Continental Steam Line.

  What began as a Fyonar invention had, through profit and grudging cooperation, become a neutral network of smoke and steel stretching across half the known world.

  Zafran led the way, boots crunching on gravel. The scent of oil and burning coal stung the air, cutting through the morning chill. Ahead, the engine hissed—massive and dark, with golden rivets tracing its body like veins. Steam rolled from its undercarriage, blanketing the station platform in lazy clouds.

  Ysar whistled low. “So that’s the thing that explodes if you look at it wrong.”

  Elsha gave him a glance. “It doesn’t explode. It runs on pressure, not rage.”

  “But still,” he said, eyeing the iron beast. “Looks like something a god sneezed out.”

  Karin stepped ahead of them both, already walking in pace with Zafran. “It’s one of the early models. They’ve updated the boiler valve systems since last year. Safer now. Not that you’d know the difference.”

  “I know enough to stay outside of exploding buildings,” Ysar muttered.

  Zafran didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

  The station wasn’t inside the city proper—no kingdom would let another build a rail station in their capital. This one sat miles outside the western gate, walled off from the city and flanked by guard towers manned by Ocean Tide sentries. Nothing military, just… watchful.

  They reached the checkpoint near the platform. No questioning—just a brief glance at travel permits and a stamp from Azure Wind’s ledger. Ealden had made sure everything was handled in advance.

  A low rumble passed through the platform as the engine released another hiss of breath.

  The train itself was long, its cars paneled in dark wood and brass. Two compartments marked for cargo, another three for passengers. The frontmost was labeled in embossed script: For Continental Transit – Ocean Route to Fyonar.

  Elsha looked up from her map, eyes narrowing. “Two and a half days?”

  “If we’re lucky,” Karin said. “The central mountain pass sometimes gets slowed by weather. But it’s better than walking three weeks.”

  Zafran moved without much ceremony, placing his satchel by the door of the third car. “We board in ten.”

  “Wait,” Ysar said, peering around the side of the car. “Where are the cannons?”

  “There are no cannons,” Elsha said flatly.

  “Then what do we do if bandits jump the train?”

  “We jump them back,” Karin answered, climbing aboard.

  They boarded through the second passenger car—standard seating.

  Here, the walls were iron-lined, dark wood barely softening the industrial feel. The air carried the scent of coal and polish, and rows of fixed seats lined either side of the aisle, backs stiff, cushions thin. Most were designed to recline with a stubborn click—barely enough for sleep. Folded trays. Lantern hooks. Utilitarian.

  Karin glanced around, eyes narrowing. “I thought you said we had a room.”

  Zafran didn’t answer. He just kept walking.

  They passed through a narrow corridor—rattling with every motion of the train—until they reached a sealed brass-plated door. A conductor stood beside it, bowing slightly before unlocking it with a copper key.

  The door opened.

  And the contrast struck them like a shift in worlds.

  Warm, polished darkwood paneled the walls, inlaid with curling patterns of gold leaf. Delicate etching adorned the corners, while ceiling lanterns cast a soft amber glow through frosted glass. Heavy curtains framed the windows—real fabric, not the stiff canvas of the other cars.

  At the center stood a broad, foldable table of carved walnut. Bench seats wrapped around it, thickly padded in deep velvet. Above them, the sleeping bunks were folded into the walls—two on each side, crafted of solid timber and brass, built to disappear when not needed. A rack of glass-bottled drinks stood neatly locked behind a cabinet pane. A service bell gleamed near the door.

  Even the floor was carpeted.

  Karin paused at the threshold, hand resting on the doorframe. She said nothing—but the slight lift of her brow betrayed it. She’d ridden trains before. Just never like this.

  “…Alright,” she muttered. “I get it.”

  Ysar stepped in first, arms wide. “By the gods, this is real travel.”

  Elsha followed, composed, but her eyes moved like she was mapping the space. She brushed a finger across the brass latch of the nearest bunk, testing it with a soft click. “Everything’s reinforced. This isn’t just fancy—it’s engineered.”

  Zafran entered last, placing his satchel by the window and leaning his sword gently against the wall. He said nothing—just took a long, even breath and sank into the corner seat.

  Karin dropped beside him without a word, settling like it was already hers.

  “No reaction? No comment?” she asked.

  “Sat in these kinds of seats often, when I was young,” he said.

  Karin raised a brow. “Of course. Man of noble background.”

  “Once.”

  The train gave a soft lurch. Ocean Tide drifted past the window—stone fading to farmland, farmland to wild plain.

  Ysar flopped onto the seat across from them. “Feels like I should be drinking wine.”

  Elsha sat beside him. “They’ll charge you for it.”

  The wheels found rhythm. The world began to roll.

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  Karin folded her arms onto the table and dropped her head onto them. “Wake me if we’re attacked by bandits on mechanical ostriches.”

  “…Wait. Is that real?” Ysar asked.

  “Yes.”

  “They aren’t,” Elsha sighed, disappointed. “Why don’t you ever stop to think first?”

  “Wake me anyway,” Karin murmured, pulling her hood down over her eyes.

  “You just sat down seconds ago,” Ysar said.

  “I travel light.”

  Then, as she shifted to make herself comfortable: “If someone breaks in, shout something heroic.”

  “Like what?”

  “YSAR, NOOO!” she slurred, halfway to sleep.

  Zafran’s mouth twitched.

  Elsha opened her journal.

  And for a while, the cabin filled only with the steady, comforting rhythm of travel.

  Outside, green hills stretched toward the horizon. Beyond them, the mountains waited.

  But in here—for now—there was peace.

  The train groaned and lurched back into motion, its massive wheels scraping against rusted rails with a noise that sounded like a yawn. Ysar didn’t even glance at the window. Whatever town they’d just passed through—its name, its people, its handful of crooked lanterns swaying on the platform—was already gone from his memory.

  “The fourth one today,” he muttered, slumping back into his seat. “Or the fifth? I don’t even know what we’re next to anymore. A village? A town? A barn with dreams?”

  Karin raised an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not being dramatic?”

  “I’m dying,” Ysar said, eyes closed. “Of compression. My legs haven’t moved in hours.”

  “You’ve been pacing every hallway on this train,” Elsha pointed out without looking up. She was peeling a boiled potato calmly, like this wasn’t the fifth time she’d heard the same complaint.

  “And yet,” Ysar gestured to his chest, “I suffer.”

  Their dinner had been brought in half an hour ago—nothing fancy this time. Just warm stew, some stale bread, and a jar of pickled cabbage that none of them had volunteered to open yet.

  Zafran sat at the end of the table, arms crossed, gaze half-lost through the window. He hadn’t said a word since the train moved again.

  Karin scooped some of the stew, blew on it, and offered a theatrical sigh. “So tragic, Ysar. Truly. A warrior brought low by mild inconvenience.”

  “Not mild,” he groaned. “I was made to slay beasts, not sit in luxury boxes staring at identical fields and sleeping cows.”

  “Maybe you can challenge the cabbage to a duel,” she said, nudging the untouched jar toward him.

  Elsha finally cracked a smile, then quickly hid it behind her cup.

  The warmth in the cabin wasn’t just from the small metal stove bolted into the wall. Despite the boredom, the tight space had a strange comfort to it. They’d fallen into a rhythm—banter, silence, food, the rattle of the train.

  Karin leaned back on her hands, looking around at them with a half-lidded gaze. “You know, we’ve been on this thing for two days now… and we haven’t talked about it.”

  “Talked about what?” Ysar asked, still half-melting into the wall.

  She looked over at Zafran. “What exactly are we going to Fyonar for?”

  That earned a blink from Zafran,

  “Princess Seren said there was a man.” he said, voice low but clear. “Her informant.”

  Karin straightened up. “Right. The one who sent that letter?”

  Zafran gave a short nod. “Said he found something—a thread connecting several nobles. Something deep enough to suggest there’s a single hand behind most of Fyonar’s politics. Then he stopped writing.”

  “Just like that?” Ysar asked, frowning. “He went dark?”

  “A month ago,” Zafran said. “No sign since. No new letters. No one could find him.”

  Karin exhaled. “Sounds like a trap.”

  “Or maybe he found something bigger than he expected.” Elsha said.

  There was a pause. Even Ysar stayed quiet for a beat too long.

  Then Karin lifted her spoon again. “Well, at least we’re heading somewhere that isn’t a cow pasture.”

  Ysar raised his cup. “To mystery informants and slightly better stew.”

  They all chuckled. Even Zafran.

  “I’m not sure about the stew part”

  The train rocked gently beneath them, the outside world reduced to moonlit blur beyond the windows. In this small cabin, laughter echoed softly, untouched by the looming unknown.

  The station lights had long disappeared into the night behind them. Only the steady rhythm of wheels on rails remained—a low, metallic heartbeat rolling through the dark.

  The cabin had grown quiet. Four bunks, warm and worn, creaked faintly as bodies settled into them. A small lantern by the wall dimmed itself automatically, humming down to a whisper.

  Zafran didn’t lie down. He sat for a while near the door, eyes half-lidded, posture still as the landscape crawled past the window. Then, without a word, he stood and slipped outside.

  The narrow balcony at the rear of the car was barely wide enough for two people. Iron railings wrapped around the space, cold to the touch, and the wind tugged lightly at his coat as the train sliced through the open field.

  Above him, the stars stretched wide and cloudless.

  He didn’t look for constellations. He simply stood there, letting the silence fold around him.

  The door creaked behind him. A pause. Then footsteps.

  Karin stepped out barefoot, draped in her blanket, hair tousled, cheeks still flushed from lying down. She leaned against the opposite rail and said nothing at first.

  “I didn’t know you were the stargazing type,” she said eventually—not teasing, just curious.

  Zafran didn’t move. “I’m not. Just… easier to think out here.”

  Karin nodded. “Or not think.”

  He gave the smallest sound of agreement.

  They stood like that for a while. The wind pressed at their clothes. The train carried them forward through the blackness, its destination certain—even if theirs wasn’t.

  Karin pulled the blanket tighter, her eyes drifting upward. “I used to think the stars meant something,” she murmured.

  Zafran glanced at her.

  “Back in White-Manour—small village, vineyards and smoke—my mother used to say the stars would guide me to the Academia. ‘Keep looking up, and one day, they’ll let you in.’ Every night.”

  She exhaled slowly. “She died when I was twelve. After that, I told myself I’d get in just once—for her. Just once. And then maybe I’d leave.” She gave a small, joyless smile. “I didn’t even get the once.”

  Zafran’s voice came low, steady. “You still carry her with you.”

  Karin nodded. “Yeah. But not the way she wanted. She was kind. Patient. She could control tertiary elements—air, water, even ice when the weather was right. I just got… fire.”

  “And they feared you for it.”

  “Or pitied me.” She snorted. “Take your pick.”

  They were quiet for a long moment. Then Karin shifted, leaning on the rail, glancing over.

  “Now that I’ve told you mine—what about yours?”

  Zafran looked up at the sky.

  “I was supposed to be knighted,” he said. “Two weeks before the ceremony. Armor fitted, oaths memorized. Then my father—Balin—was accused. You know the story: treason, assassination attempt on the princess. He died for it.”

  “And you were banished.”

  “Threw me out before I could even take his sword.”

  Karin tilted her head. “What did you do after?”

  “Wandered,” he said. “Worked where I could. Slept wherever they’d let me.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “One day, I ran into a merchant caravan—about to be hit by bandits. I stepped in. Instinct. Didn’t know they were under Azure Wind protection. Kivas was there. Watched the whole thing.”

  He paused. “He said, ‘If you want coin, you can work. If you want purpose, follow me.’ That was it.”

  Karin smiled faintly. “Classic Kivas.”

  “He made me train the young ones. Guess he figured a broken thing can still shape others.”

  She looked at him, softened. “We’re quite alike, aren’t we?”

  Zafran’s brow lifted slightly.

  “Broken,” she said.

  “I don’t think you are.”

  “I don’t think you are either.”

  A brief, dry chuckle passed between them.

  They stood there a while longer. No more words exchanged. The wind moved past them like breath. And far ahead, the engine pulled them toward something neither of them could name just yet.

  Back in the cabin, the train rocked gently. Shadows moved across the ceiling with each passing mile.

  Ysar lay flat on his back in his bunk, arms behind his head, staring upward.

  “Elsha,” he whispered.

  Above him, she didn’t respond right away. Then, “What?”

  “You alright about that?”

  A pause. Her voice was even. “About what?”

  “They seem close,” Ysar said, like he was commenting on the weather.

  “They’re comrades.”

  “Mhm. Alright. Comrades that talk under the stars after midnight.” He shifted. “Just asking.”

  Elsha didn’t answer.

  Ysar grinned faintly in the dark. “Kept you up though.”

  “I’m awake because you’re talking again.”

  “Sure,” he said. “That’s probably it.”

  Elsha turned toward the wall, away from him. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I didn’t say it did.”

  Silence followed.

  But something in her chest felt unfamiliar. Not jealousy—she wasn’t the type. And Zafran wasn’t the type to be taken. But something had shifted. That much she could feel.

  The way he spoke lately. The way he stood a little closer to Karin than he used to stand near anyone. The way he’d begun to explain himself.

  She didn’t like emotions she couldn’t categorize.

  And now, she didn’t know where to file this.

  Outside, the stars turned slowly above the moving train.

  And somewhere far ahead, Fyonar waited.