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 creeps 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.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

“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.”