Rosenvale Station pulsed with late-morning bustle.
Porters hauled brass-trimmed trunks. Conductors barked destinations. Steam hissed. Bells chimed. A young couple shared tea beneath the iron awning, blissfully unaware—
Until the sky ruptured.
A low boom cracked the clouds like a whip, distant but unmistakable. The ground seemed to flinch.
Then they saw it.
A tower of smoke—black, thick, rising over the northern ridge. Wider than any plume from a standard engine. Glowing at the base. Roiling upward like some divine punishment.
A mushroom cloud.
Someone screamed. Then another.
Chaos erupted across the platform.
Children were swept into parents' arms. Bags were abandoned. Shouts overlapped—some trying to explain, others just trying to breathe. A vendor's cart tipped, oranges rolling underfoot.
"Holy mother of god—!"
"Mana explosion—look at the size of it!"
"Where's the guard?! Why isn't anyone doing anything?!"
In the confusion, no one noticed the two figures approaching from the far end of the terminal—on foot, walking slowly down the track, boots crunching gravel.
Aldrich's coat was dust-stained. His collar soaked with sweat. He walked with purpose, spine straight, face grim.
Beside him, Norman held a revolver in one hand.
His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled, one fist white-knuckled around the collar of the man they were dragging between them.
The prisoner—bloodied, robed, bound in glowing mana-cuffs—stumbled and fell, face-first into the gravel.
Norman didn't stop.
He yanked the mage up by the arm and kept walking, jaw clenched, eyes fixed ahead.
The closer they got, the quieter the platform became.
By the time they stepped off the track and onto the station's marble edge, the crowd had parted in stunned silence.
Eyes followed them like ghosts walking through a funeral.
Aldrich scanned the station, then spoke—calm, hard-edged.
"Clear this place. Evacuate the civilians. Now."
A porter stammered, "W–what happened out there? Is that cloud from—?"
"Reroute all outbound trains," Aldrich cut in, ignoring the question. "And call the Rosenvale commander. We're about to have a very long day."
Norman gave the mage one last shove forward. The man hit the ground again with a dull grunt.
"He's one of them," Norman said, breath ragged. "Tried to blow up the train. Almost succeeded."
A nearby officer stepped forward. "Wait—who are you two? "
Aldrich held up a small brass badge. Black trim. Etched with a silent rune. The officer paled.
"We're the ones cleaning up the mess," Aldrich said. "Now get me a damn room. We're going to need a table, a chair—and something sharp."
He looked down at the prisoner.
"And someone who answers questions."
The interrogation room was little more than a forgotten customs office—windowless, stone walls sweating with condensation, and a single lantern flickering overhead.
Dust coated the corners. The air smelled of rust and mold.
A plain steel chair sat bolted to the floor. Another one opposite it. A narrow table between them, scratched by time and hard use.
The mage was shoved into the chair hard enough to rattle it against its bolts.
He slumped forward, wrists bound in glowing mana-cuffs etched with nullifying runes.
His robe was scorched, one sleeve torn open to reveal a lattice of glyph tattoos along his arm. His lip bled. One eye was already swollen.
Norman leaned against the wall, arms folded, sweat still drying on his skin. He hadn't said a word since they'd entered.
Aldrich didn't sit. He paced.
He pulled a flask from his coat, took a long drink, and then held the bottle toward the mage.
"Thirsty?"
The mage didn't answer.
Aldrich shrugged, capped the flask, and put it away.
"All right. Let's begin."
He stepped forward and slammed a metal folder down onto the table—thin, dented, but heavy with presence.
"Half of the carriages gone," Aldrich began. "Two train staff dead. Dozens injured. Train nearly vaporized."
He leaned in close.
"Give me a reason not to return the favor."
The mage exhaled slowly. Smiled—barely.
"You're too old for this," he rasped. "You don't have it in you."
Aldrich didn't blink. He turned to Norman. "Boy. Knife."
Norman stepped forward and wordlessly produced a folding blade, setting it down with a click on the table's surface.
The mage's eyes flicked toward it. The smile faded.
Aldrich remained standing. "Why was the Second Glyphwork on the train? What were you bastards up to?"
No answer.
The mage's eyes lingered on the blade. Then flicked up to Aldrich.
"This is meaningless," he said quietly. "You can't stop us."
"I don't care about your sermon. I want answers." Aldrich didn't move. "What was the Second Glyphwork doing on that train?"
"Hahaha..." The mage laughed, as if mocking Aldrich's ignorance.
Norman suddenly stepped forward and grabbed the mage by the collar. "You nearly killed a train full of people. You don't get to act smug."
"Collateral damage." The mage smirked. "It's inevitable."
"Last chance, before things get really bloody." Aldrich put the knife against the mage's cheek and let him feel the blade.
The mage held his gaze. For a moment, neither moved.
Then—too fast to react—the mage bit down.
A sickening crack.
He twitched violently, eyes going wide as froth bubbled at the corners of his mouth. His limbs convulsed. His breath caught in a wet choke.
"What the hell did you do?!" Norman grabbed his jaw and tried to pry his mouth open by force.
But—it was too late.
The mage's body jerked once more. Then went still.
His head lolled to the side. Eyes glassy. Foam mixing with blood at his lips.
Silence fell heavy in the room.
Norman stood frozen, one hand still gripping the dead man's jaw.
"Cyanide in the teeth." Aldrich exhaled through his nose—calm, but bitter. "I haven't seen that since the war."
Just then,
The door slammed open.
A tall man entered, boots pounding against the stone floor with the weight of authority.
His uniform—deep navy with silver braids—was crisp despite the sheen of sweat on his brow.
A silver-plated sidearm hung at his hip. His moustache was sharp, his jaw squared, and his gaze cold as cut glass.
He took one look at the slumped corpse and froze.
"Good gods," he muttered. "Is he—?"
"Dead," Aldrich said, not turning. "Cyanide. Took it before he could talk."
The commander stepped closer, eyes fixed on the mage's foaming mouth and lifeless stare.
"Who authorized an interrogation without command oversight?"
"I did." Aldrich flashed his badge, calm and precise. "Inspector Aldrich Hitchcock. At her majesty's service. This is my assistant, Norman Creed."
The man blinked. His stance straightened.
"Hitchcock," he said slowly. "I'd heard of you."
He extended a gloved hand. "Commander Lennox Vale. Rosenvale District."
Aldrich shook it once, firm and unsmiling. "You're late."
Vale's jaw tightened. "I had a riot on my hands, Inspector. Half the station thought the Rosenvale was under attack. I chose not to make it worse."
Vale's eyes darted to Norman, then down to the mage's arm. His gaze stuck on the tattoos woven up the forearm in ink and mana-scars.
"Second Glyphwork?" he asked.
Aldrich nodded. "Confirmed."
Vale cursed under his breath. He circled the table, studying the mage's body.
"No ID," Norman added. "No sigils, no clan marks. Just robes, glyphs, and a mouth full of poison."
Vale frowned. "How the hell did he get on the train?"
"That's what we were trying to ask," Aldrich said bitterly. "Someone made sure we never would."
The commander paced back, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "I'll need to inform Lord Reinhart. He'll want a full report on this."
"Do what you need," Aldrich said. "But I need men on the ridge. Now. The train's still out there—and half the carriages are gone."
Vale's head snapped up. "Gone? What do you mean gone?"
"This bastard was bait," Norman said quietly. "He lured us away while his comrades uncoupled the back half of the train, and turned the engine room into a goddamn bomb."
A long silence fell.
Even in death, the mage seemed to smirk—his foam-flecked mouth twisted in a grotesque echo of triumph.
Vale straightened and turned to Aldrich. "You have my full cooperation. My men are yours until this is over."
Aldrich gave a curt nod. "Good. Get them moving. I want eyes on the ridge and weapons ready."
Vale's jaw tensed. "I'll join you with more reinforcements later. We'll bury these bastards."
Norman cracked his knuckles. "Commander, you just became my favorite person."
Vale turned to leave—then stopped at the threshold.
"There's one more thing," he said, voice lower now, tinged with something just short of dread. "And gods help us if it's true."
Norman straightened. "What is it?"
"Lady Freya." Vale looked back over his shoulder.
Aldrich's brow creased. "The Duke's daughter?"
Vale nodded. "She was supposed to return from the capital this morning."
Norman froze. "Please tell me she wasn't on that train."
A silence sharper than steel fell over the room.
Vale didn't answer.
Outside, thunder cracked across the mountains.
And far out on the ridge—the missing half of the train sat smoldering in the ash.
Burning.
With no sign of survivors...