The train hummed gently beneath them, the rhythm of wheels on steel like a lullaby stretched thin. It was the kind of motion that slipped past the skin, settling into bones and breath, until one almost forgot they were moving at all.

  They were two days out from Fyonar.

  The hours had grown soft and repetitive—wood-paneled walls, quiet hallways, the clink of utensils during meal stops, and the low, ever-present drone of the engine. Meals came and went, sunrises slipped into muted gray skies. Beyond the windows, the land blurred in streaks of pine and stone and misted undergrowth, wild and quiet.

  In one of the smaller dining compartments, they sat around a table: two benches facing each other, padded but worn. On one side, Karin and Zafran. Opposite them, Ysar and Elsha.

  “I’m already bored,” Karin said, curled sideways on her bench, her boots nudging Zafran’s shin. “Four more days of this? We only got off once, and even then it was just for air and stale bread. I miss the luxury car.”

  “You’re starting to sound like Ysar,” Zafran murmured, not looking up.

  “That’s a compliment,” Ysar said from across the table, lazily tapping a spoon on his cup.

  “No thanks,” Karin muttered, rolling her head against the wooden paneling behind her.

  Elsha sat upright near the window, her teacup cupped between her hands, warmth curling upward in faint steam. Outside, the western forest loomed—dense trees knotted with moss and silver bark, gliding past like a dream half-remembered.

  “We should talk about Jadinthar,” she said. “We can’t go in unprepared.”

  “Sure,” Ysar replied. “Let’s plan. Just like Fyonar. That went great.”

  “We’re not walking into another city of nobles,” Karin said, stretching.

  “I say we stop planning and start praying instead,” Ysar said, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if already trying.

  “Like that time in Fyonar?”

  “That wasn’t praying. That was negotiating.”

  A small laugh escaped Elsha’s lips.

  “Jadinthar’s worse,” she said. “They don’t like outsiders.”

  “They don’t like anything,” Karin muttered. “Except old robes and ancient rules.”

  “Trait of all mages,” Ysar teased. “You included.”

  “You’re at the top of my hate list,” Karin said, without heat.

  Zafran let out a low chuckle—just enough for the others to notice, not enough to invite comment.

  The train swayed gently as it began to slow. A subtle shift in rhythm—a different hum beneath their feet.

  Karin straightened. “Another stop?”

  “Third one today,” Ysar said, peering out the window. “Looks smaller than the last.”

  Mist clung low across the tracks. The platform was barely more than stone and shadow—one lantern flickered under a crooked roof. The buildings nearby looked half-abandoned, their shutters tight, their doors sun-bleached and leaning. A rusted bench and two iron poles marked the station.

  A few passengers boarded—hooded, quiet, dust-caked from travel. The kind of people who disappeared into corners of the world without asking questions.

  Then came another figure.

  She stepped onto the train like she belonged to it.

  White cloak. Straight black hair. Pale skin. Her boots tapped lightly on the floor as she moved with purpose, her steps neither hurried nor hesitant. The cloak trailed softly behind her, catching the lamplight with each silent motion.

  Zafran’s spine shifted. Just slightly.

  Karin noticed. Her eyes tracked his, then followed the hallway.

  A slow smirk spread across her lips.

  “Well, well,” she said, her tone sweet with just enough sting. “Look who’s haunting the rails.”

  Ysar twisted around. “Wait—is that…?”

  “The woman from Tavreth,” Elsha confirmed, not bothering to turn. Her voice was calm, as always.

  “Ohhh,” Ysar said, voice rising. “The wine-table girl.”

  Zafran didn’t answer.

  “Come on, Zafran,” Karin nudged. “You sure you don’t want to go say hi?”

  “Being told to mind your own business once was enough,” Ysar added with a grin.

  Zafran sighed. “You two…”

  “Still haven’t asked her name, huh?” Ysar said. “At this rate, we’ll reach Jadinthar and you’ll still be wondering.”

  “She’s coming this way,” Karin whispered, hand cupped near her mouth in mock suspense.

  They all looked.

  She passed their compartment.

  No glance. No shift in pace. Her eyes remained forward, her steps weightless. She moved like a wisp of wind cutting through still air. Just presence—and then she was gone.

  The teasing faded.

  Silence slid in behind her like a tide. Even the rhythm of the train felt quieter.

  It was as though someone had opened a window that none of them could see—and let in a stillness that didn’t belong.

  Karin leaned back slowly, her expression more thoughtful now. “She didn’t even look at you.”

  “Brutal,” Ysar murmured, less amused.

  Zafran’s fingers rested against the window ledge, unmoving. His eyes lingered on the corridor long after she vanished.

  The mist outside thickened, ghosting the trees. Branches scraped past in a blur of grays and black.

  Elsha finally broke the quiet. “Still think they’ll love you in Jadinthar?” she asked Ysar.

  He blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “I’m reconsidering,” he muttered.

  Karin folded her arms. “I just hope we get there without another royal arrest.”

  No one responded.

  The train moved on.

  And behind them, silence lingered where her presence had passed.

  Then came the jolt.

  A grinding lurch shuddered through the car—teacups rattled, boots scraped the floor, Karin nearly slipped from her seat.

  A heartbeat later, it hit.

  Not thunder. Not brakes.

  An explosion.

  Somewhere ahead.

  “What was that sound!?” Karin snapped upright, already halfway to her feet.

  The jolt came again—harder this time, dragging the whole train into a slow, grinding lean. A screech tore through the air, metal shrieking against metal. The lights above them flickered, then steadied.

  Cups rattled. Elsha grabbed the edge of the table. “That wasn’t just brakes—”

  Then came the impact.

  Not in their car—but forward. A deep, shuddering crunch, followed by the unmistakable crack of something snapping. The floor tilted slightly. Then hissed.

  Steam burst past the windows.

  Passengers screamed.

  Someone in the next compartment shouted, “It’s off the rail!”

  The train groaned, its weight shifting again—and then stillness. But not the peaceful kind.

  Outside the window, black smoke billowed from somewhere ahead. Trees blurred by, then stopped altogether. The forest returned, unmoving and still.

  Zafran was already up.

  Karin turned sharply. “What just—”

  “Front car,” Zafran muttered, eyes scanning the smoke. “Engine’s hit.”

  Ysar stood unsteadily. “So… we stop here now?”

  But no one laughed.

  A second burst shook the car—less violent, but enough to bring more screams. Somewhere down the train, someone yanked a door open and jumped.

  Shouts now—guards, passengers, chaos. The corridor filled with voices and motion.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Karin grabbed her coat. “What do we do?”

  Zafran didn’t answer yet. His gaze had fixed on the hallway—on a pale flash of motion ahead.

  A white cloak.

  Moving calmly. Toward the front.

  Zafran stepped into the aisle, pushing through the passengers.

  Karin blinked. “Zaf? Where are you—”

  He didn’t turn.

  “Zafran!”

  Still nothing. Just the silhouette of his back disappearing into smoke and motion.

  Karin hesitated.

  Behind her, more passengers scrambled to grab their things. Someone kicked open a side hatch. Ysar was shouting something—Elsha pulled him back from the window.

  The train began to lean again, groaning like something wounded.

  Karin’s eyes narrowed.

  And then she followed.

  The air thickened as Karin moved down the corridor—smoke, dust, something acrid threading into her lungs. The world blurred with movement: passengers shouting, pushing past her, some dragging bags, others holding children, most with panic scrawled across their faces.

  She pushed forward anyway.

  The train had leaned at an angle now—slightly, but enough to make the footing uneven. Her boots slipped once on the metal grating between cars. She caught the handrail, steadied herself.

  Ahead, Zafran was already gone.

  She glimpsed only the swing of a door closing, its glass darkened by soot.

  “Idiot,” she muttered, breath tight. “What are you doing…”

  Elsha and Ysar were behind her somewhere, but she didn’t wait.

  The closer she got to the front, the louder it grew—not just the creak of metal or the hiss of broken steam valves, but shouting—disorganized, half-lost in the clatter of feet.

  And beneath it all… silence. A strange, unnerving silence in the air ahead, like something had swallowed the noise whole.

  Karin’s boots hit the dirt unevenly as she leapt down from the tilted car, her landing softened only by ash and loose gravel. Smoke curled low around her ankles. Heat radiated from the engine wreck, a thick, suffocating wave pressing in against her coat.

  She squinted through the haze.

  Zafran stood ahead, still as stone.

  He hadn’t gone far—just past the broken rail, at the edge of where the trees bent back from the impact. His shoulders were square, arms loose by his side, but something about his stillness felt too sharp. Like he was bracing.

  Karin jogged up behind him. “Zafran!”

  No answer.

  She stepped beside him—and froze.

  Just beyond the clearing, where the wreck had carved its violent path into the woods, the bodies lay.

  Half a dozen men—no, more—scattered in the brush. Some burned black, others cleaved open, bones and armor cracked clean. One had been hurled into a tree with such force the bark had split.

  And standing among them—

  The woman in white.

  But not walking now.

  Moving.

  A blur of motion that barely made sound, only impact. Her cloak dragged red where it passed. Her sword—thin, straight—was already wet. She moved like wind through wheat, each strike deliberate, final.

  One man lunged from behind a tree.

  She spun low, swept his leg from under him with a flash of ice—real ice, piercing from the ground like a sudden breath of winter. It snapped through his thigh with a sound too clean.

  He screamed. She silenced it with one step and a precise thrust.

  Karin’s breath caught.

  “She…” Her voice died in her throat.

  She couldn’t look away.

  There was no anger in the woman’s face. No fury. No hesitation.

  She wasn’t fighting. She was executing.

  No glance at the wrecked train. No concern for the passengers still stumbling away.

  No care that innocent lives had nearly been caught in the blast.

  And she didn’t care who else stood too close.

  Karin’s breath hitched.

  “She’s the one who—” she whispered, voice frayed.

  Zafran’s voice was low, steady. “No. They set the bomb.”

  He gestured with his chin.

  The corpses strewn across the clearing—some still smoldering—wore no markings, no uniforms. But now, through the settling smoke, Karin saw them for what they were. Assassins. Saboteurs. Well-armed. Too many.

  More were emerging from the trees—at least a dozen more still standing. Some regrouping. Some retreating.

  Some readying for a second charge.

  The woman didn’t stop.

  Zafran’s jaw tightened.

  “She’s outnumbered,” Karin said.

  “She knows,” he replied.

  Then, finally, he moved.

  Zafran moved like a ghost between the wreckage—silent, fast, precise.

  Ahead of him, she was already in motion.

  The woman in white carved through the trees like a falling star. Her sword danced in cold arcs, slicing men apart with terrifying ease. One ambusher screamed as an icicle erupted through his chest, another fell limp as her heel crushed his ribs before her sword ended the motion.

  He reached her just as a third attacker lunged from the flank.

  Zafran’s sword cut in—deflecting, disarming, dropping the man with swift precision. He stepped between the crumpled body and a bleeding merchant behind him.

  Still, she didn’t stop. Or speak.

  Another came at her from the left—she pivoted, sword rising like a tide. Her edge cleaved up through his chest. The spray of frost and blood hadn’t settled before she turned again, driving her sword into the next without pause.

  But with every stroke, frost scattered. Pillars of ice burst outward, uncaring of direction—lashing toward the trees, the dirt, and anything near.

  Zafran’s jaw clenched.

  “Wait—stop! There are civilians!”

  She didn’t.

  Another cut—wide and brutal—sent shards sweeping toward a group of crawling passengers. One man cried out, leg instantly frozen over a half-healed burn.

  Zafran moved in.

  His sword intercepted hers—steel crashing against steel with a sharp, shuddering crack. He forced her back just enough to shield the civilians behind.

  Her eyes met his.

  It’s a teal colored eyes, deep, and cold.

  Still calm. Still cold.

  “Get out of my way,” she said.

  “Not if you’re going to kill everyone around you.”

  “They’re in the way.”

  “Then go around them.”

  She moved.

  Her knee darted up—sharp, precise. He blocked, staggered back, caught her next strike just in time. Her sword crashed down, and he pushed against it, sliding through the ash, barely holding.

  She pressed.

  Her style was light, quick, constantly shifting. Frost bloomed at her heels, controlling the terrain, bending movement in her favor.

  Zafran twisted, parried low—she was already behind him.

  He turned, blocked just in time, his sword ringing with the force.

  She didn’t speak. She circled—measured.

  Every strike tested something. His speed. His guard. His balance.

  He countered. Barely.

  She swept his leg with a rush of ice—he jumped, caught the edge of a rail, recovered. She followed, sword flashing upward. He blocked, but her edge nicked his coat—closer than before.

  He grunted, grounded himself, met her again.

  She drove forward. He turned the sword, caught her strike mid-air, locked for half a second—then need to quickly jumped off because of the icicle coming afterwards.

  He held ground by sheer control. No openings. No wild swings.

  But the pressure was building.

  More bodies dropped nearby—some by her hand, some by his. Still, they circled one another in the smoke and ruin—an orbit growing tighter.

  Zafran’s breathing was harder now. Her face—unchanged. She wasn’t winded. Not even annoyed.

  He parried another high sweep, followed with a sharp thrust—but she vanished to the side, low sweep forcing him to retreat.

  The tempo was hers.

  Zafran’s breathing quickened, boots scuffing against scorched soil as he turned, sword raised. She was already coming at him again.

  Every strike she made was faster, sharper, cleaner—too clean. Her footwork barely left a mark in the ash. Her sword carved through the air like it had no weight.

  He blocked. Barely.

  Her blade screeched against his, cold trailing in its wake. She pivoted low, swept at his ankles. He jumped—just in time. Her follow-up came from above. He raised his sword to meet it, the force of her swing numbing his shoulder.

  He held the guard. Barely.

  Still, she didn’t speak. Still, she didn’t stop.

  Another strike—feint high, cut low. He twisted, missed the first edge, caught the second. She flicked her wrist and the impact rolled through his guard, nearly unbalancing him.

  But he didn’t fall.

  He never quite did.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  She advanced again—testing with tighter angles now, not just power or speed but spacing. Timing.

  He blocked another cut. Then another. But each one took more from him. The steam and ice around them blurred their outlines, their blades clashing in flashes of silver and white.

  And yet—

  Each time she should have landed a blow, he was gone. Just a breath late. Just a toe-length out of reach.

  Her gaze flicked to his shoulders, his footwork, his center of gravity.

  He was holding back.

  She stopped mid-attack, drew back a step, sword low.

  “You’re holding back, why?” she said, voice flat.

  Zafran didn’t respond.

  She adjusted her grip. Her posture shifted—weight forward, stance tight.

  Then she came at him again.

  Faster.

  He met her—but the parry shook him, forced him back.

  She pressed, ice trailing behind her as her sword slashed in a blur.

  Zafran ducked one strike, leaned under the next. A frost-coated arc missed his cheek by an inch. Her sword came again—he caught it mid-swing, slid his edge along hers in a rare offensive move that almost surprised her.

  She stepped back.

  Her mouth didn’t move, but her eyes said it.

  She was going to end this.

  And then—

  Flame.

  A streak of fire roared between them, searing the ground, melting frost to steam in an instant.

  The battlefield hissed, and for the first time, both of them stopped moving.

  Karin stood beyond the smoke, one hand raised, the other clenched. Her expression unreadable—but her fire still burned on the rail between them.

  “Enough!” she shouted, voice sharp, cutting the moment clean in half.

  The fire hissed, carving steam through the air. For a second, the battlefield held its breath.

  She stood still on the other side of the flame, her sword at her side. The frost along her boots began to melt.

  She blinked once, slowly.

  Her eyes flicked toward Karin.

  Not angry. Not wild.

  Just sharp.

  Surprised, maybe.

  At the strength of the fire. At the heat.

  At the fact someone dared interrupt her.

  Karin’s stance was unsteady, but her hand didn’t lower.

  She took one step forward—and the flame flared again.

  Karin threw another stream of fire, this one wider, brighter, fed by panic. It seared across the wreckage—but the woman in white was already moving.

  She slipped through the flame like a ghost, weaving through the heat as if it barely touched her cloak.

  A flicker. A blur.

  And then she was in front of Karin.

  Steel lifted.

  Her sword came down—swift, silent, final.

  Clang.

  Zafran caught it.

  Steel clashed, teeth clenched, weight met weight.

  He held his ground, Karin just behind him—frozen in place.

  “Stop,” he said.

  She eyes met his. They were as calm as before—but something else flickered now. Recognition. Frustration. Calculation.

  She pressed the sword harder against his.

  Then, his sword glow, subtle, but can’t be a mistake.

  Just a second after, his swing send her steps backwards, powerful, surely, but holding back still.

  She staggered back, interrupted.

  Her eyes fell to his sword. The glow was gone already.

  Then to her hand.

  Trembled.

  Her lips pressed into a line. But not from anger.

  From thought.

  “You love poking into other people’s problems,” she said.

  “She’s not your enemy.”

  “She’s in the way.”

  “So was I.”

  A pause.

  The wreckage around them crackled softly. The last embers of battle died in the wind.

  Then—finally—She stepped back.

  Just enough to lower her sword.

  Elsha and Ysar arrived, breathless. Too late. But wide-eyed.

  They came to a sudden stop behind Karin, just as the smoke thinned.

  “What in the gods—” Ysar began.

  The shattered wreck of the front cars lay crumpled in the clearing, metal twisted like torn bark. Bodies were strewn between scorched trees and broken beams. Some burned, some frozen, some torn apart cleanly by sword or shrapnel. The ground was littered with shattered weapons, bits of ice, and seared remnants of cloaks and boots. A few of the dead still steamed where frost met heat.

  Ysar’s mouth opened, but no words came.

  Elsha’s eyes swept the battlefield, then locked on the woman in white.

  She hadn’t moved.

  Karin stood still, just behind Zafran, silent.

  And Zafran slowly lowered his sword—but didn’t sheath it.

  His voice was steady. “Who were they?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Who are you?” he asked again, softer now.

  She looked at him once.

  Then turned to the nearest body, nudged it with her foot, and bent slightly—her sword hooking something small from the torn fabric of a tunic.

  With a flick of her sword, she sent it through the air.

  Zafran caught it.

  A pin. Bronze, worn with scratches, but the emblem unmistakable:

  A crimson glove, curled tight.

  Karin stepped forward, her voice low. “That’s… Crimson Hand.”

  Zafran stared at the pin in his palm, brows drawn. The crimson glove glinted faintly under the fading light.

  Elsha stepped in beside him, her eyes narrowing. “I’ve seen that symbol before.”

  Everyone turned to her.

  “In the apartment—where we were arrested. There was a carving under the shelf. I didn’t think much of it, but now…” Her voice trailed.

  Karin looked sharply at her. “You’re sure?”

  Elsha nodded. “Same curve. Same clenched fingers.”

  Zafran’s voice came quietly. “So it’s all connected. The informant. The ambush. The arrest.”

  The woman said nothing. Her back had already turned, half-fading into the haze of the battlefield.

  Zafran called out, “If we’re after the same thing—should we go together?”

  Karin blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

  The woman didn’t stop. “You don’t even know where I’m going,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Maybe not,” Zafran said. “But I’m willing to bet we’ll end up in the same place.”

  A pause.

  “Do whatever you want,” she muttered—and started walking.

  Then, just as she reached the trees, she turned slightly, just enough for her voice to carry.

  “Isolde,” she said. “You’ve asked me twice.”

  And then she walked on—vanishing into the broken woods without looking back.

  Ysar and Karin stood still, glancing at each other, then at Zafran.

  “…Are we just letting that happen?” Ysar asked.

  Karin opened her mouth, then closed it.

  Then, with a sigh, she took the first step forward.

  One by one, they followed.