A train trekked through the Green Canyon. It ran on the high track built through the canyon. The tall hills surrounded the lifted train tracks. The train itself ran on magic. Sorcerers powered the engine by pouring mana into a special magical tool. This allowed the train to run at high speeds for months on a small amount of energy.
There was another magical tool in the train. A teleporter that allowed for an authorized individual or party to enter the train from a distance of 100 km or less.
Green Canyon stretched on both sides of the elevated track, vast and slow and indifferent. Sheer walls of stone dipped and rose like frozen waves, moss and trees clinging wherever they could. Far below, a river cut a silver line through the earth.
Victoria La Quixota watched it all pass.
Long blonde hair cascaded down, blue eyes shimmered and reflected the sunlight. A face etched with boredom, and maybe something else.
She sat with one leg crossed over the other, posture perfect because she had practiced it until it stopped hurting. The private cabin was too large, too clean, too quiet. Plush seating. Polished brass. Curtains drawn back just enough to let the light in.
The book lay open beside her.
A Tale of Knights.
Its spine was cracked. Corners worn soft by years of rereading. She had memorized most of it by now, but still—she liked to keep it close. Like a charm. Like proof.
Proof that people like her had existed once. Or at least, that they could.
"Miss Quixote!"
She blinked, pulled back into herself.
The butler stood just inside the doorway, hands folded, back straight, face carefully neutral in the way servants were trained to perfect.
"What is it?" Victoria asked.
"Your father has arrived on the train," he said.
Her jaw tightened.
"And my fiancé?" she asked.
"He...hasn't boarded the train yet.."
Victoria closed the book gently, fingers lingering on the cover. She rose, smoothing the front of her dress as she stood.
"Thank you," she said, voice polite. Distant.
The corridor outside her cabin was alive now. Footsteps. Voices. Guards shifting position, boots thudding softly against the enchanted floor. Her father never traveled without an audience.
She followed the sound.
Duke La Quixota stood near the central car, flanked by retainers and guards in polished armor. He looked exactly as she remembered—tall, broad, beard trimmed to precision. Rings heavy on his fingers. A man who wore wealth like a second skin and believed it justified everything beneath it.
"There she is," he said, spotting her immediately. "My daughter."
Victoria stopped a few steps away.
"Father," she replied.
He smiled in that way he always did. Wide. Not even trying to hide the cruelty beneath.
"Still carrying those silly books around?" he asked, nodding toward the one tucked under her arm. "You know, your fiancé prefers poetry. Something more… refined."
One of his companions laughed. "Better than when she used to run around pretending to be a knight, eh?"
"Oh, gods," her father said, waving a hand. "Don't remind me. Armor clanking through the halls. Nearly gave the servants heart attacks."
"Up until two years ago," another added. "Quite the phase."
Victoria felt her cheeks burn.
"It wasn't a phase," she said quietly.
The laughter faded, but no one apologized.
Her father tilted his head, studying her like a misbehaving investment. "You'll grow out of it eventually. Marriage helps."
She swallowed whatever she wanted to say.
Before she could speak again, a low chime echoed through the train.
Once.
Then again.
The teleporter.
A soft glow spread across the sigil-inscribed platform near the front car, runes lighting one by one. Mana flowed visibly now, thin threads of blue-white energy converging toward the circle.
Her father straightened.
"There we are," he said. "Right on time."
Victoria's heart lifted despite herself.
Maybe he's late because he's nervous, she thought. Maybe he's different than the others.
Guards moved to flank the platform. One of her father's friends—Lord Merrow, round and red-faced—stepped forward eagerly.
"I'll greet him," he said. "No need for all this ceremony."
The light intensified. The air took on a coppery smell. And then—
Something wet and sharp.
Lord Merrow froze.
For half a second, no one understood what they were seeing.
Then the blade slid out through his back.
Blood bloomed across his fine coat.
He collapsed. Someone else stood in his place. Clad in red, mask hidden by a hood. A black mask where a face should have been.
Screams erupted. And then something flew out.
It bounced once on the floor.
Rolled.
Stopped.
At Victoria's feet.
She stared down.
Short blonde hair, lifeless glassy eyes, blood stained mouth. Her fiancé's head stared back at her.
She didn't scream.
Her hands moved on their own, catching it as it rolled the rest of the way. The weight shocked her. Warm. Real.
Blood soaked into her gloves.
The train shuddered.
Guards shouted. Weapons came free of sheaths.
"Train's ours now," a voice said from beyond the doorway. "Anyone who wants to argue can do it without their head."
Victoria's fingers tightened around the hair of the man she had been promised to marry.
Blood soaked into her sleeves.
Her father stood behind her, pale, mouth opening and closing without sound.
Something inside Victoria clicked.
Not fear.
Clarity.
The train had been hijacked.
And for the first time in her life....
The world had finally made room for violence.
Victoria did not move.
The screams spread outward through the train like fire through dry grass. Metal doors slammed shut. Locks hissed and clicked as security enchantments activated—one after another—sealing compartments, isolating cars.
Her father was already backing away.
"Seal it," Duke La Quixota barked, voice shrill now, cracking at the edges. "Seal everything behind us!"
"Father—" Victoria started.
He didn't look at her.
He turned, cloak snapping behind him, and ran.
Guards scrambled to follow. Servants tripped over one another. Someone begged. Someone else screamed as a blade found their spine. Doors slammed shut just ahead of the Duke, sealing him safely away while the corridor behind him filled with blood and panic.
Victoria stood alone.
The man in red stepped closer. His sword was already wet. He raised it slowly, deliberately, the tip hovering inches from her throat.
"Well now," he said, voice muffled behind the mask. Amused. "Looks like the Duke forgot something."
She could smell the iron on the blade. See the uneven edge. Too much curve near the tip. Balance slightly off.
Bad grip, she noted absently. He favors his right too much. Overextends on the follow-through.
He leaned in. "Scream for him. Maybe he'll come back."
Victoria didn't scream.
She looked at the sword instead. Grip unsteady. The sword was also clearlu cheaply made.
"If you're trying to scare me," she said calmly, "you're holding it wrong."
Laughter echoed behind him. Another masked figure emerged. "Enough. Teleport's dark. Group One's missing."
Their gaze fell on Victoria. "She lives. For now."
They bound her and dragged her through the train—past bodies, past butchered mages, into the engine room. They tied her to a chair and left her laughing.
Silence returned.
Victoria breathed.
She smiled. The hidden knife was still there, strapped to her thigh. They hadn't checked her properly.
'Amateurs.'
She worked the blade free with her teeth and cut herself loose. The room reeked of blood and burnt magic.
A drawer beneath the console lay unchecked.
Inside: twin pistols. Loaded with bullets made with a special technique that bonded Mana and steel together.
"It's a shame you were able to reach them in time..."
She lifted them, adjusted her grip.
"Perfect."
Victoria La Quixota straightened, blood-stained dress heavy around her legs, pistols warm in her hands. Her reflection stared back from the polished engine casing.
Delusional, they would have said.
She smiled.
"No," she whispered. "I'm exactly what I was meant to be."
Meanwhile—
On a ridge overlooking the Green Canyon, two hooded figures stood against the wind.
One of them was tall and lean with a strong build. The other one, was shorter and clearly young.
Their cloaks snapped and tugged at them, hems darkened where blood hadn't fully dried. Below, the elevated track cut cleanly through the canyon.
Their names were Alaric and Adam.