Darkness swallowed them whole.

  The sounds of battle—the roaring wind, the clashing metal—faded, like a distant nightmare.

  Bolton’s breath was still ragged, his heartbeat uneven. Then, he felt it—the train groaned beneath him. It didn’t sound like steel anymore. It sounded softer.

  The metal beneath his boots had changed, the very structure of the train warping.

  Then—flickering shapes.

  Tiny firefly-like creatures drifted in slow, weightless arcs, their faint golden glow pulsing like dying embers. They moved without rhythm. Without order. Watching.

  Sarah’s hand was still wrapped around his wrist. She didn’t let go. Instead, she took a step forward, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “We keep moving.”

  And for once—Bolton didn’t argue.

  The glow of the fireflies swelled, as if watching him. He could see the terrain now—soft shrubbery, luminescent spores dusting his torn clothes. Whatever he touched left trails of shimmering dust, briefly entertaining the mysterious floating creatures as they drifted closer, their golden glow pulsing with curiosity. The strange dust clung to him, leaving streaks of shimmering gold against the remains of his jacket—what little survived his fight with Vermolly.

  "Sarah," Bolton muttered.

  She didn’t answer.

  Her figure was barely visible now, only her hand and wrist clearly illuminated.

  "Sarah!" he called again, louder this time, stomping his foot.

  Then—she stopped.

  Bolton felt the shift. Her movements—erratic. Sharp. Almost static. The warmth faded from her grip. Her fingers turned cold. Metallic.

  Then—the ticking sound.

  Faint. Rhythmic. But off.

  Sarah turned her head, her eyes catching the dim glow of the fireflies.

  “This was part of Pistol’s plan,” she said, her voice quieter, heavier. “I know you’re sick of secrets. I wasn’t supposed to tell you yet, but—your brother Michael is waiting for us in Veranus.”

  Bolton’s breath hitched, his grip tightening slightly.

  “Some things are kept secret for a reason,” she continued. “It’s up to us to trust what’s unfamiliar, uncomfortable… strange.”

  Then, she turned fully toward him.

  Her eyes glowed.

  Not like a cat’s. Not like anything human.

  Inside them, tiny orange gears turned in slow, deliberate motion—intricate and ceaseless, like the inner workings of a timepiece.

  Bolton’s breath hitched. The sudden chill of her hand. The unnatural precision of her movements.

  The sound—like a key winding tight inside a lock.

  His body reacted before his mind caught up. His feet planted. His arm jerked back. He yanked Sarah to a halt.

  "My brother! What about the Greisha Ceremony!?" His voice cracked, edged with something between fear and frustration.

  Then—he caught himself.

  The outburst hung in the air, raw and jagged. His pulse steadied. His breath evened.

  "I understand this train has… abilities. But please, I’m actually scared..." His voice dropped, quieter now—almost pleading. Bolton swallowed, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist. “Terrified, really.”

  A pause.

  "Are you like Enton?" He hesitated. "Are you alive? Or… a machine?"

  The ticking continued—steady, measured, like a heartbeat made of brass and cogs.

  His grip loosened.

  Then, the train cart burst to life. Light flooded the space like an exploding firework. Shadows scattered.

  Sarah turned to him. The glow of the fireflies reflected in her eyes, casting strange patterns against the delicate gears turning within.

  “Neither,” she said softly. “Somewhere in the middle. Like Pistol.”

  Then—her hand rose to his face, the touch impossibly gentle. A warm caress against his cheek.

  Bolton’s breath hitched. For a moment, he didn’t pull away. His fingers twitched, then hesitantly lifted, wrapping around her hand.

  Her skin felt… wrong. Not cold, not lifeless, but something in between. Like the surface of something meant to be warm but made elsewhere—crafted, rather than born.

  She looked different. Almost unrecognizable.

  Paler. Almost porcelain.

  The freckles he swore he had seen just moments ago were gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished ivory. Her skin, once kissed by warmth, now carried an unnatural sheen, like polished ceramic.

  A wind-up figure caught between movement and stillness.

  Bolton tightened his grip just slightly, anchoring her, as if holding her hand might keep her from slipping further into whatever she was becoming.

  For a fleeting second, the warmth flickered back, the illusion resetting.

  And then—it was gone.

  Then, as if reality itself flickered, she shifted.

  For a brief moment, warmth returned to her skin, the light from the swaying lanterns casting soft freckles across her nose, a faint flush blooming on her cheeks. The Sarah he met on the Whisky Sunday, sharp and full of life, stood before him.

  Then—gone.

  Her features paled again, porcelain overtaking flesh. The change wasn't instant, nor was it fluid. It came in flickers, as though the illusion of her humanity was being tuned like a faulty radio signal. A glitch in something larger than her.

  The space around them seamlessly morphed to match.

  Bolton’s gaze drifted beyond her, taking in the impossible landscape of the train cart. It was no longer metal and bolts. The space stretched into something organic, like a narrow section of a bayou, with a wooden dock beneath his feet, gently rocking atop an unseen river. The water below was black and depthless, its surface reflecting nothing.

  Sarah stood at the edge of the dock, watching him with those firefly-glow eyes—eyes that flickered between something warm and something cold, something human and something built.

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  Without a word, she reached out, gently taking Bolton’s hand and lifting it to her own. His fingers rested against hers—warm skin meeting something that wasn’t quite flesh.

  “Are you afraid now?” she asked, her voice neither mocking nor soft, but something in between.

  Bolton swallowed. His pulse hammered beneath her touch.

  "I am..." Bolton muttered, his voice barely above a breath.

  A pause.

  Sarah exhaled, her grip on his hand tightening for just a moment. Then, softer—**almost as if confessing a secret—**she whispered, "Me too."

  A single tear slipped down her cheek.

  For a fleeting second, it shimmered like glass—reflecting light like a perfect, polished droplet. Then, just as quickly, it flickered—turning metallic, cold, unnatural.

  Bolton watched as it trailed down her skin, caught in the flickering shift between human and machine.

  Then, in a voice that wavered between warmth and something unsettlingly precise, she murmured,

  "We keep moving," Sarah said, her voice softer now.

  But then—something shifted.

  The porcelain sheen of her skin flickered, warmth bleeding back into her features like color returning to an old photograph. The stark, eerie glow of her eyes softened, pupils contracting, their blue hue deepening. Her freckles returned in a slow bloom across her nose, the faintest flush rising in her cheeks.

  Then—click.

  A faint, rhythmic ticking stuttered, then smoothed out, like the final, settling ticks of a wound clock finding its rhythm again. For a moment, the sound felt too large for such a small thing—a whisper of machinery woven into the silence.

  Sarah blinked, looking away for a moment. Then, almost shyly, she looked back up at him—not with gears turning behind her eyes, but with something undeniably human.

  “The Whisky Sunday never has passengers,” she murmured, her voice lighter, laced with something playful. “It wasn’t meant to.”

  Bolton hesitated, his fingers still laced with hers. For a moment, neither of them let go.

  Then, slowly, their hands separated.

  And for the first time, Bolton didn’t argue.

  Then he looked up—and his stomach twisted.

  The sky was within reach. It stretched overhead, so close that if he only jumped, he could touch it. Wisps of clouds drifted lazily past his head, brushing against his skin like passing breath.

  Sarah took a slow step forward, her gaze distant. “Pistol’s secret ingredient in the Golden Mead,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Gochican Honey. Warmed to a specific degree. He said I was the only one who could get it just right.”

  She hesitated, her voice quieter now. “That was when he found me. Long ago. When I wasn’t me anymore.” A breath. A pause. “Something took my humanity… it looked human, but it was the furthest thing from it.”

  Bolton swallowed. “Is Pistol really just a bartender?”

  Sarah blinked—then laughed, a real laugh this time, warm and familiar, though something behind it trembled. “Hardly.” She turned slightly, shaking her head, a soft smile playing on her lips. “He’s the conductor of the Whisky Sunday. A Yardrat through and through. And quite frankly—” she shot Bolton a teasing look, “he makes more than just any mead.”

  Bolton didn’t reply. He just watched.

  Then, without warning, the ticking in his head sharpened.

  A memory uncoiled, unbidden. A massive gear-driven door, deep in the heart of the Primarian Arc. A cold room, lit only by the pulse of something immense beyond the metal walls. His father’s voice—his mother’s hand on his shoulder. A gift placed in his palm.

  The pocket watch.

  A whisper, lost to time: You’ll understand someday.

  The memory snapped shut as quickly as it had come. Bolton exhaled sharply, his fingers brushing against the pocket watch in his coat, grounding himself in the present.

  Sarah’s skin grew whiter, the soft hues of life draining away, leaving only the rigid, doll-like texture of something artificial. Thin red lines bled from the corners of her mouth, as though the paint of a long-forgotten smile had begun to crack.

  She was becoming what she truly was.

  Then—a half-smile.

  “Do you know what happens when you die?” she asked.

  Bolton’s breath hitched. “Aren’t we running…?” he muttered.

  Sarah tilted her head slightly, watching him. “Once we transfer train carts, we’ll always be within reach of the front of the train. However…” she let the words linger, her tone cryptic, almost amused. “We’re just as close to the end, too.”

  Bolton frowned. “What does that mean?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, her gaze drifted toward the floating firefly-like creatures, their golden glow reflecting off the glass-like surface of the water below.

  Some of them landed on lilypads, their soft bodies brushing against frogs that seemed to manifest from the depths, born from the bayou’s quiet breath.

  Bolton followed her gaze, his expression distant. “My father said Midnight Trains are like pocket worlds. Bridges connected by Yerro. Allowed by Yerro.” He muttered, almost to himself.

  Sarah’s smile flickered, unreadable. “More like pocket minds.”

  She turned, her movements light—almost too light—as if gravity had loosened its grip on her. Then, she gestured toward the water.

  “Sit.”

  Bolton hesitated, scanning the train cart—a world within a train cart, a bayou suspended in the belly of the Midnight Train. His own reflection in the water stared back at him, distorted by the firefly glow.

  Sarah remained still, watching him. Waiting.

  “So you don’t know what happens when we die, Mr. Would-Be King.”

  Bolton exhaled slowly, gaze lowering. “We go back to Mother Green.”

  He stared at his reflection one last time before reluctantly taking a seat. Then, for the first time since the train started moving, he dipped his feet into the water.

  It was warm—unnervingly so. The surface barely rippled, as if reluctant to acknowledge his presence.

  “Why aren’t we running, Sarah?”

  Sarah’s fingers traced the edge of the dock. “Michael pulled strings so that Pistol would pick up the toughest group of miners from their riff-raffin’ party in Quadrant One. That’s where Aurous found you—brought you on with his giant lizard.”

  Bolton frowned. “That doesn’t answer my question.” He flicked his foot, splashing into his own reflection.

  Sarah let the ripples settle before she spoke again.

  “Because the train has split. Midnight Trains are truly something special.”

  She lifted her chin slightly, glancing toward the firefly-lit sky. “You know the New Dwardian jingle.”

  “A Midnight Train always meets its destination. Stars of night—” she started.

  “Will see it shine.” Bolton finished, his voice quieter now. “Yeah. My mother used to tell us that.”

  Sarah nodded. “So trust Pistol. Our destination is a moon’s lick away.”

  Bolton raised an eyebrow. “Your Quadrant Six lingo is showing.”

  Sarah smirked, but before she could reply—

  A sharp hiss of steam cut through the quiet.

  Bolton barely had time to register it before the door at the far end of the train cart groaned open. A long, creeping shadow stretched across the floor, cast by the lantern light beyond. It moved slowly, deliberately, before its owner followed—heavy boots striking against the warped wooden planks, each step unhurried, inevitable.

  Pistol stood in the doorway, his massive frame filling it entirely. The glow of the lanterns barely touched him, leaving only his silhouette—a figure carved from the very bones of the Midnight Train. His coat hung loose over broad shoulders, and his hat sat low over his eyes, shadowing his expression.

  For a moment, he said nothing. He simply exhaled, a slow, measured breath that cut through the air like steam venting from old machinery.

  Then—his voice rumbled through the car, steady, certain, the weight of iron scraping against stone.

  “Come, boy.”

  The words weren’t a command. They weren’t a question. They were fact.

  “The battle was not won.” He tilted his chin slightly, the dim light catching the edge of his weathered features. “However… it moves to another day.”

  Bolton hesitated, his fingers curling against the damp wooden dock beneath him. His thoughts were a tangled mess, but only one rose to the surface.

  “And the Yardrats?” His voice was quieter now, careful.

  Pistol turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder. For a moment, it looked as if he might not answer. Then—

  “Aurous is protecting them.” His voice was heavy with something unreadable. “All we can do is trust him. Quadrant Ten is their home. They should have an advantage. Even against a Malice like that.”

  The words sank into Bolton’s chest like stones, settling deep.

  The lanterns flickered. The train groaned.

  Pistol stepped back into the next car, disappearing into the shadows beyond.

  Bolton swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears. His muscles ached, exhaustion creeping in, but still—he stood.

  Sarah remained seated, watching him, fireflies dancing in the air between them.

  Bolton exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. Then, without another word, he turned to follow Pistol into the unknown.

  “Bolton.”

  He paused, glancing over his shoulder.

  Sarah’s expression was unreadable, her fingers brushing absently against the wooden dock. The fireflies hovered close, their golden glow casting shifting patterns across her face.

  “I was supposed to give you this.”

  Bolton frowned. “What?”

  She hesitated—just for a second—then met his gaze, her voice quieter now.

  “Aurous’ heart.”

  The train groaned beneath them, metal shifting deep in its bones.

  Sarah inhaled slowly, her grip tightening around something unseen in her palm.

  “One of the thirteen pieces.”

  Bolton’s breath hitched.

  The door behind him remained open. Pistol waited. The Midnight Train rumbled on, destination unknown.

  And for the first time in a long time—he didn’t know whether to move forward or turn back.

  The door slammed shut.

  Darkness swallowed the train car whole.