’s voice softened, but the steel remained. "Far as I see, you’re just another Yardrat in the making."

The train erupted in cheers again, but Bolton barely heard them.

"So," Hogswind leaned in closer, voice low but firm, "you got a choice. Grab my mug and drink the mead, or... let life sink you to its bottom and float up only when it’s molded you into a slab of manure."

"I—" Bolton tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

"But know this," Hogswind continued, his voice unwavering, "if you grab that mead, we’re in this fight together."

Bolton stared at the mug in front of him, its worn wooden surface reflecting the dim light of the train car. Chief Hogswind had placed it firmly in his hands, but Bolton hesitated, his fingers tightening around the handle. The weight of his choices felt heavier than the mug itself. He could walk away, leave this life behind—or embrace what was coming, Yardrat or otherwise. Slowly, he raised the mug, the scent of mead filling his senses. His eyes darted to Pistol, who gave him a small, knowing nod.

“Best celebrate that we’re alive anyway,” Pistol said with a wry smile, “Yardrat or otherwise.”

Bolton’s grip tightened, and with one last, deep breath, he tilted the mug back. The cold liquid hit his throat, and he guzzled it down, the foam spilling over his lips as the cheers of the miners filled the train car.

“Clearly, we choose to live again!” Chief Hogswind cheered, wrapping one massive arm around Bolton, a wide grin on his face as he swigged from his flask. “The monsters fail again! And we—we drink again!” His voice boomed through the train car. He turned to Pistol, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “So, with your permission, Pistol—are we ready?” Hogswind asked, eager for the signal to let the celebration truly begin.

“What say you, Sarah? Ready for a night on the tracks?” asked Pistol.

“Glasses and mugs are served,” she sighed from just behind him. “Guess all we gotta do is open the tap.”

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

Bolton hesitated, his fingers tightening around his mug. His mind wandered back to his father, Hios Woltwork, 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 the past and the present. His father’s voice seemed to linger, urging him forward, reminding him that even in the darkest of times, there was room for moments of joy.

He took a deep breath, then raised his mug, his smile spreading. “Open ’em!” he shouted, surrendering to the energy of the moment.

The train cart erupted into a cacophony of voices—cheers, clanking mugs, and the rapid footfalls of miners swarming toward the center of the giant train cart, where the bar waited. Music emerged from the chaos, a mix of humming, banging on tables, and stomping feet, as if the train itself had joined in the celebration. The swaying lamps above cast flickering light over the red carpet that lined the center aisle, illuminating the wild, joyful scene that had sprung to life in an instant.

Suddenly, one of the miners jumped up, banging his mug on the table, his voice booming above the crowd as he launched into song.

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 lamps flickered as the noise and energy filled the train, the miners' voices rising into a chaotic anthem. Just as the final verse was about to hit its crescendo, a sudden, forceful bang echoed from the far end of the train cart, cutting the song short.

The doors slammed open, and Enton strode in, his cold blue eyes locking onto Bolton. The celebration froze. Bolton’s breath caught as rage broke through him, before settling into icy fear.

Enton was an unsettling blend of authority and monstrosity. His sleek, military-style black robe clung to his hulking frame, with precise tailoring that added to his aristocratic demeanor. His paperboy-style cap, perched neatly atop his head, contrasted the terrifying power underneath. Beneath the robe, the rhythmic clanking of pistons could be heard as they jutted out from his spine, powering the grotesque fusion of human and machine. His metallic legs, clicking with each step, were threaded with steely strands that reinforced his towering, mechanical bulk.

He moved through the crowd like a force of nature, his cold presence sending miners back into their seats. With each heavy step, the ground trembled beneath him.

Chief Hogswind’s eyes flicked to the opposite end of the train car. His brow furrowed as he muttered, “Aurous…” the name barely audible over the growing tension.

Before Enton could reach Bolton, a thunderous crash came from the far end of the cart. The doors burst open, and Aurous charged through. His broad, muscular chest was bare, his body human-like but draped in a simple loincloth. Massive mechanical arms jutted from both sides, adding to his four-limbed form, his shorter legs giving him an ape-like stance.

Aurous’s entrance cut through the chaos, his confident smile never wavering. He locked eyes with Enton and, with a playful grin, asked, “Who’s your favorite cousin?”