A crowd has gathered at the railway station — word of the new team's departure having spread, people coming to see them off.
Lleuad, having no one beyond Jean to bid him farewell, takes in the platform at a leisurely pace.
Nearby, Baojun stands with Yaquan, who is accompanied by two Faunus maids. Whatever passes between them is quiet and not for anyone else.
Colette has drawn the most people. Geduld and Pascal are both there. The young man Lleuad noticed beside her in the corridor is present too — chestnut-haired, hazel-eyed, his warm smile lending the group around him a quality of ease. Behind it, Lleuad can detect the presence of a great mind, steady and unhurried beneath the warmth.
But it is another figure in that gathering who holds his attention longest.
A woman, fairly young in appearance, fair-skinned, wearing the Huntsman uniform with emerald keys on her epaulettes marking her as a Keybearer. Her lightning blond hair and golden amber eyes animate easily as she speaks to Colette, her expressions open and nurturing, the manner of someone who gives their full attention without effort. And yet behind those warm eyes something else lives — an unbreakable steadiness, a fire burning in still air that neither reaches for attention nor yields to anything.
Jean steps off the train having dropped Lleuad's luggage aboard, and finds him watching the crowd around Colette with an expression of quiet intrigue. "Did someone catch your attention?"
"Yes." Lleuad does not look away. "The Keybearer beside Colette."
"Madeline Agnes." Jean's voice drops into something close to reverence. "The current inheritor of the Fall Maiden powers. Her strength is considered so exceptional that many debate whether she surpasses even Keybearer Schoening."
Lleuad considers this. "I'm not sure. My master is exceptionally difficult to deal with. Unless she has some means of bypassing his defenses specifically, I find it hard to believe she could overcome him."
"Do you happen to know what Sir Schoening's Semblance actually is?" Jean asks, his curiosity barely contained.
"Roughly." Lleuad's expression turns thoughtful. "He never told me directly — that mystery is a large part of what makes him so difficult to face. But I have been on the receiving end of it." A brief pause. "I wouldn't wish that on anyone."
The train's whistle cuts across the platform.
Lleuad turns to Jean. "I suppose it's time. Thank you for looking after me — even if it was only a few days."
"Three days," Jean says, "and you managed to leave quite an impression." A short pause, and then something quieter: "The kids will miss you."
Lleuad smiles.
Jean lets it sit a moment, then adds: "Though you did draw the short straw with Baojun on the team."
Lleuad's smile shifts into something that can only be described as comedically mournful. "Please don't remind me."
Then — voices, and the sound of running feet.
A group of children and young cadets spills onto the platform, slightly breathless, Yona at their back. Lleuad's expression changes the moment he sees them. The children circle around him immediately.
"Good." Yona exhales with theatrical relief. "We almost didn't make it." She meets Lleuad's eyes. "Good luck out there."
Lleuad smiles back — warmly, fully, without reservation.
The train sounds its final whistle. Lleuad extricates himself from the children, steps aboard, and turns in the doorway to wave — one last look at all of them.
The train pulls out. The platform falls away. The tunnel swallows it whole.
— — —
Lleuad is the last to enter the carriage's central room. Baojun is already seated on one of the sofas, his gaze directed deliberately away from the door. At the far end of the carriage, Colette moves through their equipment and clothing with methodical, unhurried attention.
Lleuad helps himself to something from the snack bar and waits.
Finishing her task, Colette turns to face them both. "We have some time before we reach the capital. We should use it." She steps closer to the centre of the room. "Proper introductions — combat capabilities included. We're a team now and we should know what we're working with." She settles. "I'll go first."
"My name is Colette Arc. My Semblance allows me to create anything I can clearly visualize."
A small dagger appears above her open palm, suspended in the air. It is followed by a pistol, and then an intricate mechanical watch — each subsequent object taking a fraction longer to form than the last. "Complexity costs time and concentration. The more detailed what I'm creating, the more of both it requires." She lets the items hang a moment, then adds: "I can also levitate anything I create."
Several pistols appear simultaneously. Lleuad's eyebrows lift, a flash of genuine surprise breaking through his calm.
"I have also been modified by the Everwatch to use my Semblance more efficiently. This primarily manifests as a more powerful mind, capable of handling the creation of large quantities simultaneously." A moment later, a dense array of thin, sharp blades materializes around her, each one distinct, the whole thing assembled in seconds. "The modifications include physical enhancements so that my body can keep pace with my mind. I have mastered Aura Manipulation and am versed in every known combat form. I use Dust — any kind — though it isn't a requirement." She pauses. "I should be able to cover whatever blind spots we have between us."
Everything she has created vanishes at once.
She looks at Lleuad. "Your turn."
Lleuad steps away from the snack bar toward the centre of the room. "Lleuad Sulienson. I specialise in fencing — my weapon of preference is a sidesword. I've mastered Aura Manipulation. I use Dust sparingly, Lightning primarily." He pauses. "My Semblance—"
The mark on his forehead lifts and reshapes into the shattered crown above his head. The Specter forms beside him — the floating white mantle, the silver mask, present and shifting.
"—is this." There is a faint note of something in his voice as he says it. Not pride. Something more complicated. "It has no mind of its own, so I have to maintain concentration when using it — I've become reasonably capable of doing so mid-fight, though not for anything particularly intricate. It cannot be re-summoned to my position; it has to return to me." The Specter moves as he speaks, its form flowing through several shapes — elongated, compressed, spread wide — always maintaining the same distance from him. "What it does well is endure. I haven't encountered anything capable of damaging it. And it's malleable enough to take almost any shape I need."
The Specter stills.
"In a team fight, if I'm given enough room to focus, I can use it to provide cover for both of you — freeing you to concentrate on offence."
Colette has drifted closer during the demonstration, her glacial eyes moving over the Specter with open curiosity. "That's a genuinely remarkable ability," she says, more to herself than to him.
She turns to Baojun.
He meets her expectant look and exhales once through his nose. "Baojun Xiezhi. No Semblance. Master of eastern martial arts and Aura Manipulation. I use Dust in combat — Fire, Wind, and Lightning."
"Good." Colette's tone is measured, neither praising nor pressing. She lets the silence sit for a moment, then: "I've noticed the two of you already have — complications, let's say."
Baojun's expression, already cold, settles into something colder. Lleuad puts his left hand on the back of his head and smiles with a specific awkwardness that acknowledges everything without explaining it. "You could say that."
"It's a problem." Colette says it plainly, without accusation. "I know both of you are capable of keeping your composure. But under enough pressure, compromised teamwork will cost us."
"Then direct your concern at this suicidal fool." Baojun's voice is level, but the hostility underneath it is not. "The way he fights — it's as if he has no regard for his own survival. Frankly, I'm surprised he made it back from the Dark Continent at all." His gaze moves to Lleuad. "I have serious doubts about his ability to do his job."
The accusation hangs in the air, heavy and sharp. Colette looks to Lleuad, who remains remarkably unruffled. He watches Baojun with a steady, haunting calm—not a suppressed anger, but a total absence of the reaction Baojun clearly desires.
"You don't need to worry about that," Lleuad says. "I have always done my job. I'll continue to."
Silence stretches between them, neither man yielding the ground he is standing on.
"Let's not pretend any of us is without fault," Colette interjects, her eyes darting between them. "If you'd like, Baojun, I can—"
"That won't be necessary." Lleuad speaks quietly, without urgency. "Our sparring gave us a clear picture of each other. And whatever master Xiezhi thinks of how I fight—" a brief pause— "I have no doubts about trusting him with my life."
The room is still.
Something crosses Baojun's face — there and gone, barely a flicker, but present. Colette catches it. Lleuad catches it.
"Good," Colette says, the tension releasing from her shoulders in a way she does not try to hide. "That's a start."