The road north wound through rolling hills and sparse woods, the Riders keeping to steady pace. The air was crisp, carrying the bite of approaching winter. Their breath plumed white as they rode, and the sound of hooves thudded like a heartbeat across the empty land.
They had fought, they had bled, but now came the quieter march between storms. The sort of days when men's minds turned to thoughts beyond battle — to home, to food, to dreams.
That night, as the Riders settled around their fire, Edwen sketched idly in the dirt with the tip of a stick. Steam and wheels, rails and pistons — lines and shapes that belonged to another world. The men didn't notice at first, too busy with their cards and jokes, but Brandt's sharp eyes caught it.
"What's that, captain?" he asked, leaning over.
Edwen smudged the lines with his boot. "Nothing."
Brandt grinned. "That's no nothing. You were drawing that train of yours, weren't you?"
A few heads turned at the word, smirks breaking out. Harthor puffed on his pipe and shook his head. "The lad's obsessed. If he's not cleaning that rifle, he's chewing the captain's ear about his damned iron horse."
"Better an iron horse than a dead one," Brandt shot back, unbothered. He plopped down beside Edwen, eyes bright. "Go on. Show me how it works again."
Torwald groaned low. "Spare us the madness. The boy will start dreaming smoke and gears at this rate."
But Edwen, despite himself, relented. He crouched and drew again, cleaner this time: a long rectangle for the boiler, wheels beneath, pipes feeding into pistons. The Riders leaned in despite their jeers, curiosity tugging at them.
"You build a fire here," Edwen explained, tapping the crude boiler. "It heats water into steam. The pressure pushes these pistons, which turn the wheels. The more steam, the faster it goes."
Brandt's mouth fell open in mock awe. "So it eats fire and spits speed? That's… that's sorcery."
"Not sorcery," Edwen said with a faint smile. "Just science."
"Same thing to me," Roderic muttered, drawing laughter.
Harthor chuckled, pipe smoke wreathing his beard. "Mark me, boy. One day, you'll build this monster, and it'll blow itself to pieces the moment you light the fire."
"Then we'll build a better one," Brandt said firmly, surprising even himself with the certainty in his voice. He looked back at Edwen. "You'll do it, captain. I know you will. And I'll be there the day it runs its first rails."
Edwen said nothing for a moment, staring into the boy's eager face. He felt the weight of the promise pressing on him, heavier than armor. "Then I'll make sure it runs," he said at last, voice quiet but steady.
The men laughed, teased, and mocked the dream, but when the fire burned low and sleep claimed them, Edwen found Brandt still awake, staring up at the stars with a smile.
"Steam and fire," the boy whispered, as though speaking to the night. "One day…"
Edwen turned on his side, closing his eyes. He did not tell Brandt that dreams had a habit of breaking. Some truths were better left unsaid.
The days slipped by in a rhythm of hooves, powder, and laughter. The Riders of the Golden Storm, though scarred and weary, carried themselves like men who belonged to the saddle and the fire alike. Forty-seven still rode, each with his habits, his voice, his place in the great living chain.
At dawn, Torwald had them drilling — rifles leveled, bolts worked, volleys snapped out in perfect unison. He stalked the line like a wolf, scar catching the pale light. "Again," he barked. "Faster. If you can't load blindfolded, you're dead. Do it again."
Brandt groaned as he fumbled a cartridge, dropping powder into the dirt. "I'll get it, I'll get it—"
Torwald's hand smacked the back of his head. "You'll get dead if you waste time."
Harthor's booming laugh rolled across the camp. "Careful, boy, the scarred one'll turn your ears inside out if you don't mind him."
Even Edwen chuckled, though he covered it with a cough.
By midday, the drills gave way to lighter moods. Roderic hummed while he sharpened his blade. Dunwald wrestled another Rider to the ground, crowing about his "scar's strength." Eofric, as always, passed around his precious dried apples, demanding a song in exchange for each slice.
That night, the talk turned to dreams.
"I'll tell you this," Harthor said, pipe glowing in the dark, "when this campaign's over, I'll go home, take my boots off, and never put 'em on again. My wife will fatten me with stew and bread, and I'll never lift a blade unless it's to carve meat."
"Your wife'll chase you out with that same blade," Torwald muttered dryly, earning laughter.
One by one, the men spoke of what they'd do. Some dreamed of farms, others of taverns, a few of gold. Brandt, of course, lifted his head with a grin. "I'll ride the captain's train. First man aboard, first man to see the world fly by on iron wheels."
That earned hoots and jeers, the men making noises like steam-whistles, but Brandt only laughed louder. "Laugh now. You'll beg me for a seat when it runs."
Edwen said nothing, only listening. Every dream spoken that night felt like a stone pressed into his chest. He had learned in another life how fragile such dreams could be.
The laughter dimmed days later when they found the village.
It lay in a shallow valley, no more than a cluster of huts and pens, but the smoke still rose. The stench hit them first — burned wood, burned flesh. The huts were blackened husks, the ground churned with prints.
Edwen dismounted slowly, kneeling to study the earth. The tracks were deep, wide, clawed. "Orcs," he murmured. "Dozens. Maybe more."
Harthor's pipe clenched tight between his teeth. "Too many for a wandering band."
Torwald crouched beside him, eyes cold. "A host is gathering."
The Riders stood in grim silence, the firelight of their campfires now far behind them, shadows lengthening across the land.
Brandt shifted uneasily, rifle clutched to his chest. "Then we'll face them," he said, trying for boldness, though his voice caught.
Edwen rose, cloak stirring in the wind. "We'll face them," he said. His gaze swept the horizon, golden eyes hard. "But we'll be ready."
The Riders nodded, the bond between them tightening in the gathering dark.
The storm was coming.