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.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

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.