The train didn’t whistle.

  It hummed.

  A deep, layered hum that resonated through the steel bones of the convoy—not one train, but ten. At least. Each one a beast of black iron and red-etched glyphwork. Steam hissed from smokestacks into the cold air of northern Fyonar. But beneath the familiar breath of coal and pressure was something new.

  Electric sparks leapt along exposed wiring wrapped around each chassis. Arcs danced between mounted conductors. Planar engines glowed low from their housings—tethered energy drawn from bound souls and elemental cores. This wasn’t just industry. It was progress. War-forged. Divine-fed.

  And at the head of it all—Lucian.

  He stood in the lead engine car, gloves tucked behind his back, posture like a statue carved of resolve. His golden hair caught the flickering light of brass lanterns. His eyes stared unblinking toward the mountain pass ahead.

  These trains didn’t carry civilians.

  They carried armies.

  Hollowbound filled the rear cars. Not jerking. Not rattling. Pulsing. With every sync cycle, their limbs shifted—shoulders realigned, feet adjusting in perfect rhythm. Some bore arc-tethered shields. Others held halberds laced with bound lightning. Their chests glowed faintly, planar crystals caged inside thick steel.

  Among them marched the living.

  Soldiers in long black coats, iron-etched pauldrons, grim expressions. Some carried strange, long-barreled arms—etched with runes, wires running along the stock—new tools of war not yet given names. Others bore blades, axes, spears. Spellcasters crouched between cars, drawing sigils in glowing blue chalk. Engineers ran diagnostics. Priests of the Forge whispered blessings over humming core-pipes.

  This was not a raid.

  It was a march.

  Northbound. Past the ridges into snow-dusted lands. Toward Velgrath.

  Lucian said nothing.

  A woman stepped from the rear of the cabin. Black silk. Hair like ink. Eyes like eclipses. She never knocked. Never announced herself. She simply arrived.

  The same woman from the chamber. The whisperer. The shadow.

  “You’re quiet today,” she said, voice like silk dragged over a blade.

  Lucian didn’t look. “It’s a long road.”

  She glided beside him—barely walking. More deciding to be next to him.

  “Prepared?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I mean your resolve, not your legions.”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled faintly. “Good. Ascending to godhood requires more than ambition. It demands clarity.”

  Lucian remained silent a moment, then spoke.

  “How can you be sure this ritual will work?”

  She touched the window. It didn’t fog. Her hand left no mark.

  “Have I lied to you? Not once. The Hollowbound cores. The Flame Ash. All I want is to see your dream come true…”

  She turned, smiling—but now her words cut.

  “But you’re the one who failed, not me. Right?”

  Lucian didn’t respond.

  “So tell me, little prince—or is it little king now? Once you’ve ascended… what comes next?”

  “I’ll kill the gods.”

  “How? Do you know where they are?”

  “I’ll find them.”

  She grinned. “Terrible plan. And after that?”

  “A godless world. A world ruled by mortals. No more meddling. No more suffering for your games.”

  He turned. His gaze met hers.

  She pouted, amused. “That hurts. We’re partners in this, remember? Don’t toss me out when you succeed.”

  He turned back to the glass. “Begone, Rowana. I’m thinking.”

  “Think, then. Just make it count this time.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  She turned and walked—steps slow, hips swaying even when no one watched.

  The mountains opened before them. The dark ridgeline beyond marked Velgrath’s border. Smoke rose from foundries. The forge-music of machines whispered in the wind.

  Lucian turned toward the army.

  “Test the ground.”

  A signal horn split the air.

  The trains hissed. Slowed.

  Doors slid open with perfect, mechanical rhythm.

  The Hollowbound stepped first.

  Then the warm-blooded followed.

  Steel met snow.

  War began.

  And Rowana vanished.

  Her smile lingered, like the echo of a scream.

  The morning light in the hollow room was faint, filtered through a small, round window near the ceiling. It cast gentle stripes across the uneven floor, where warmth seeped from a shallow hearth tucked into the wall. The room was simple—stone and wood, a cot layered with blankets, a low table set with water, cloth, and a steaming cup.

  Elsha sat propped against the cot’s headboard, a blanket drawn around her shoulders. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, stiff and slow to respond. Her eyes, clearer than they’d been the night before, still moved with a kind of delay—as though thoughts were catching up to her body.

  Ysar sat nearby on a short bench. Not close enough to crowd her, but close enough to catch her if she faltered. His face showed no alarm, but his hand hovered slightly over his knee, fingers flexing without purpose.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  Elsha didn’t answer right away. She was watching her own hand, opening and closing it slowly. Like a stranger’s hand. Like it might disappear again.

  “…Heavy,” she said finally. Her voice cracked but held. “Like I haven’t moved in years.”

  “You haven’t,” Ysar replied gently. “Not really. Almost a week.”

  Elsha blinked. “That long?”

  He nodded.

  She looked down at her legs, then slowly raised one arm. Her shoulder resisted the motion. The tendons stretched like rusted hinges. She winced, but pushed through.

  Grimoire entered the room quietly, as she always did. Her bare feet made no sound. She approached without greeting, carrying a folded towel and a short, narrow stick of chalk. Her violet eyes scanned Elsha—slow, meticulous.

  “Raise your left arm,” she said softly.

  Elsha obeyed. Grimoire pressed fingers gently to her wrist, her temple, the hollow of her throat. She held a smooth black stone near her breath and watched the faint pulse it emitted. Then, she stepped back.

  “No pain?” she asked.

  “Only in the joints.”

  “Good. That’s expected.”

  Grimoire passed her the towel and gestured toward the steaming bowl on the table. “Wipe your hands. Your skin’s still cold.”

  Elsha did so, slowly. Her fingers trembled as she moved.

  “She’s stable,” Grimoire said to Ysar. “No irregularities. Breath and energy are matching. Circulation is returning.”

  “Nothing wrong?” he asked, cautiously.

  “Nothing I can find,” Grimoire replied. Then she added with a flat calm, “Which doesn’t mean there isn’t.”

  Elsha looked up. “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

  “No,” Grimoire said, already turning toward the door. “Just honest.”

  As she left, she called over her shoulder: “Eat something. Drink that tea. And if you’re strong enough, get sunlight. The forest will help your lungs more than stone.”

  Then she was gone.

  Silence settled again.

  Elsha stared at the tea. Then at Ysar. “She’s not wrong.”

  “She rarely is.”

  She took a sip. Winced. “Still bitter.”

  Ysar gave the faintest smile. “Means it’s working.”

  They sat a moment longer.

  Then, Elsha pushed the blanket away and slowly moved her legs to the side of the bed. Her feet touched the stone. Cold. Real.

  “I want to see the sky,” she said.

  Ysar stood immediately and reached for her arm.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  And together, slowly, they stepped toward the door.

  Karin sat at the low table, legs folded beneath her. The warmth of Ishtania's tea still lingered in her hands, though the cup had long cooled. Outside, the wind whispered between the trees, stirring the woven walls of the strange forest-bound home. But inside, the air held stillness—an expectant hush.

  Ishtania stirred the simmering pot by the hearth. Elkinu sprawled lazily on the long bench, one boot propped on the table edge, juggling a half-peeled pear with his fingertips.

  "You know the story, don’t you?" Ishtania asked without looking.

  Karin blinked. "What story?"

  "The beginning," Elkinu said, mouth curling into a smirk. "Everyone knows it."

  Ishtania spoke softly, as if quoting an old poem. "From the Father came the breath. From the Mother, the flesh. One gave shape. The other gave form."

  "All things were born from their union," Elkinu added. "Divine, mortal, beast, stone. And all of it… caged in the Mother's womb."

  Karin frowned. "That’s just old folklore."

  "Is it?" Ishtania turned, eyes dark and calm. "Because you're drinking tea in a house shaped by gods. After surviving the flame of a dead one."

  Karin’s throat tightened.

  Elkinu flipped the pear once more. "The Firstborn came first—six of them, Planar-born, shaped while the Mother still bled. Then came the Unbound—born after, more flesh, less flame."

  Seethar interrupted with a wry look. “Why is being more material considered real, and more planar, fake now?”

  Ishtania gestured to the floor. "Mortals are different. Fully material. Of the Mother. You decay. You die. But you are free."

  "Free?" Karin asked.

  "Divine beings can't stay anywhere within the Mother's body for long. They have to return to planaric leak points to keep their form stable. Mortals? You're bound to the world, but unrestricted. You walk where you will."

  Elkinu smiled faintly. "Freedom has a price."

  Karin leaned forward slightly. “But what does this have to do with now?”

  Ishtania’s fingers paused over the pot. “Because it’s already begun.”

  Karin glanced at Elkinu. “What has?”

  He caught the pear mid-air. “The old song—Order and Chaos at war, Laoh and Rowana endlessly clashing?”

  Seethar sighed. “Yes, yes. In their bedchamber, too, if rumors count.”

  Elkinu smirked. “Spoilers.”

  Ishtania continued. “Their war is misdirection. The oldest trick. Behind the curtain, they seek something else—something worse.”

  “To kill the Mother,” Elkinu said. “Fully. Absolutely. No more decay. Just void.”

  “To break the womb,” Ishtania explained. “To escape. And after that, they intend to consume the Father’s spirit. To ascend. To become Primordials themselves.”

  Karin’s breath caught. “That would end… everything.”

  Ishtania nodded. “Everything. No gods. No earth. No sky. Only what they choose to remake in their image.”

  “But they haven’t done it yet,” Karin said. “Because they don’t know how?”

  “They don’t know where the Heart is,” Elkinu replied. “The thing keeping her alive. The source. Until they find it, they can’t kill her completely.”

  Karin looked at him carefully. “But you know where it is.”

  He met her gaze with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Do I?”

  “Are you divine?” she asked softly.

  The question lingered.

  Elkinu leaned back, peeling the last of the pear. “Why ruin a good mystery?”

  Karin didn’t press. But something in his avoidance left her colder than before.

  Ishtania stirred the pot again. “You’re part of this now, Karin. You absorbed a piece of a Firstborn’s echo. That’s not supposed to happen. Gods don’t break like that.”

  “And….. what’s becoming of me?”

  Seethar looked away. “That… is what we’re trying to find out.”