"Lightning Train 447 to Westmarch Central, now boarding on Platform Three. Lightning Train 447 to Westmarch Central, Platform Three."
The announcement crackled through the station, tinny and distorted by the enchanted speakers mounted on iron posts throughout the terminal. It was followed by a sharp whistle blown by an actual person somewhere, and the rumble of wheels on steel tracks.
Ilsa stepped up to the ticket counter.
"Three tickets to Orlys," she said. "Lightning train, please."
The woman behind the counter didn't look up.
She was a gnome. Short enough that she'd had to stand on a raised platform behind the desk to bring her head level with the counter's edge. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, graying at the temples, and she wore a uniform jacket.
She was also chewing gum. Very aggressively at that.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
Rude.
"Destination," she said flatly, still not looking up from whatever paperwork occupied her attention.
"Orlys," Ilsa repeated, her jaw tightening slightly.
"Class."
"First class. Three passengers."
The gnome woman's eyes flicked up for half a second—the briefest acknowledgment that someone had actually ordered the expensive tickets—before returning to her paperwork.
Smack. Smack.
"Duration of stay."
"We're returning home," Ilsa said. "No set departure date."
The gnome woman made a noise that might have been disapproval or might have been her sinuses. Hard to tell. She finally looked up, eyes flat and unimpressed, and slid a form across the counter.
"Fill this out. All three passengers. Names, identification numbers, purpose of travel."
Smack. Smack. Smack.
Ilsa reached into her coat and pulled out a small metal plaque. She set it on the counter, sliding it across instead of the form.
The gnome woman picked it up.
Her entire posture changed.
She straightened. Stopped chewing. The gum disappeared somewhere into her cheek as her expression went from "aggressively bored civil servant" to "oh no" in the span of a single second.
"Lady Eryndor," she said. Her voice was different now. Still flat, but with a new layer of careful respect underneath. "I wasn't informed—"
"You weren't meant to be," Ilsa said quietly. "Confidential travel. I'm sure you understand."
The gnome woman nodded quickly. Too quickly. "Of course. Absolutely. I'll—just a moment."
She ducked below the counter. There was the sound of shuffling papers, a drawer opening and closing, and then she reappeared with three tickets already filled out.
"Platform Five," she said, setting them on the counter. "Departure in twenty minutes. Private cabin, no additional charge. Complimentary meal service. And my sincere apologies for the—for any inconvenience."
"Thank you," Ilsa said.
She took the tickets and turned away from the counter, Orion following immediately.
Sael didn't move yet.
He was looking at the gnome woman, who had frozen under his gaze like a rabbit that had just noticed a wolf.
"The chewing," he said.
The gnome woman blinked. "I—what?"
"The gum," Sael said, as he gestured to his own face, tapping the hinge of his jaw with two fingers. "The way you chew it. I'm a healer mage, you see, so I notice these things. You're working your jaw side to side, over and over."
He demonstrated the motion, moving his jaw laterally in an exaggerated chewing motion. "Repetitive motion like that, sustained over years—and I suppose you've been doing this for years—will cause premature degradation of the joint." He tapped the spot again, more firmly this time. "Right here. It'll click when you open your mouth wide. Then it'll hurt. Then you'll get headaches that won't go away."
The gnome woman stared at him, completely at lost for word.
"Also," Sael added, as he thought this was quite important, "it's extraordinarily irritating to listen to."
He took a pull from his pipe.
"Just something to consider," he said.
Then he turned and walked after Ilsa and Orion.
They were both standing a few feet away, frozen in identical expressions of shock.
Sael wondered briefly if that had been too much. Socially inappropriate, probably. Most people didn't offer unsolicited medical advice to strangers, especially strangers who'd just done them a favor.
But sometimes social norms had to be ignored for the greater good. The woman's jaw health was one thing—genuine concern, that—but more importantly, she needed to know how unpleasant that chewing was. Someone had to tell her.
He gestured toward the platforms.
"Shall we?" he said.
Ilsa had explained it to him earlier, House Eryndor's forty percent stake in the company that built and operated the lightning rail system, the financing that had enabled the initial expansion twenty years ago when the company was struggling to establish routes beyond the capital cities. The investments in station infrastructure across the continent. Maintenance facilities, cargo warehouses, all of it.
The lightning rail system wouldn't exist in its current form without Eryndor money. Which meant that plaque carried weight. Literal, bureaucratic weight.
Money talking when magic didn't, as Ilsa had put it.
Sael took another pull from his pipe and glanced back at the terminal. The gnome woman was still standing behind her counter, hand raised to her jaw, pressing gently at the hinge with a look of dawning concern on her face.
"Platform Five," Ilsa said finally, her voice carefully controlled. "This way."
They started walking.
The station was busier now. More people flooding in from the street, more announcements crackling through the speakers. Sael followed Ilsa and Orion through the crowd, dodging around a family with too much luggage and stepping aside for a porter hauling a trunk that looked like it weighed more than the porter did.
Platform Five was at the far end of the terminal, past the main concourse and through an arched corridor that still smelled faintly of fresh paint. The platform itself was wider than the others, with a covered waiting area and benches that actually looked comfortable.
And there was the train.
Sael stopped walking.
It was longer than he'd expected. Seven cars, each one sleek and painted a deep blue that was almost black, with silver trim running along the edges. The windows were large and evenly spaced, glass so clean it reflected the platform lights. At the front, the engine car sat like something alive, all smooth curves and polished metal, with a pointed nose that made it look fast even when it was standing still.
Steam hissed from vents along the undercarriage, it was a clean white vapor that dissipated almost immediately. The wheels were massive, twice as tall as Sael, fitted onto axles that gleamed with fresh oil.
And along the side of each car, painted in silver script, was a logo.
A lightning bolt enclosed in a circle. Simple. Clean. Unmistakable.
Below it, smaller text: Ashford Lightning Rail Company.
Sael stared at it.
"It's impressive, isn't it?" Orion said. He'd moved up beside Sael. "The lightning trains are the fastest form of transportation in the world. They use a combination of enchanted rails and elemental cores—lightning-aspected, obviously—to reduce friction and increase speed. At full velocity, they can cover the distance from Gatsby to Orlys in under 24 hours."
He was using his lecture voice. The one that suggested he'd either memorized this from a book or explained it many times before.
"The cars are reinforced with spells to prevent destabilization during acceleration," Orion continued. "And the rails themselves are laid in perfectly straight lines wherever possible to maximize efficiency. The whole system was revolutionary when it was first implemented. Before this, the same journey would have taken maybe more than fourteen days by carriage."
Sael took a pull from his pipe.
"The theory behind it was yours, wasn't it?" Orion said. He was watching Sael's face now, expression bright with enthusiasm. "Your work on kinetic reduction and controlled elemental channeling. That's what made this possible."
"Not quite," Sael said.
Orion blinked. "What?"
"I taught it to a student of mine. A young man named—"
"Edrik Ashford," Orion said immediately. His entire face lit up. "I know the story. It was three hundred and twenty-eight years ago. He came to you and asked to be your student. You taught him for—what was it, seven years? And during that time, you discussed the theoretical concept of a 'train,' a vehicle that could transport multiple people at once along a fixed path using enchanted rails and reduced friction."
He paused for breath.
"Edrik spent years working on the practical designs, refining the runic matrices, collaborating with engineers. But the technology wasn't there yet. The materials didn't exist. The infrastructure couldn't support it. So he documented everything—detailed notes, diagrams, calculations—and passed them down through his family. And then about twenty years ago, one of his descendants finally had the resources and the technology to make it real. That's when the Ashford Company was founded and the first train made its inaugural run."
Orion stopped talking abruptly, as if suddenly realizing how much he'd just said.
"Sorry," he added. "I got carried away."
Ilsa sighed. She seemed used to this.
Sael looked at Orion.
The boy was fidgeting now, hands tucked behind his back, expression caught between embarrassment and lingering excitement.
"You seem to know a lot about me," Sael said.
"Well," Orion said. "You're the father of modern magic. The first thing every mage on the continent learns about. First year curriculum. There are twelve books about you specifically, and forty-five about your magical revolutions."
Sael raised an eyebrow. "That seems like a lot for first year."
"Oh, it's not all taught in first year," Orion said quickly. "Just the basics. The introduction to magical theory, the three fundamental principles, your work on elemental aspecting. But I read all of them before I even got into the academy."
After that, Sael realized something.
The boy's earlier smiles. The careful politeness. The way he'd watched Sael during their conversations, like he was trying to memorize every word.
That hadn't been nervousness. It was reverence.
Sael chuckled. Perhaps telling him the truth would help temper this.
"The name 'train' didn't come from me," he said. "It came from Bushy Brows."
Ilsa's head snapped around. "Bran the Brave?"
"Yes."
She stared at him. "Bran the Brave named the train?"
"He named the concept," Sael said. "I told him about the idea one evening. He thought it was brilliant, suggested we call it a 'train' because it would train across the landscape. He thought he was being clever."
"Huh," Orion said.
"The concept of a mage academy wasn't mine either," Sael continued. "People seem to be claiming that nowadays, but it was Bran's idea as well. Before that, the only system of learning was disciple to master. One student, one teacher. Bran thought that was inefficient. He wanted to create a place where multiple students could learn from multiple teachers, where knowledge could be shared more freely."
"But... he never implemented it?" Orion said slowly.
"No. He gave me the idea near the end of his life. Asked me to make it happen."
Ilsa was still staring. "I didn't know that."
"You have his journal," Sael said. "I'm surprised it wasn't in there."
"The journal I have is one of twelve, I think," Ilsa said. "Maybe more. I only have three of them. Each one focuses on a specific person or part of his life. Your journal is one. Another is about combat techniques. The third is..." She paused. "Actually, I'm not sure what the third one is about. Parts of it are in code."
"I see."
Sael exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke, watching it mingle with the train's steam.
"Your ancestor was an odd one," he said. "He wasn't from this world."
Both Orion and Ilsa went very still.
"What?" Ilsa said.
"He wasn't from this world," Sael repeated. "Which is why he knew concepts like trains and academies. Where he came from, these things already existed."
Orion's mouth had fallen open slightly. "Not from this world?"
"No."
"He was from... what, another plane? A parallel realm?"
"A place called Earth," Sael said.
The silence that followed was the kind that felt heavy. Like the air had gotten thicker.
"Earth," Ilsa echoed.
"Yes."
"He never mentioned that in the journal."
"He probably didn't mention it to many people," Sael said. "It wasn't exactly common knowledge. I only found out because he told me one night when he was very drunk and very homesick."
The train's whistle blew—a sharp, clear note that cut through the platform noise.
"Five-minute warning," Ilsa said quietly. She was still processing. "We should board."
Orion nodded, but he didn't move. He was staring at Sael with an expression that suggested his entire understanding of history had just been reorganized.
Good.
"Come on," Ilsa said, touching his arm.
That broke the spell. Orion started walking toward the train, but Sael could see him muttering to himself, lips moving soundlessly as he worked through whatever thoughts were currently occupying his brain.
He wasn't watching where he was going.
Which meant he didn't see the young man coming from the opposite direction until they'd already collided.
It wasn't a hard impact. Just a shoulder-to-shoulder bump, the kind that happened in crowded places all the time. But the young man had been moving fast, and he was carrying something.
A leather pouch.
It hit the ground with a series of heavy thunks, and the drawstring came loose.
Monster cores spilled across the platform.
Six of them. Maybe seven. They rolled in different directions, glowing faintly—blues and greens and one that pulsed with a dull red light.
The young man dropped to his knees immediately, scrambling to gather them up.
Orion snapped out of his thoughts. "Oh—I'm sorry, I wasn't—"
He bent down to help.
So did three other people who'd been standing nearby.
It became a small scramble. Hands reaching for the cores, people getting in each other's way. The young man was fastest, snatching them up and shoving them back into the pouch with movements that bordered on frantic.
Orion managed to grab one—the red one—and held it out. "Here, I—"
The young man snatched it from his hand without a word and pulled the pouch's drawstring tight.
Then he stood up.
He was taller than Orion by half a head. Broad-shouldered. Maybe mid-twenties. Dark hair pulled back in a short tail, stubble on his jaw that suggested he hadn't shaved in a few days. He wore traveling leathers that had seen better days—scuffed and stained in places—and there was a sword strapped to his hip.
"Watch where you're going," he said.
Orion straightened, brushing dust off his hands. "I apologize. I should have been paying more attention."
The young man was already turning away.
"Though," Orion added, "you were moving quite fast yourself. Perhaps we both—"
"I said watch where you're going."
The young man didn't stop walking.
Orion opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked at Ilsa with an expression that suggested he wasn't entirely sure what had just happened.
Ilsa shrugged. People were rude sometimes. Especially in train stations. Especially when they were in a hurry.
Sael had been watching from a few feet away.
He drew from his pipe, weighing his next sentence.
"That was unnecessarily harsh," he said mildly.
The young man stopped walking.
He turned around slowly, deliberately, and looked at Sael.
"What did you say?"
"I said that was unnecessarily harsh," Sael repeated. "The boy apologized. There was no need to be rude about it."
The young man's jaw tightened. "And who the fuck asked you?"
Silence.
It was the sort of silence that happened when someone said something that made everyone nearby stop what they were doing and look over to see what was about to happen next.
Ilsa's hand moved to her sword hilt. Just resting there. Not drawing. Not yet.
Orion had gone very still.
"Hmm," Sael said thoughtfully. "You seem to be lacking quite a lot of manners."
The young man stopped walking.
He turned around slowly, deliberately, and looked at the three of them.
"Oh, fuck off," he said. "All of you. The clumsy idiot who can't watch where he's going—" He gestured at Orion. "The uptight bitch with the stick up her ass—" A dismissive wave at Ilsa. "And you."
He focused on Sael now, eyes narrowing.
"What's your deal anyway? Playing dress-up with that hair dye? Trying to look all mysterious and wise or whatever?" He snorted. "You're what, my age? And you're standing there acting like some old fuck playing hero. Pathetic."
Orion's mouth fell open slightly. Ilsa's jaw tightened, but she didn't draw. She was watching Sael instead, waiting to see how he'd respond.
Sael tilted his head slightly.
He'd met this type before. Loud, brittle pride wrapped around fear. Men like that mistook anger for strength and usually died young. A waste, really. Still, a lesson delivered by someone patient might save him from learning it fatally later.
Maybe it was better from him than from someone crueler.
"Interesting," he said.
"What?"
"You called me old, which I am. But then you added 'fuck' to the end of it. I'm trying to understand what you mean by that."
The young man stared at him. "What?"
"Old fuck," Sael repeated, pronouncing each word carefully. "In my time, 'fuck' was an action. A verb. Something one did. So I'm curious, how exactly does one be an action? Are you suggesting I'm somehow the physical embodiment of copulation? Because that seems like a very strange insult."
The young man's expression shifted from annoyance to confusion. "Are you high right now?"
"Sadly, no."
"Then what the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm trying to understand your insult," Sael said pleasantly. "You see, in my day, insults had meaning. They were crafted. Intentional. Calling someone an 'old fuck' when they look your age is just... confusing. And lazy."
The young man's hand moved to his sword hilt. "You making fun of me?"
"No, I'm genuinely trying to educate you on proper insult construction."
"How about I educate you on getting the hell out of my face?"
"That's not really education," Sael observed. "That's just a threat. A poorly constructed one at that."
The young man's face was starting to flush. "Listen, you white-haired f—"
Pipe clamped between his teeth, Sael stepped forward and set his hands on the young man's shoulders.
Not hard. Just firmly enough to keep him in place.
The young man tried to step back.
He couldn't.
His eyes widened slightly. He pulled harder, twisting his shoulders, trying to break the grip.
Nothing happened.
"What the—let go of me."
"In a moment," Sael said. "We're not finished talking."
The young man yanked backward with enough force that he should have broken free or at least pulled Sael off balance.
Sael didn't budge.
The young man's breathing quickened. He tried again, this time twisting his whole body and planting his feet for leverage.
Still nothing.
"Let go."
The young man was starting to look genuinely worried now. His eyes darted to the side, looking for help, for witnesses, for anything.
Sael found it remarkable how freely people insulted strangers when transformation into toads remained a viable consequence. Self-preservation, it seemed, was a dying art.
People were definitely watching now.
A small crowd had formed at a respectful distance. Station guards near Platform Four had noticed the commotion and were starting to walk over.
"As far as intellectual luggage is concerned," Sael continued, "you, my friend, are traveling remarkably lightly."
The young man blinked. "What?"
"You're not very bright," Sael clarified. "I'm calling you stupid. But see how much more satisfying that phrasing is? It has layers."
"Let go of me—"
Sael's grip didn't shift even slightly.
"Or we could go simpler," Sael said. "You're a bellend."
"A what?"
"Bellend. The tip of a penis. I'm calling you a dickhead, but in a more refined way."
He glanced over his shoulder at Orion and Ilsa. "That is how it's said nowadays, isn't it? A dickhead? "
Orion and Ilsa both nodded, making sounds that were either suppressed laughter or strangled coughs. Sael chose to interpret them as laughter. It was more gratifying that way.
"Excellent," he said, turning back to the young man. "So yes. You're a dickhead."
The young fool tried to kick Sael.
Sael shifted his weight slightly, and the kick missed entirely, the young man's boot passing harmlessly through empty air.
"Very rude," Sael observed.
The young man was pulling frantically now, genuinely panicking. "What are you—how are you doing this?"
Sael looked at him more carefully now. The young man was level 102.
That was... actually quite respectable. It took real work to get to level 102. Years of combat, training, monster hunting.
"Level 102," Sael said aloud. "Not bad at all."
The young man's eyes went wide. "How did you—"
"And yet here you are, scrambling for dropped monster cores in a train station, getting aggressive with strangers, radiating nervous energy like you're running from something."
The young man had gone very pale.
Sael glanced down at the leather pouch at his belt. "That's an expensive pouch. Too expensive for what you're wearing. And those cores—I noticed the glow—those are high-grade. Worth quite a lot of money."
Someone in the crowd shouted, "GUARDS! This man is assaulting someone!"
The young man's eyes went wide with panic. "No—wait—"
The station guards were already there. Three of them, two humans and a dwarf, all wearing matching uniforms with silver badges.
"What's going on here?" the lead guard said. He was older, graying at the temples.
"This lunatic grabbed me and won't let go," the young man said. His voice had taken on a desperate edge now. "I didn't do anything, I just—"
"He was being rude to my companion," Sael said calmly. "Called me an 'old fuck', too . So I thought I'd teach him some manners."
The lead guard looked at Sael. Then at the young man, who was still struggling uselessly against Sael's grip. Looked at Ilsa and Orion.
"Sir," the guard said carefully, "I'm going to need you to let go of him."
"Of course," Sael said.
He didn't let go.
"Sir?"
"I will in just a moment. But I think you should check his identification first."
The young man's struggling intensified. "No—you can't—I have rights—"
"That's an interesting reaction," the lead guard said slowly.
"Please," the young man said. "Please, just—let me go. I'll leave. I won't bother anyone. Just let me—"
He reached for his belt with his free hand.
Sael caught his wrist.
"That," Sael said, "was a mistake."
The young man's hand had been going for something small and dark tucked into his belt.
The lead guard saw it too. His expression hardened. "Restrain him."
The other two guards moved in immediately and the young man threw the object anyway.
There was a flash of light and a burst of smoke that billowed up around them, thick and acrid.
Flash bomb.
The guards shouted. People in the crowd screamed. There was the sound of running footsteps, chaos spreading outward from the smoke cloud.
Sael sighed.
He tightened his grip on the young man's shoulder and wrist and simply... held on.
The young man was choking on the smoke, coughing, trying to wrench himself free with increasingly frantic movements.
"You know," Sael said, his voice perfectly calm despite the smoke, "this really isn't helping your case."
The smoke cleared after a few seconds. Cheap flash bomb, not designed to last.
When it dissipated, the scene had changed.
The guards had drawn their weapons. Ilsa had drawn hers too, though she was holding it in a ready position rather than pointing it at anyone. Orion had tried to conjure a small shield but failed. The crowd had backed up significantly.
And Sael was still standing in exactly the same position, holding the young man in place. Neither of them had moved an inch.
The young man was panting now, eyes wild, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Stop resisting," the lead guard said. His sword was drawn now, pointed at the young man.
"I didn't do anything!" the young man shouted.
"You just threw a flash bomb in a crowded train station," the guard said flatly. "Check his identification."
"No—wait—"
The dwarf guard moved in while the lead guard kept his sword trained on the young man. Sael released his grip on the wrist but maintained his hold on the shoulder.
The young man didn't try to run. He just stood there, shaking slightly, as the dwarf guard patted him down.
"Got something," the dwarf said.
He pulled out a metal plaque from an inner pocket of the young man's coat.
Adventurer plaque. Silver rank.
The dwarf guard looked at it, squinted, and then his expression changed.
"Oh," he said.
"What is it?" the lead guard asked.
The dwarf guard held up the plaque so the lead guard could see it.
The lead guard's eyebrows shot up. "You're him?"
The young man had gone very pale.
"Someone fetch a wanted board," the lead guard said. "Now."
Ilsa was already moving. She returned less than a minute later with a rolled parchment. The lead guard took it, unrolled it, and scanned through the listings.
"There," he said, pointing.
Ilsa leaned in to look.
Her expression darkened.
"What is it?" Orion asked.
"Marcus Vrell," Ilsa read aloud. "Silver-ranked adventurer with the Stonewatch Guild. Wanted for the murder of his party members—three confirmed dead—and theft of their equipment, monster cores, and potions. Last seen fleeing north from Kevril two weeks ago."
She looked at the young man.
"Bounty is one hundred Dracos," she finished.
The crowd murmured. One hundred was a lot of money.
Sael released his grip on Marcus Vrell's shoulder.
The young man collapsed to his knees.
"I didn't—" he started to say.
"Save it for the magistrate," the lead guard said. He gestured to the other guards. "Restrain him."
Within seconds, Marcus Vrell was in iron manacles, hands bound behind his back.
He wasn't struggling anymore. Just kneeling there, head bowed, breathing hard.
The lead guard turned to Sael.
"That was good work, sir. We've been looking for him for days. The bounty—"
"I'll take it,"
He hadn't meant to interrupt. The mention of money had nudged his attention forward a little too quickly, and it simply felt like the logical place to respond. Judging by the sudden silence, it apparently wasn't.
Everyone stared at him.
"You'll... take it?" the guard repeated.
"Yes. I stopped him. The bounty is mine, yes?"
"I—" The guard paused. "Well, we'll need you to sign a document. You'll need to come to the guard station to complete the claim."
"That's fine," Sael said. "Where is it?"
"Just outside the terminal. We can escort you there after we process the prisoner."
"Good."
Sael looked at Ilsa and Orion. They were both staring at him with identical expressions of bewilderment.
"I'll meet you on the train," Sael said.
"You're going to claim the bounty," Ilsa said slowly.
"Yes."
"...Right now?"
"Yes."
"But..." she was hesitating. "Ee're about to leave."
"I'll teleport back to the train after it departs," Sael said. "It's fine."
The train's whistle blew—one long blast this time. Final boarding call.
"This is insane," Orion said.
"I'm broke," Sael said simply. "One hundred Dracos is one hundred Dracos.."
He started walking toward the guard station, following the dwarf guard who was leading Marcus Vrell away.
Behind him, he heard Ilsa say something to Orion in a low voice.
Orion's response was just: "I don't know anymore."
Sael smiled.
This was turning out to be an interesting day.