The warmth crept steadily through his hands, spreading outward like fire licking at dry wood. Sylene glanced at his thumb, the cracked skin splitting further under the strain. He studied it with quiet detachment, eyes thoughtful rather than alarmed. It would heal—it always did. The firebird blood within him would see to that. This wasn't the first time he'd pushed his body to its limits, and it wouldn't be the last.
The memories of his personal documents resurfaced, faint and fleeting, like echoes in the back of his mind. A fallen noble house on his mother's side, infamous for the most beautiful vampire lineage and the blood of a rare firebird hybrid from his father's.
The details were sparse, but the facts were enough. His body was unique, the concentration of firebird blood so high that even the scientists spoke of him with a mixture of awe and unease. He had outlived other experiments, and his twin. That, in itself, was a quiet rebellion against his fate.
The train shuddered beneath him, the metallic groan of wheels on icy tracks breaking the stillness. He exhaled again, gaze sweeping the area with practiced calm. Frost clung to his lashes, and the scent of coal filled the air, sharp and acrid. Somewhere ahead, drunken laughter and the clatter of glass echoed from another compartment, their merriment a faint reminder of a life he would never have.
"I have to move," he muttered—or his thumbs would fall off soon.
Sylene shifted, movements fluid and deliberate. He leapt to the next car, landing precisely despite the slick surface. The coal dust was thick, clinging to his boots and filling the air with its gritty scent.
Inside the heavy metal door, a small furnace burned weakly in the corner, its glow subdued but steady. It wasn't much, but it would suffice. He crouched beside it, the faint heat brushing against his frostbitten skin.
Once he felt a little better, he moved to the door. Pulling out his ice rose, hands dug into the thick snow beside the train door, shaping a small mound and gently buried the rose within it. Maybe after three days, he'd return to check on it. It shouldn't melt in this temperature.
A small sigh escaped his lips as he went back inside, before carefully securing the rose again for the last time to ensure it wouldn't be swept away or disturbed. Sylene double-checked that the location was hidden well enough to be safe.
When the work was done, Sylene settled beside the small furnace. Yellow-green eyes watched the fire intently while his thumb throbbed, the cracks deepening—yet his expression stayed impassive. The injury drew his gaze, studied with the detached air of someone long accustomed to pain. Two days, maybe three, and it would heal. Maybe.
The firebird's blood demanded rest, proper nutrition, and shelter for recovery. Medicine would help—but he had none.
It didn't matter.
He would endure, as he always had.
The faint crackle of the furnace filled the quiet, its glow casting shifting shadows on the soot-covered walls. He reached into the coal heap with pale hands methodically sifting through the jagged fragments. Dust clung to his skin, smudging his face and hair until he looked like a phantom born from the darkness. Eventually, his fingers brushed against something soft—a scrap of fabric, frayed and stained but intact.
Sylene wrapped it around his thumb with careful precision, tying it tightly. It wasn't much, but it would hold his frostbitten thumb until he settle in the new city. The fire's warmth seeped into him, dulling the ache in his limbs. He leaned back against the furnace, gaze fixed on the faint glow of the coals.
There was no anger, no desperation in his demeanor—only a quiet, stoic resolve. This was his reality. It was neither cruel nor kind, simply a series of challenges to be met and endured. He closed his eyes briefly, letting the warmth seep into his weary body. The fight wasn't over. It never truly was. But for now, this was enough. Sylene close his weary eyes, letting the night take him into a dreamless sleep.
---
On the third day of his ride, the massive train came to a grinding halt. Sylene, worn and weary, had been surviving on scraps left behind in the dining car. The remnants weren't much, but they were enough to keep him going. After all, he had endured far worse. His injured thumb throbbed persistently; though it wasn't healing quickly, it remained attached, and the cracks hadn't worsened—small mercies for now.
He quickly slipped outside to retrieve the perfectly intact ice rose and returned just as fast. The train was almost at a complete stop—he had to move quickly.
For the past three days, Sylene had hidden in the dark, grimy coal storage platform—a forsaken section of the train that no one seemed to venture into. The space was windowless, its walls streaked with soot and heavy with damp air. A small furnace and a neglected chair sat unused, hinting that a guard was once meant to be stationed there, though none had ever appeared. Perhaps the stale air and endless piles of coal were enough to keep even the most dutiful away.
Thanks to his heightened hearing, Sylene remained certain of his solitude. He hadn't sensed any activity within two platforms of his hiding spot.
The first night had been restless; his senses were on high alert, ears straining for any sound of danger. By the second day, he had rigged a makeshift alarm—a precarious mound of coal near the door that would tumble noisily if disturbed. The precaution allowed him to sleep a little easier. For two nights, his solitude remained undisturbed, but as dawn broke on the third day, faint footsteps echoed outside the door.
Heart pounding, Sylene squeezed himself into a narrow crevice, his slight frame pressed against the cold steel. His ears twitched, catching snippets of conversation as two men approached.
"You check the other platform," one grumbled. "I'll bring more people to unload this one."
"Hah! Brave, aren't you?" the second man scoffed. "If I go, you'll be alone here. Don't you know this place is haunted?"
The first man sighed impatiently. "Is that why you've been slacking? I've only seen you loitering in the dining car. You're supposed to be doing your duty. In here."
The second guard smirked. "It's just coal. I'm not wasting my time babysitting rocks and ghosts when there's a pretty cook in the dining car."
"So, the ghost story's your excuse? Go get the others. I want this over with."
"Fine," the second man chuckled lazily. "But don't blame me if the ghost gets you." He wandered off toward another platform, leaving his companion muttering under his breath.
"I swear, if he weren't close to the director…" The remaining guard trailed off as his eyes fell on the mess of coal piled haphazardly against the door. Then he felt the brakes engage slightly as the train began to decelerate.
The guard clicked his tongue in irritation. "Tch. Useless. That's why they assign guards to these platforms—to clear this every two days. But no, he's too busy flirting with the cook!"
Pushing the door open with a grunt, he shoved aside the stubborn pile and stepped inside. His gaze swept the dimly lit space. The furnace was still burning, which struck him as odd. It should have gone cold if no one had been tending it—it was designed that way. A chill ran down his spine as shadows danced eerily across the coal piles.
For a moment, a faint crunch near the door caught his attention. The guard turned sharply, but nothing was there—only a faint blur of something dark slipping out of sight. His heart pounded in his chest.
"What is tha—?"
"This place is haunted."
The other guard's words suddenly echoed in his mind.
Rooted to the spot, he stood frozen until the second guard returned, leading a group of workers.
"What's wrong with you?" the second guard asked, noticing his pale face.
"You...you're right," he replied in a hushed tone.
"About what?"
"Maybe this place is... really haunted?"
But he was met with laughter and mockery from the other guards.