As the locomotive carved its way across the countryside toward Rosendale—bearing Norman, Aldrich, and the rogue mage with it—a quieter, more insidious tension had begun to fester at the rear of the train.
The VIP suite—it was no mere carriage—it was a fortress wrapped in velvet.
Each chamber stood as a sanctum of opulence and secrecy: walls of mana-imbued wood pulsed with silent enchantments, windows layered with sigil-glass shimmered with protective wards, and gold-trimmed panels hummed softly with privacy seals.
Only the most powerful noble houses of the Empire could command such luxury—and such discretion.
Three families rode there today: Reinhart of Rosenvale, Ashbourne of the Eastern Marches, and Vermont of the High Coast.
In one of the lavish compartments, Lady Freya Reinhart, daughter of the Duke of Rosenvale, reclined in composed silence.
She sat by the panoramic window, her gown the color of crushed pearl, catching the morning light in a soft shimmer.
Golden curls tumbled over her bare shoulders like molten silk. A sapphire choker adorned her throat, mirroring the cool clarity of her eyes.
She watched the countryside blur past, her expression distant, her thoughts veiled.
"Will we arrive by luncheon?" she asked softly, her voice spun from roses and frost.
"Yes, my lady," her maid replied, offering a cup of tea with both hands.
Freya accepted it with practiced grace—then paused.
The air shifted.
Above, the crystal chandeliers swayed imperceptibly.
The golden light bathing the room flickered—once, then again.
Something was wrong.
Celine noticed it too.
She straightened slightly, fingers brushing the folds of her uniform where concealed weapons lay hidden.
"My lady," she murmured, "we're decelerating... on flat terrain."
Lady Freya rose in a single, fluid motion—grace sculpted into flesh.
Every step she took was a study in poised danger, like a blade wrapped in silk.
Her gown flowed like starlight, but her eyes were cold and unblinking as she approached the larger window.
Fog pressed thick against the glass. And through a break in it, as the train curved eastward—she saw the impossible.
The locomotive was gone.
It had uncoupled, charging ahead alone, leaving the rest of the train adrift.
Her voice sliced through the stillness, calm and cold as steel: "Seal the doors."
Celine moved at once, fingers flying across the arcane locking mechanisms, activating the suite's latent enchantments.
Then the intercom crackled to life.
"To all passengers… we regret to inform you… the train is no longer under your control."
The voice wasn't quite human. It slithered through the speakers like oil through water.
"Remain in your seats. Or don't. It changes nothing."
From deeper in the carriage, a low thud echoed.
Then—the unmistakable crack of a door being kicked in.
Freya turned toward the sound, her spine straightening, eyes narrowing.
"They're not here for just me," she said, more to herself than anyone.
Then, without looking back: "Get your guns, Celine."
Celine didn't hesitate.
With practiced ease, she slipped behind a velvet screen, her skirts rustling.
Moments later, the demure lines of her uniform parted—revealing tight black combat leggings beneath.
She drew twin pistols—sleek, rune-etched, holstered at her thighs—then slid two curved daggers from sheaths hidden in her corset.
She emerged armed, eyes sharp.
"Confirmed: intrusion from the rear," she reported, voice low. "Multiple boots. Coordinated entry."
Freya gave a single nod. Calm. Composed. Unshaken.
She stepped to the armoire and opened a hidden panel.
From it, she withdrew a rapier—slender and silver, the hilt etched with the glowing sigils of House Reinhart.
The thuds grew louder.
Outside, the corridor erupted in chaos.
A sharp blast of magic rattled the walls. Glass fractured down the hall. Screams pierced the air—brief, then silenced.
Nobles further down were being eliminated. Efficiently. Ruthlessly.
"These aren't common raiders, my lady," Celine murmured.
"Of course not," Freya replied. "Look at who they're targeting."
The door shuddered as something heavy struck it. Once. Then again.
But the Reinhart suite's wards held—for now.
Celine crouched behind an upholstered chaise, guns raised. Her stance was flawless—a soldier's precision behind a servant's face.
The door cracked open—just enough to admit a sliver of smoke.
A small, spherical object bounced through the gap, clinking once before hissing. Green mist unfurled across the velvet carpet.
Celine fired without hesitation.
The orb exploded mid-air, its enchantment undone.
A second later, the door was blown inward in a storm of force, splinters and smoke flung wide.
Three intruders burst through.
Masked. Cloaked in padded black armor laced with magical augmentation.
Their rifles weren't Imperial spec—Freya caught the glint of Eastern warsteel. Smuggled. Illicit.
"You lowlifes picked the wrong chamber," Celine growled.
Then she opened fire.
Twin pistols roared—each shot crackling with violet mana. The first attacker dropped before his boot crossed the threshold, chest shattered.
The second raised his rifle—too slow.
Celine dove, rolled, and came up behind him. Her dagger found his throat. Final. Silent.
Freya remained still.
She waited.
The third attacker—a brute wielding a massive axe—stormed in.
Not designed for elegance. Just destruction.
He raised the weapon to strike.
She met his charge head-on.
One elegant sidestep—just enough.
Her rapier slid between armor plates. She twisted.
He gasped—and fell.
Freya exhaled, barely winded.
"Three down," she said coolly. "Dozens to go."
But then—
A hum filled the air.
Low. Resonant. Wrong.
Celine pivoted toward the corridor. "Someone's casting."
Freya crossed to the window. The fog outside had grown into a wall.
Shapes moved beyond it—more intruders, slipping between carriages.
Far more than three.
A flash of green light from down the hall—one of the other nobles had triggered a ward.
An explosion followed.
Freya turned to Celine. "They're not taking hostages."
Celine nodded grimly. "Should we fall back?"
"No," Freya replied, slipping on a pair of enchanted gloves. They shimmered with restrained power.
"We cut through them and regroup with the Vermont and the Ashbourne."
From the corridor—more footsteps. Heavier. Rhythmic.
And from beyond them… a new sound.
Whispers.
Not from mouths—but from the walls.
A sibilant, spell-bound chant, echoing through the train's mana lines.
Celine's eyes widened. "Spellbreaker. He's corrupting the circuit seals—to disable the wards."
Freya turned. Her gaze cut like knives. "Then we kill him first."
The lights flickered overhead.
And then—he appeared.
A tall figure stepped into the corridor. Pale. Draped in grey robes lined with bone-colored glyphs.
No mask.
Just a smile. Serene. Chilling.
His eyes found Freya. "You… You're Freya Reinhart, aren't you?" His voice was deep, hoarse. "Didn't expect you to come with thorns."
Freya blinked once. Her jaw tightened.
"Celine," she said softly.
"Yes, my lady?"
"Change of plan." She stepped forward, mana blooming at her palms. "We're going to kill them all."
The tall man smirked and stepped forward.
No spell. No chant. Only the sound of steel.
From beneath his flowing grey cloak, he unsheathed two katanas—blades long, slender, and curved with the quiet menace of a predator's smile.
They glinted like moonlight on bone.
Without a word, Celine fired. Pistol raised in a clean shot.
The man didn't dodge.
A silver arc flashed—and the mana-laced round split in two with surgical precision. Both halves embedded harmlessly in the wall behind him.
"What the..." Celine's eyes widened. "Did he just sliced the bullet?"
"Duel wielding, Musashi Style," Freya said tightly. "Eastern discipline. The real kind."
He surged forward.
One blade swept horizontally for Celine's throat; the other thrust straight at Freya's heart.
Celine ducked, diving behind a chair as the upholstery burst in a puff of stuffing and splinters.
Freya twisted sideways, parrying the thrust with her rapier—but the force of the impact rattled her wrist.
He was strong.
Not bulky, but precise. Every strike was intent made flesh.
Freya stepped back, calculating angles.
Celine fired again—twice.
He deflected both bullets with contemptuous flicks of his blades.
"You're out of your league," he said softly.
Freya didn't respond.
She lunged.
Steel met steel.
The clash rang sharp through the hall as her rapier slid against his left katana, while the right curved low—forcing her into a backstep.
He followed, relentless, turning his whole body with each strike like a spinning storm of polished death.
Celine leapt in behind him, blade drawn, aiming for his spine.
He grinned, twisted—unnaturally fast—and parried both women in a single circular sweep.
Freya's blade was knocked wide. Celine's dagger was caught between both his swords—then wrenched from her grip and flung down the corridor.
He moved again, faster than before.
A low, sweeping strike toward Freya's knees. She barely leapt over it—her skirts sliced at the hem.
A sharp elbow knocked her sideways into the wall.
Celine shouted and raised her last pistol—firing point-blank.
Three shots.
He cut them all.
Each bullet met a flash of steel in the narrow hall, ricocheting harmlessly.
"Damn it—!" Celine dropped the gun and drew her second dagger.
Freya was breathing harder now, her rapier defensive, wrists aching. "We're not winning this."
"Not in here," Celine agreed, circling toward the suite door. "Too tight. Too fast."
From down the corridor—a new sound.
Boots. Many.
Their reinforcements had arrived. Dark silhouettes emerging through the fog, armored and armed.
"We're about to be cornered," Celine warned.
Freya's eyes flicked to the high ceiling. Then to the sealed skylight.
She nodded once. "Plan Delta."
Celine grinned. "Yes, my lady."
She spun toward the wall and activated a hidden glyph beside the velvet drapery—mana surged, and the crystal skylight above the suite flashed open with a mechanical hiss.
The wind roared in.
Freya leapt first.
A burst of mana launched her upward, through the skylight and into the chill morning air.
The roof of the train was slick with condensation, and the wind tore at her gown, but she landed in a practiced crouch, rapier still in hand.
Celine followed, vaulting off a chaise with a running jump. She caught the edge, flipped, and landed beside Freya in a slide, twin daggers in reverse grip.
The swordsman reached the skylight a heartbeat later—his cloak snapping in the wind, his twin blades still clean.
He did not climb up.
He leapt.
A soaring blur of grey and silver.
He landed in a crouch opposite them, the roof reverberating under his weight.
Even here—on a moving train, above dizzying speed and death—his balance was perfect.
Then—the others followed.
Dark figures pulled themselves onto the roof from hatches and ladder grips, a half-dozen, then more, armed with rifles and short blades.
The swordsman stood, calm and unreadable.
"Shall we have the last dance?" he said. His voice was steady despite the wind.
Freya straightened beside Celine, eyes scanning the encroaching circle.
"Let's get the music started then."
The wind screamed. Fog rushed past in sheets, the land blurring below at breakneck speed.
Steel flashed.
The swordsman lunged again...