Bolton

Aurous threw Bolton backward, the force slamming him into a booth. His skull throbbed, the rough wood digging into his back, but he barely had time to register the pain. He saw the fight breaking out before him, the chaos swallowing the train car whole.

The Malice lurched forward, charging blindly—only to be swatted aside like a ragdoll. It crashed into an empty booth, the impact sending a violent crack through the cabin as wood splintered and metal warped. The creature let out a garbled hiss, steam venting from its pulsating sinews, its glowing red eyes flickering with a glitching, hellish light. It writhed on the ground, jagged pieces of the Whisky Sunday tearing into its fur and flesh, steel bending where it landed.

A low rumble rolled through the train—not from its engines, but from the miners.

Bolton gritted his teeth, breath still shaky from the impact. His body ached, but his mind was sharp. His fingers twitched. He wasn’t just going to sit here.

His eyes locked onto a Yardrat near him—a burly, scarred miner gripping a tankard in one hand. An icepick jutted from his belt loop.

Bolton didn’t think. He moved.

In one smooth motion, he lunged forward, fingers snatching at the handle—but before he could grab it, a hand clamped onto his wrist.

Sarah.

Her grip wasn’t tight, but it was enough. Her blue eyes flicked down to the icepick, then up to his face. She didn’t say a word—she didn’t have to. There was no panic, no anger—just understanding, and something quieter, sadder.

Bolton’s fingers hovered over the weapon, his pulse hammering.

And then—

A whip-crack of sinew snapping tight.

The Malice lunged, its distorted hybrid fist slamming into a Yardrat’s chest with terrifying force. The man’s body whipped backward, his spine cracking against the roof of the train with a sickening thud.

Before he could even cry out, the Malice’s other arm shot up, fingers like blackened iron bars pinning him in place against the ceiling. Its muscles glistened like slick, sweating flesh, the sinew shining unnaturally, stretched too tight over its grotesque limbs. Steam hissed from its joints, filling the cabin with the stink of scorched metal and raw meat.

The Yardrat gasped, boots kicking uselessly in the air. The Malice tightened its grip, claws sinking deeper into flesh.

"SOMEONE GET THIS BLOODY THING OFF ME!" he choked out, eyes wide in panic.

Chief Hogswind didn’t hesitate.

His massive boots slammed onto the table, shaking the whole train car. His voice was a roar.

"WHAT’RE YOU LOT WAITIN’ FOR? AN INVITATION?!" he bellowed. "Aurous gave us an opening! THAT THING'S DOWN—TEAR IT APART!"

The cabin erupted.

The miners surged forward, a wall of grit, steel, and fury. Mugs were shattered over metal skulls, boot knives flashed in the lantern light, and fists slammed into sizzling flesh.

The pinned Yardrat was ripped from the Malice’s grip as his comrades barreled into the beast, knocking it to the ground.

One miner ripped off his suspenders, wrapping them around the Malice’s thick neck, hauling back with a snarl as steam spurted from its torn sinews. Another jammed a rusted wrench between its joints, twisting hard until something snapped.

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The Malice shuddered, writhing beneath the assault, its once-mighty form buckling beneath the sheer weight of the attack. The car shook from the violence.

Aurous was in motion, a force unto himself. His massive frame moved with inhuman speed, dodging Enton’s strikes with an almost playful grace. But even he wasn’t invincible.

A splintering crack tore through the air as a jagged shard of metal, flung loose from the battle, slashed across Aurous’ cheek.

Bolton barely had time to process it—until he saw the blood.

Not just black like the oil-stained ichor of machines.

But red.

A sickening mix of both, swirling together in a color that should have made sense—but didn’t.

Something inside Bolton twisted.

The Quadrant Leaders had never been Yerro’s chosen. Never blessed with strength beyond their own.

They had been machines all along.

His stomach churned.

Enton wasn’t losing himself. He wasn’t broken.

He was becoming aware.

Bolton swallowed hard, shaking the thought away. He didn’t want to know what that meant.

Not now.

He stepped forward again, his knuckles aching, the heat of battle roaring through him. He didn’t care if he was still weak. He had to fight.

And then, Aurous’ voice boomed across the chaos.

"Pistol! If I don’t die, you owe me the recipe to that Golden Mead of yours!"

Pistol barked a laugh, but his eyes gleamed with something deeper—something dangerous.

"This is my train, I’m fighting too."

Then, he moved his hands in a tearing motion.

Bolton barely had time to process what was happening before the roof of the train was ripped open.

The sound was deafening—metal shrieking, rivets popping loose, the very structure of the Midnight Train bending to Pistol’s will.

A sharp gust of night air rushed through the car, sending shattered glass and loose scraps spiraling into the darkness beyond.

Above them, the sky opened up—massive, endless, and impossibly celestial. A deep purple-blue canvas, streaked with silver clouds and constellations shifting in patterns Bolton didn’t recognize.

But more than that—the train wasn’t on tracks anymore.

And then—

A voice, raw and strained, cut through the rushing wind.

"I remember killing your friend! Bolton!"

Bolton’s breath hitched. His pulse faltered.

His body turned before his mind caught up, something primal seizing his chest. Heat rose to his face, fingers twitching at his sides. He barely noticed Sarah’s hand gripping his sleeve—a small tether against the raw, gut-deep instinct to lunge.

It wasn’t just Vermolly.

It was every loss. Every moment of helplessness.

Every Yardrat whose screams had rung in his ears long after they’d gone silent.

It was the fear that he was just like Enton—just another broken machine pretending at being whole.

And now Enton wanted to be fixed.

Bolton wanted nothing more than to tear him apart.

Enton’s fists clenched at his sides, his frame trembling—not with fear, but with something worse. Something broken.

"Yerro will fix this," he seethed, each word growing sharper, more dangerous. His voice twisted into a near snarl, his desperation curdling into something else.

"Yerro must."

The words hung there.

The wind rushed through the broken train, cold and empty. The lanterns flickered.

Bolton could hear his own breath, ragged in his throat.

And then—

Aurous laughed.

A dark, knowing chuckle, carried by the wind.

"This morning, I cut my hand open on a piece of paper," he mused, voice thick with something resembling amusement. "Small, shriveled things with a straight corner."

His eyes gleamed as he dodged another strike.

"And it was a wonderful thing."