The plains rolled wide and empty, the sky low and gray. The Riders pressed eastward, their numbers thinned, their spirits worn thin as old leather.
But in the midst of it, Brandt changed.
Where once he flinched at every arrow's hiss, now he held his rifle steady. Where once he stumbled with nerves, now he drilled clean, bayonet flashing sharp. Torwald himself grunted approval one morning, handing the boy a whetstone.
"Keep that blade hungry," the scarred veteran said. "It'll keep you alive."
Brandt's grin was quick, boyish, but his hands were sure as he worked the steel.
That night, around the fire, Harthor leaned back with his pipe and rumbled, "When we started this march, I thought you'd piss yourself before you ever killed an orc, lad. Now look at you."
The others chuckled, even Torwald's scar twitched into the hint of a smile.
Brandt flushed red but laughed with them, shaking his head. "Don't give me too much credit. I'm just trying to keep up with the captain."
All eyes slid to Edwen. He sat a little apart as always, golden eyes glinting in the firelight. He said nothing, but a rare flicker of a smile touched his lips.
It was enough.
When the watch changed later, Brandt lingered by Edwen's side. His voice was low, awkward.
"Captain… do you ever think about after? When the fighting's done?"
Edwen's gaze stayed on the dark horizon. "After?"
"The train," Brandt said quickly, almost embarrassed. "I can see it sometimes. Not just in my head — I believe it. Iron rails across the plains, smoke on the wind. We could build it. Not just you. All of us."
Edwen looked at him then, really looked, and saw not the boy he'd taken from the farmsteads but a young man standing taller, fire in his eyes.
"You believe in it?" Edwen asked.
Brandt nodded. "Aye. And when it's done, I'll be the first to ride it."
For a moment, Edwen almost let himself believe, too.
They came upon the ruins two days later.
An old village, blackened and broken, its walls charred, its stones cracked. Orc banners fluttered in the smoke, crude symbols daubed in blood. The air stank of iron and ash.
The Riders knew it was a trap, but they rode in anyway.
The ambush fell like a hammer. Arrows hissed, stones tumbled, blades flashed from the shadows. The Riders wheeled, firing rifles, sabers ringing in the smoke.
Edwen fought at the front, golden eyes burning, saber dripping. Torwald held the line like a wall, Harthor bellowed, pipe clenched absurdly in his teeth as he hacked an orc apart.
And Brandt —
Brandt fought like a man who had finally found his place. Rifle cracking, bayonet thrusting, his face set in grim determination. He stayed close to Edwen, matching him strike for strike.
Until the arrow found him.
It came from nowhere, whistling through the smoke. Edwen heard it before he saw it — the wet, terrible sound as it struck.
Brandt staggered, an iron head jutting from his chest. His rifle fell. He dropped to his knees, breath ragged, eyes wide with shock.
"Captain…" His voice was soft, almost apologetic. Blood bubbled on his lips. "I didn't… duck fast enough."
Edwen was off his horse in a heartbeat, catching him before he fell. The boy's weight was frighteningly light.
"You'll be fine," Edwen lied, pressing his hand against the wound. "Stay with me, Brandt. Hear me?"
Brandt tried to smile. His hand fumbled at his pouch, pulling free the last apple he'd carried since the gorge. His fingers were slick, trembling. He pressed it weakly against Edwen's chest.
"For the train," he whispered.
His breath hitched, once, twice. Then nothing.
The Riders roared around them, fury boiling over. They cut down the orcs with savage abandon, fighting not for survival but for vengeance. The ruins shook with their rage.
But Edwen only knelt there, the boy's blood soaking into his cloak, the apple cradled in his hand.
When the battle ended, he rose at last. His face was stone, his eyes golden fire. He slipped the apple into his coat.
Brandt would never see the train.
But by all the gods of men and riders, Edwen swore — he would build it.