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.

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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.

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.