Terror, as many come to know, never walks in politely. It doesn't knock, doesn't clear its throat, doesn't even pretend to be civilized about it—it just enters like it owns the place, wearing the confidence of a tax collector and the timing of a bad omen.
I've seen men die, beasts fall, and nobles dance between cages, but nothing—and I mean nothing—kills conversation faster than the arrival of authority draped in silence.
The two escorts stepped right up to the conductor's cab, and Saints preserve my crumbling sanity, even the air seem to flinch in their presence.
The guards who'd been stationed near the platform—those brave champions of apathy—scrambled backward so fast they nearly tripped over each other, retreating into the shadows like children who'd just remembered the stove was hot.
One of them still held his half-drunk mug of whatever vile swill passed for courage in this place, and even that trembled in his hands, sloshing over the rim and onto his boots.
The taller escort didn't so much as blink. He simply tilted his head in that awfully deliberate way—like a raven deciding which eye to peck first—and stepped closer. The sound of his boots against the platform was soft, measured, polite even. Which somehow made it worse.
Inside the cab, the conductor stood frozen in place, one hand still resting on the throttle, the other hovering midair as if caught between salute and surrender. The man looked like someone had drained all the humor out of him, leaving behind nothing but sweat and regret.
The pipe that usually dangled from his mouth hung forgotten in his hand, its ember flickering out, leaving a thread of smoke that curled lazily toward the ceiling. Behind the coal pile, I crouched lower, biting the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper.
The taller one spoke first. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried—smooth, dry, polite in the same way poison is polite before it kills you.
"Conductor."
The word alone had weight, dropping into the space between them like an anchor. The old man straightened instantly, posture snapping taut. "Aye, sir?" he rasped, forcing a grin that showed too many teeth and too little courage.
The taller escort tilted his head again. "You are the operator of this transport, yes?"
The conductor swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing like a man trying not to choke on his own tongue. "That'd be me," he said, trying—and failing—to sound casual. "Train twelve-oh-nine, scheduled cargo delivery for depot sector four."
The shorter escort said nothing. He simply stood there, silent as an unmade grave. Even his breathing seemed optional.
The taller one nodded slowly, as though confirming a memory he'd been saving for a special occasion. "Good. Then you can help us. We're looking for someone."
Something in me went very, very cold.
The conductor managed a laugh though it sounded more like a cough wearing a disguise. "Aren't we all, eh? Lost a few wives myself."
No one laughed.
The taller escort continued, unbothered. "The individual in question is of high interest to the Warden's office. Dangerous. Unstable. Difficult to contain."
I could feel my pulse crawling up my throat like a guilty confession.
He paused for a moment, then recited the words with mechanical precision. "Male, or at least nominally so. Wild black hair, crimson eyes, slender build, and—" he hesitated only slightly, "—a small fang visible when he smiles."
Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh shit-fuck-damn-and-every-curse-ever-invented.
I nearly bit through my tongue. My brain went blank save for the sound of my own heartbeat hammering inside my skull like it was trying to claw its way out. I didn't dare move. Didn't dare breathe. If I so much as twitched, the entire car might as well light up like a lantern screaming here he is!
The silence that followed was unforgivable. The conductor merely stared, eyes wide and unblinking, sweat pouring down his forehead in rivers.
You could practically see the thoughts crossing his face—the quick, frantic inventory of everything he'd ever seen, every passenger, every shadow that might match that cursed description. My lungs ached from holding my breath, my nails digging crescents into my palms.
Finally, the old man cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice came out rough but steady, the tone of a gambler bluffing his last coin. "Can't say I've seen anyone like that," he said.
I froze.
Brutus made a small sound beside me, somewhere between a cough and a strangled prayer.
The taller escort cocked his head again. The motion was so small, so quiet, it might've been mistaken for curiosity if not for the way the air itself seemed to tighten around it. "You're certain?"
The conductor nodded once, too quickly. "Aye. Certain as sunrise. Just me, my crew, and a load of rocks that don't talk back."
My jaw nearly unhinged. He lied.
The old bastard actually lied.
For the briefest of moments, I wondered if I'd died already and this was some benevolent afterlife where miracles happened and bureaucrats forgot to double-check things. I almost wanted to cry.
The taller escort turned slightly toward his partner, lowering his voice just enough that it barely rose above the hum of the engines. "Are you sure the intel we received is accurate?"
The shorter one's reply came soft, clipped and mechanical. "It must be. They would have no reason to lie."
The taller man lingered in silence, then gave the faintest sigh. "Perhaps. But still…" He turned back to the conductor. "We appreciate your cooperation," he said, his tone shifting—too smooth, too polite. "And your honesty, of course. But you'll forgive us, I'm sure, if we insist on being thorough."
The conductor blinked. "Thorough?"
"Yes." The taller one inclined his head just enough to be courteous without being kind. "We are… tired, conductor. So very tired. These tunnels stretch endlessly, and the light grows dim. We will take residence aboard your train until you return to the main cavern."
Every muscle in my body turned to ice.
The shorter escort moved first. With one curt nod from his partner, he stepped into the conductor's cab, then glided into the car next door, silent as a nightmare. The door hissed open, and just like that, he was inside our train—walking straight toward the cargo hold where the rest of my crew was hiding.
The taller escort remained behind, turning to face Brutus. "And you," he said softly, "I'd like to have a word."
Brutus went rigid beside me, his fists curling, his breathing slow and measured. The man had fought beasts of men before, but this? This was different. I could nearly feel it, the escort's presence pressing against him like an invisible weight.
The conductor, to his credit—or insanity—clapped his hands once, forcing cheer into his tone. "Well! Looks like we're all friends here. Why don't I get us moving again, aye?" He pulled the throttle, and the engine groaned to life.
Outside, the gates shuddered open with the slow majesty of ancient gods reluctantly doing their jobs.
As the wheels began to turn, I finally exhaled, barely managing not to collapse right there in the coal. Brutus didn't move though his eyes flicked toward me, just once, and I knew exactly what he was thinking.
We needed to move.
Now.
I counted up the phantom beats—one, two, three—and felt the air twist around me. By the eighth, I was gone. The world folded inward, shadows bending around my shape until I was nothing but a whisper in the heat. I slipped out of the cab and onto the station's platform.
When I reached the rear car, I hesitated just long enough to question my life choices—which, granted, was a recurring hobby of mine—before taking a running leap from the narrow railing and landing on the platform at the back.
The impact jarred up through my ankles, rattling something deep in my spine.
Without a second to spare, I flung the door open like a mad prophet announcing the end times and stumbled inside with all the grace of a drunken aristocrat falling down a staircase. The hinges screamed in protest, the sound slicing through the muffled rhythm of the train.
Freya caught me first, her knife already halfway drawn.
The instant she recognized me, her expression flickered from kill, to confusion, to fury so fast it could've been choreography. "What the fuck—" she began, her tone balancing somewhere between utter shock and disbelief.
I slammed the door behind me so hard the latch rattled, then pressed my back to it, breathing like I'd just run a marathon through a volcano. My hands were trembling, my pulse a war drum.
"No time," I gasped. "We need to hide. Now!"
The room froze. Even the beastman paused mid-breath, his ears twitching toward me.
Dregan blinked from where he sat slouched against the wall, his half-burned cigar dangling precariously from his lip. "Hide?" he echoed, his tone almost offended. "Again?"
"Yes, again!" I snapped, my voice pitching higher with every syllable as I began pacing tight, anxious circles. "The faceless death priests from above just got on the train!"
That did it. Every ounce of apathy in the car evaporated at once, replaced by the collective awareness that the universe had decided, once again, to bend us over its knee.
Freya's eyes narrowed to slits. "You mean—"
"Yes!" I hissed. "Those ones! The High Warden's escorts! They're here!"
A sound went through the crew—not quite a scream, not quite a groan, but some exquisite hybrid of the two. It rippled through them like a wave of resigned agony, the sort that comes when one remembers an unpaid debt or an ex with a grudge.
"Loona," Freya hissed, her voice low and jagged, like a blade scraping concrete. "I'm gonna kill 'em"
I grabbed her by the arm, my fingers digging into her sleeve, practically begging. "Freya, no. You can't." I exclaimed, my voice filled with desperation. "There's something wrong with them this time. The way they move—it isn't human..."
She froze, her gaze snapping to mine, but the fire in her eyes refused to dim. It burned hotter, if anything, a wildfire eating through her restraint. "Doesn't matter."
Before I could argue, a sharp bang echoed from the car beyond—boots on metal, deliberate and heavy, like the ticking of a clock counting down to our doom. Freya's lips curled into a sneer.
The rest of our crew snapped into motion then, silent and practiced, like gears in a grim machine, taking their places with practiced efficiently.
However, Freya stood firm in the room's center, blade drawn, a defiant queen refusing to bow before the approaching storm.
I took a deep breath before, in one solid motion, I yanked her down behind a stack of crates, the wood splintered and rough against my palms.
Freya's breath came sharper beside me, her anger a living creature now, seeping into the air like poisonous gas, thick and suffocating, pressing hot against my skin.
"What the fuck are you doing?" She growled.
"Keeping us alive!" I exclaimed in a frantic whisper.
Just then, the door hissed open and the escort stepped into the car. He moved with a quiet authority, each step a silent command.
I pressed myself harder against the crate as if willing my body to dissolve into the wood.
The escort stopped in the center of the room. His mask shifted then, just enough to expose the lower half of his face. Then he took a long, deliberate inhale, like a hound savoring the scent of wounded prey.
"Well, well," he drawled, his voice low and oily, slithering through the air like smoke made of malice. "Something smells nice today. Sweet, really. Like a bitch in heat."
Freya twitched beside me, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her knife. I shot her a look, my eyes pleading, but her jaw was set, her teeth grinding so hard I could practically hear it.
"I know you're in here. What's the matter? Still sore from last time I had you pinned and screaming beneath me? Bet you're wet just thinking about it, aren't you? Come on out, sweetheart. Let's have another go. I'll make it quick—unless you beg me to take my time."
My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat. I gripped Freya's wrist tighter, more desperate, my whisper barely audible. "Don't. He's baiting you." Though Saint's above, I already knew in my heart that it was too late.
Freya's eyes were molten pits of pure rage, her breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. "I don't care," she grunted, so quiet it was almost a thought.
The escort continued. "You remember how it felt, don't you? My hands on your thighs, your little whimpers while you squirmed. Gods, you must be dreaming about it, me stretching you out while you scream my name. Oh, how very delightful that would be. Come now, girl. Don't be shy. I can practically smell that sweet cunt from across the room."
That did it. Without warning, Freya's restraint shattered like glass beneath an iron hammer.
With a ragged cry that tore through the air like a gunshot, she erupted from behind the crates, her dagger flashing as she launched herself at him.
Gods above and below, the blade was aimed straight for the bastard's forehead, her movements fueled by a rage so pure, so virtuous, it was almost holy—a prayer written in violence, an offering of blood to whatever gods might still be listening.