Pistol’s voice came like smoke from the forge.

  “She had an encounter for certain. Much like our predicament, I’d imagine.”

  He stepped forward, boots echoing with impossible weight.

  “This car—the Watcher’s Cart—doesn’t always exist. Not in time. Not in space. It appears when one of the Amorialle awakens it. When it needs to be seen.”

  Bolton’s voice cracked.

  “What is this place, really?”

  Pistol’s gaze turned heavier, fixed on the heart behind the glass.

  “It’s your last stop before Veranus. Only one with an Amorialle like yours, your sister’s locket, or your brother’s crown can supersede the Midnight’s natural order.”

  Bolton frowned.

  “Natural order?”

  “Royalty’s privilege,” Pistol muttered.

  "Where there’s S-Class Gigarock, there’s manipulation. Power."

  He glanced toward the crystalline dome, where moonlight gave the Amorialle a luminous, almost sacred glow.

  Bolton spoke softly.

  "My mother used to hold our watches, Amelia’s locket… and pray."

  Pistol offered a dry smile.

  "Wish I could say a mother’s love was universal. Mine was about as pleasant as Gochican Foot Stew."

  He chuckled once.

  "Still—Queen Woltwork filled that gap in me just fine."

  Bolton’s brows knitted together.

  "I know I’m no king, Pistol. But why don’t I remember you?"

  Pistol shrugged.

  "Just a Yardrat, son."

  "No ‘just a Yardrat’ becomes a Midnight Train conductor," Bolton said.

  Pistol’s grin faded.

  "I was Yardrat Company #32. With Nicholas. We fueled half of Quadrant One."

  Bolton leaned closer.

  "You fought monsters?"

  "We fought darkness," Pistol said. "The kind so deep even fire lost its color."

  "Why?" Bolton asked.

  "Where do you think S-Class Gigarock comes from?" Pistol said simply.

  He thumbed open Bolton’s pocket watch, staring at the photograph tucked inside of Bolton and his siblings.

  "So you retired?"

  "I was killed," Pistol answered.

  Bolton froze.

  "Something worse than Malice. Part machine."

  Pistol’s voice dropped lower.

  "It tore through light. Through me. I woke up before your father."

  "You’re a hero," Bolton whispered. "You’re—"

  "Pistol," he said firmly.

  The name fell like iron into the silence.

  As Bolton swallowed the truth, a sudden pressure thudded against his chest—louder, heavier than before.

  He reached into his coat—and pulled out the small casing Aurous had left him.

  The shard of S-Class Gigarock pulsed in his hand, deep and heavy, like a second heartbeat struggling to be heard.

  It wasn’t a gentle pulse.

  It was a call.

  Bolton stared at it.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  The glow from within sharpened, each pulse growing more desperate—until thin cracks of blue light split the stone like spiderwebs.

  Bolton tightened his grip instinctively.

  The shard shuddered—then, with a sharp crack, the Gigarock casing exploded outward in a burst of shimmering dust.

  A raw, exposed core—flesh-like and glistening—floated in his palm, still pulsing, still fighting to exist.

  Pistol didn’t flinch. His face remained somber.

  The naked Amorialle throbbed once, then again, syncing with Bolton’s own.

  Without thinking, Bolton opened his pocket watch.

  The two pieces—his and Aurous’s—gravitated together, drawn by some ancient, invisible force.

  A final flash—brilliant and blue—and they fused.

  For a moment, the chamber dimmed.

  And in that flicker of darkness, Bolton saw it:

  Deep inside the molten folds of light—

  —the broad silhouette of Aurous.

  Ape-like. Towering. Proud even in death.

  Not dead.

  Not forgotten.

  Joined.

  Bolton wiped at his eyes, the dust of the broken Gigarock still drifting around him.

  Pistol stepped up beside him, voice like rough iron:

  "Aurous sacrificed his body to save Nicholas and the other Yardrats," he said.

  "Just about fought the damn Malice and Enton on his own after you were dropped off."

  Bolton’s breath caught.

  Pistol’s voice dropped lower, almost a growl.

  "Enton hit him with a strike straight to the gut. Lightning-charged—like the hammer of a god. Wasn’t even human anymore. More boar than man. All rage and steel and teeth."

  He exhaled, heavy.

  "Aurous stood tall. Even as that creature swallowed him whole."

  Silence pressed in around them, the heartbeats from the Amorialle still thrumming.

  Then Pistol spoke again, quieter, speculative.

  "I don’t claim to know exactly how these things work, Bolton. None of us really do."

  "But your brother... he believes Amelia’s been working closely with Rick. A Primarian Hammer. One of the few who can twist what’s broken."

  He tilted his head slightly, the firefly-light catching a ghost of a smile.

  "If there’s truth in that..."

  Pistol shrugged once, rough and uncertain.

  "...maybe Aurous isn’t as lost as we think."

  Bolton’s gaze drifted upward.

  Through the slats in the domed ceiling, he caught sight of a massive white moon outside—

  and beneath it, rising like a vision stitched from silver and memory—

  the floating city of Veranus.

  It shimmered like a dream waiting to wake.

  Pistol nodded approvingly.

  "These Amorialle," he said, "are as mysterious as the moon’s shadow. But let me make one thing clear."

  He turned slightly, the firefly light tracing the scars stitched across his coat.

  "For those of us who lost our hearts—our lives—the Amorialle can do more than just survive. It keeps us bound. Some of us..." he paused, glancing at the walls, "are tied to this train. Maybe forever."

  He let the words settle.

  "The Whisky Sunday’s heart beats here, boy," he added, softer now. "Same as mine."

  Bolton glanced sharply back at him.

  "What do you mean?"

  Pistol’s smile was faint. Worn.

  "Maybe death isn’t the end," he said, almost to himself.

  He left it at that.

  Ahead, the next door rumbled open.

  Warm light spilled out, revealing a vast cavern-like car, its ceiling hung with roots and fireflies.

  At the center—

  an Ignorpa.

  Massive. Proud. Familiar.

  The same creature who had once carried him to safety.

  But this time, the Ignorpa didn’t rush toward him.

  It stood wary, snorting softly, huge paws scraping at the floor.

  Bolton took a hesitant step forward—

  —and the Ignorpa huffed, muscles tensing.

  He froze.

  Then, from the far end of the room—

  A piece of something flew through the air.

  Bolton barely caught the scent before the Ignorpa’s ears perked and its tail lashed excitedly.

  A thick, bone-shaped strip of dried meat—

  Gochican Jerky—

  landed near its paws.

  The Ignorpa sniffed once, twice—then chomped it down in one powerful bite.

  It rumbled happily, bumping its head against Bolton’s side hard enough to almost knock him over.

  Bolton glanced up—

  Sarah stood across the room, grinning, another strip of jerky dangling from her fingers.

  Not the flickering, porcelain figure from before—but her—

  alive and vivid, her sunlit hair catching the glow of the fireflies, her freckled skin warmed by the lantern light, her sharp gaze softened but still carrying the same wild glint he remembered.

  The door to Veranus loomed just behind her, tall and humming with unseen energy.

  Bolton’s fingers tightened instinctively around his pocket watch.

  The Amorialle thudded against his palm, steady and strong, as if echoing his racing heart.

  He smiled. A real one this time.

  He didn’t climb onto the Ignorpa just yet.

  Not today.

  But he took a step forward—

  toward the girl,

  toward Veranus,

  toward whatever waited beyond the dark.