Nao-Rei, Region 774

  Station 774 was barely more than a name on the map. Its tracks lay half-buried in creeping grass, the platform cracked with age. The only diner—five tables at most—was the closest thing the village had to a landmark.

  Behind the counter sat Lyuta, a stocky woman in her forties, lost in the dog-eared pages of a well-loved book. On the cover, a pale beauty swooned in the arms of a tanned rogue, his white shirt scandalously unbuttoned. She had read this novel more times than she could count, but still, she leaned in, captivated. A young baroness, determined to uncover her uncle’s murder, had just decided to hire a dangerous bandit. And the bandit, hardened by years of crime, was beginning to falter before her innocence.

  The soft hum of summer flies drifted above the freshly baked rolls on the counter. Outside, the village dozed in the heavy midday heat. The world beyond Station 774 rarely intruded upon its solitude, and Lyuta had no urgent reason to tear herself from the romantic intrigue unfolding in her hands.

  Then, the sharp whistle of a relay transmitter shattered the peace.

  The first signal—technical gates activated. The second—a train approaching. The third—a stop.

  Lyuta snapped the book shut, tucking the corner of a page to mark her place, and rushed to smooth the counter, shoo away flies, and straighten her apron. A stop! Here?

  From his small booth, the station technician stirred from a nap. A dog barked. A group of village boys, seemingly materialized from thin air, ran toward the platform, their excitement turning to hushed curiosity as they saw the train.

  Unlike the standard freight or passenger cars that thundered past without stopping, this one was different. Smaller, sleek, with an air of something...important. The gates whirred to life, spinning their conducting plates in perfect sync. A loud pop echoed as the head car emerged, vibrating above the warped tracks before pressing down onto them. No additional cars followed.

  It looked like a snake’s severed head—cut off from its body.

  The exterior was unlike anything the villagers had seen before: tall windows veiled by heavy velvet curtains tied with golden cords. A private train. The kind that existed only in books and whispered rumors.

  The train settled into place. Silence fell.

  Then, the door slid open.

  Two figures stepped out.

  The first was a broad-shouldered man in a crimson uniform, a Protectorium officer, his bandolier heavy with charged crystals. His every step exuded discipline. But it was the second figure that stole the villagers’ breath.

  A boy—or at least, at first glance he seemed one. Clad in a black coat with wide cuffs, from beneath which lace sleeves peeked, he moved with a deliberate grace. His impeccably polished boots touched the platform, stirring a faint cloud of dust. His lips curled, expression unreadable, as his sharp eyes scanned the station with clear distaste.

  He let out a quiet humph and, without a word, strode toward the diner. The officer followed at a respectful distance, neither leading nor guiding—merely ensuring the boy was undisturbed.

  Lyuta, frozen in the doorway, felt her mouth go dry.

  Visitors.

  Not just travelers or merchants, but visitors from another world—a world where men wore lace instead of oil-stained shirts and women twirled beneath chandeliers at grand balls.

  Outside, the boys who had gathered near the windows whispered excitedly but dared not step closer. Inside, the stranger seated himself by the window, murmuring something to his companion before the officer gave a crisp nod and departed toward the maintenance station.

  The boy remained alone. His gaze drifted around the diner, lingering on nothing yet absorbing everything.

  Lyuta swallowed hard. He was waiting to be served.

  She had heard of such things—restaurants in the cities where servers came to you. But such notions seemed ridiculous here, where you fetched your own plate from trays of stew and stale rolls.

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  Still, she couldn’t possibly leave him sitting there, expecting service like a noble in a storybook.

  With trembling legs, she stepped forward and curtsied—awkwardly, having only ever read about such things.

  She dared to look at him more closely, and her breath hitched.

  He wasn’t a boy. At least, not in the way she had first thought. Now, without the imposing presence of his bodyguard, his slight figure no longer seemed fragile but… refined. Almost regal.

  He was nothing like the rugged hero on her book’s cover. No tanned skin, no calloused hands. Instead, there was an eerie, aristocratic beauty in his pale complexion, his long black hair cascading in soft waves. His frame was lean but strong, his hands—gloved, she noted with absurd delight—resting lightly on the polished table.

  Perhaps this was what her books meant by “aristocratic pallor.”

  He was beautiful. And he terrified her.

  Then, he smiled—a slow, knowing curve of his lips. His teeth were impossibly white.

  “Madam,” he said smoothly, a trace of amusement in his tone. “Might this fine establishment offer breakfast? A poached egg, a croissant, and coffee, perhaps?”

  Lyuta nodded hastily, curtsied again for good measure, and all but fled to the kitchen, her heart hammering. She vaguely suspected that ‘poached’ and ‘croissant’ were names of food, but she wasn’t entirely sure. There was no real cook here—meals arrived in metal containers from the main depot each morning. But there was no way she could admit that to this gentleman.

  As she scrambled to assemble a plate of whatever looked most presentable, the station outside buzzed with movement. The Protectorium officer was already giving orders. A technician was inspecting the train’s drive mechanism, while someone had been sent to the depot for an omnimobile. The village head had been summoned—Lyuta heard the distant rumble of his voice, full of nervous bluster.

  The stranger’s presence had upended the quiet rhythm of Station 774.

  By the time she returned with a tray—laden with a fried egg, a generous bowl of paté, a chicken pastry, and coffee in a floral metal cup—the village head was seated across from the young man, twisting his cap in his hands.

  The young man was speaking, his voice soft but firm.

  “…is not prepared for departure within the next fifteen minutes, you will find yourself becoming far better acquainted with the full machinery of the Protectorium, whose workings you have so recklessly chosen to obstruct.”

  Lyuta wasn’t sure what the village head had done, but judging by the dark stain of sweat spreading between his shoulder blades, it was something regrettable.

  Then, as she set the tray down, the young man turned his gaze to her, and in an instant, his entire demeanor shifted. He leaned back slightly, allowing her space, his expression softening.

  She felt an odd sense of pride.

  The guest inspected his meal—a single, imperceptible raise of a brow at the humble fare—before deftly producing a white handkerchief, tucking it into his collar, and beginning to eat without further comment.

  When he finished, he rose, dabbing his lips with the cloth.

  Outside, the omnimobile was already humming to life.

  As the young man stepped onto the platform, he paused, glancing inside the vehicle. A flicker of amusement crossed his face before he let out a sudden, clear laugh. He gestured toward something within the cabin, shaking his head, before turning to his bodyguard with an amused smirk.

  The Protectorium officer remained impassive, but Lyuta caught the slightest twitch of his lips. The village head, standing nearby, paled even further.

  Then, without another word, the young man climbed aboard. The door shut, the omnimobile lifted with a low hum, and in moments, it was gone.

  In the sudden silence, Lyuta exhaled.

  “What in the name of the gods was that?” she murmured.

  The village head, still pale, took a long swig from his flask.

  “The junior Lyuteakh,” he muttered. “The Left Hand. Falconet of the Protectorium.”

  Lyuta’s fingers tightened around the lace handkerchief he had left behind.

  The scent lingered—impossibly refined, utterly foreign.

  Teak-An, 001. Evening of the Same Day

  At twenty-five, a man grown, Morveyn Drael Lyuteakh still felt like a reprimanded schoolboy before his father. Menno Lyuteakh, the Crimson Hand of the Protectorium—Lanius—commanded obedience by presence alone. Feared by enemies and subordinates alike, his authority was absolute.

  Morveyn had spent his life bracing for his father’s temper. Long before he became a falconet, he knew his failures would be judged more harshly than anyone’s. Now, as his father’s piercing glare bore into him, he braced himself for the storm.

  Menno’s voice, deep and commanding, echoed through the chamber. “Hundreds dead, Morveyn! Thousands more could have been! Do you even grasp the scale of this disaster?”

  Morveyn remained silent, his posture unwavering. When his father’s fury settled, then—and only then—would he speak.

  “The blight was spreading too fast. If it reached Teak-An, we would have lost everything. I did what had to be done,” Morveyn said flatly. “We saved who we could. The rest were already gone.”

  Menno’s eyes narrowed. “And you made that decision alone?”

  “The alternative was to wait and let the entire garrison be consumed,” Morveyn replied, meeting his father’s glare without flinching. “A calculated loss to prevent a greater catastrophe.”

  Menno exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression dark. He drummed his fingers against the polished wood of his desk. “The Council will demand an explanation. What will you tell them?”

  Morveyn hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second. He already knew the truth—knew that his instincts had guided him to the right decision, but instinct was not something the Council would accept.

  “Intuition,” he finally said, allowing himself the faintest of smiles.

  Menno scoffed, his expression unreadable. “Intuition?”

  “It was the only choice,” Morveyn reiterated. “They won’t believe me, but they can’t refute the outcome.”

  Menno’s silence was a noose tightening around Morveyn’s throat. Then, at last, he turned away.

  “You’ve made enemies, boy,” he said, voice low. “And enemies don’t forget.”