On the sixth day of travel, in the grey hour before the sun has cleared the horizon, an elderly man boards the train at a small village station.
He is fair-skinned, dressed in a charcoal coat and matching trousers, a dark brown waistcoat over a caramel shirt, a weathered brown suitcase in hand. He makes his way into one of the central passenger carriages and takes the first available bench he finds, setting the suitcase at his feet.
He removes his top hat, setting it on his knee. Beneath it, his hair is fading black threaded with grey, thinning at the crown. His hazel eyes move slowly around the carriage — unhurried, taking stock. Most of the other passengers are attempting to sleep on the wooden benches, the carriage quiet in the particular way of early morning travel.
The exception is a boy running back and forth along the central aisle, indifferent to the hour. As he passes the old man, the train jolts into motion. The boy pitches forward — and the man catches him, one hand out, steady.
"Careful." His voice is gentle, worn smooth with age. "Hold on to something when it moves." He guides the boy's hand to the railing beside the bench and lets go once the grip is secure.
The boy's mother appears a moment later, apologetic. "I'm sorry — he's impossible to keep still, even at this hour."
"Don't be." The man rises from his seat. "Boys his age should be given room to roam. That's how they gather the experience they'll need to become fine men."
He picks up his suitcase and leaves the carriage.
The old man moves toward the rear of the train at a measured pace, pausing briefly in certain carriages — long enough to observe, not long enough to be noticed — before continuing on. Eventually he reaches the door of the rear carriage and knocks in a specific rhythm.
Colette opens it and steps aside to let him through without a word. He passes the bedrooms and enters the lounge, where Lleuad is on the couch reading. Baojun emerges from his bedroom as the man sets his suitcase on the dining table.
He faces the three of them and removes his hat. "Good morning." His manner is respectful without being formal. "My name is Gustav Kessler. On behalf of Frostvein, I want to thank you for coming on such short notice. This situation requires swift action — left unchecked, it will spiral."
He places his hat on a chair, opens the suitcase, and begins organising the paperwork onto the table. "There is a new gang operating in the city. They call themselves the Hearth. They've grown rapidly — largely because of six leading members." He sets the last document down. "All of whom are Blighted."
The room goes quiet. Colette and Baojun's expressions shift — not panic, but a particular, controlled concern. Lleuad looks between them, noting the reaction more than sharing it.
"That is extremely serious," Colette says. She catches Lleuad's look and adds: "Six Blighted in a single location is almost unheard of. Six who are actively cooperating with one another even more so."
"Indeed." Gustav nods grimly. With a sweep of his hand, he invites the trio to review the documents while he continues. "We believe they received their powers approximately four weeks ago. Within the first week, they had already displaced every other gang in Frostvein — no hesitation, no negotiation. What concerns us more than their strength is the support they've been building among the citizens. They are never without a crowd around them. That has made it impossible for our Executioners or Hunters to move against them discretely."
Colette, Baojun and Lleuad begin working through the documents.
Colette lifts the target reports — one page per subject, written on both sides, each including a physical description, background, and account of known capabilities. She reads each one quickly and passes it to Baojun, who goes directly to the section on combat abilities and nothing else, then passes it along to Lleuad. Lleuad reads each profile in full — and while he does, his other hand works through the remaining documents that the others have set aside as peripheral, turning pages and scanning content that has not drawn anyone else's attention.
Target One
Axel Havard. Leader of the Hearth. Male, 19 years of age. Height: 5'11. Semblance: strength increases proportionally to the concentration of negative emotion in those surrounding him. Self-taught boxer of natural talent. Most skilled fighter in the group and possesses the highest potential ceiling of any Semblance among them.
Son of two police officers, both killed by a gang when Axel was fourteen. Taken in by the Hearth orphanage, where he rapidly became a central and stabilising figure for the community.
The photograph shows a tall, well-built young man who looks younger than his years — ruddy-faced, clear blue eyes, an expression that is composed to the point of stoniness. His russet-blonde hair is kept close, almost military in its discipline. The grey jacket and brown trousers give him a workman's solidity. On his right arm he wears a weathered police armband.
Target Two
Gunnar Lutvik. Second in command. Male, 19 years of age. Height: 6'4. Dog Faunus. Semblance: a targeted taunt that compels a chosen individual to direct their aggression toward him. Proficient in unarmed combat — no formal martial arts training. Relies primarily on physical strength.
Born to a Faunus family of Dust refinery workers. His parents were known as pillars of their community despite the discrimination they faced. Both died during a refinery accident when Gunnar was nine — they had stayed behind to evacuate other workers and inhaled a fatal concentration of Dust in the process. No one took the boy in afterward, including the orphanages. He spent years on the streets of Frostvein before being brought in by the Hearth orphanage, eventually becoming one of the gang's founding members.
The photograph shows a tall and heavily built young man, slightly tanned, his light brown hair kept short. His dog ears are unhidden, sitting plainly above his head, and his fluffy brown tail emerges from the back of a charcoal trenchcoat worn open over a dusty green shirt tucked into charcoal trousers held up by suspenders. His dark green eyes look directly at the camera.
Target Three
Stellan Berg. Male, 17 years of age. Height: 5'6. Semblance: can produce breathable air from his palms, and compress it into high-velocity wind projectiles capable of cutting metal. No martial arts training. Uses a metal pipe as his primary weapon.
Born into a mining family, Stellan spent his entire childhood working underground alongside his parents. Both were killed when a mineshaft collapsed — Stellan survived the cave-in and remained underground for several weeks, kept alive by his Semblance. He continued working in the mines until the operation closed when he was twelve, then moved to Frostvein in search of work. Found near starvation by Axel, who brought him into the group.
The photograph shows a short, slight boy — pale-faced, grey-eyed, his expression carrying the particular flatness of someone who has been tired for a long time. His short light brown hair is marked with dark patches. He wears what appears to be old mining clothes: a blue cotton shirt roughly tucked into black trousers, covered by a worn charcoal coat.
Target Four
Henrik. Male, 15 years of age. Height: 5'8. Semblance: can render any surface or object in his vicinity frictionless. Weakest combatant in the group. No martial arts training. Uses a crowbar as his weapon.
Parents unknown — abandoned at age four and raised entirely within the Hearth orphanage. Smaller than others his age for most of his childhood, he was frequently bullied because of it. When Axel arrived at the orphanage, Henrik was among the first to attach himself to him. Axel's influence became the catalyst for his development into someone the group now regards as a protective and caring presence.
The photograph shows a fair-skinned boy, thin, with platinum-blonde hair falling to his collar in an unkempt sprawl. Despite his slight build, he stands straight, his light brown eyes carrying an unmistakable confidence and warmth. He wears a beige coat over a caramel shirt neatly tucked into charcoal trousers, the hems frayed and torn.
Target Five
Nils. Male, 18 years of age. Height: 5'7. Weasel Faunus. Semblance: omnidirectional sensory awareness that allows him to detect incoming attacks from any direction at speeds far exceeding normal human perception, rendering him effectively blind-spot-free in combat. No formal martial arts training, compensated for by exceptional natural ability. Carries a dagger and is highly proficient with it.
Born to a prostitute in the red light district. Raised from an early age in the margins — concealing his Faunus features in public, surviving through theft. Joined the Hearth gang at seventeen.
The photograph shows a pale, lean boy — thin at first glance, but the gaps in his tattered clothing reveal the kind of muscle that comes from necessity rather than training. His hair is dark brown at the roots and fades to sandy at the tips, covered by a dusty newsboy cap. His hazel eyes carry a fixed alertness, as though he noticed the camera before the shutter opened. He wears a black coat — manually shortened — over a charcoal shirt left untucked above black trousers. The handle of a dagger is just visible at his side.
Target Six
Viggo. Male, 17 years of age. Height: 5'9. Semblance: anything he makes physical contact with ignites. The fires produced are exceptionally intense and resistant to conventional suppression. No formal martial arts training, though a natural fighter of considerable instinct. Carries no fixed weapon — improvises with whatever is available in the environment.
A blacksmith's son from a town near Frostvein, Viggo ran away at thirteen and quickly became a known source of chaos in the city — multiple incidents of mass disruption, several arrests for arson. The only person who has ever successfully brought him to heel is Axel. He now follows the gang's leader with complete loyalty, serving as the group's primary instrument of fear.
The photograph shows a lanky, ruddy teenager with bright ginger hair worn in spikes. He is, notably, the best-dressed of the six: a deep navy frock coat over a russet waistcoat — the color an exact match for his fiery hazel eyes — above a white shirt and charcoal trousers. The overall effect is almost sophisticated, which sits in sharp contrast to everything the file describes about him. Of all six, he is the most openly pompous, the most vain, and by every measure the most unpredictable.
— — —
While digging deeper into the stack of supplementary papers, Lleuad's fingers brush against a separate document detailing the Hearth orphanage itself.
The file describes a rundown, crumbling establishment situated right in the dead center of Frostvein— a bleak structure long abandoned by most institutions because of its proximity to the city's most violent territory. It is run by a single elderly woman who has, by all accounts, become a mother to the children no one else would take. The building houses considerably more children than it was built for. Despite everything, the surrounding neighborhood speaks of its keeper with consistent warmth, and many of the orphans who have passed through it call her mother still.
Sifting further through the orphanage records, Lleuad stumbles upon a group photograph captured not too long ago. All six targets are present — and surrounding them are the faces of children who look, against all reasonable expectation given what the document describes, healthy. Content. Looked after.
Lleuad holds the photograph for a moment.
"The entire gang is made up of orphaned children," he remarks, his voice dropping into a heavily grieved, somber tone as he stares at the smiling faces. "Barely any of them are of age."
"Yes..." Gustav's voice carries something that has not been in it until now. "Most of the Dust on the island has been exhausted. Without any other viable industry, the city is slowly dying — and that kind of slow death breeds lawlessness, violence, and more orphans than anyone knows what to do with. The ideal conditions for the Count." The anger underneath the last sentence is not hidden.
He pauses to collect himself, then continues. "Unfortunately we haven't had enough time to prepare anything more sophisticated. The Blighted split up at night to patrol their territories — accompanied by gang members, but with considerably fewer civilians around them. The plan is to move against them during those patrols. We have Watchmen in position tracking their movements, so you will have precise locations the night you arrive." He sets his hands flat on the table. "It isn't ideal, but it is the best available option."
Gustav exhales slowly. "I apologize that we couldn't offer you more to work with."
"Please don't." Colette's tone is measured and genuine. "We understand the situation. From everything you've shared, speed is the priority." She glances at Lleuad and Baojun. "We'll split up. Move fast and finish this cleanly."
Both nod.
Gustav looks between them. "You're certain? Some of the patrols run in pairs. Occasionally three."
"That won't be a problem," Colette replies, without hesitation.
"What of the bystanders?" Lleuad asks.
"At your discretion," Colette answers.
A brief pause. "Then I'd like to take the leader," Lleuad says. "Given my abilities, I think I'm the best match for his Semblance."
Colette considers this and nods. She glances at Baojun, who responds with a short shrug — no objection.
The carriage emerges from darkness into sudden, blinding light. All four turn toward the windows instinctively, and when their eyes adjust they find the train crossing a massive bridge stretching between the mainland and the island, the water far below them catching the early sun and breaking it into countless fragments. The horizon holds the sun just barely above the waterline — its light scattered across the surface in a wide, shifting blaze that makes the whole sea appear to be quietly burning.
The four of them watch in silence for a moment.
Then Colette looks around the carriage. Her gaze finds Lleuad. He is still holding the group photograph, and his expression has not changed since he first picked it up.