On the other side of the compartment, another story was unfolding.
Taren dropped into the seat opposite the twins with an exaggerated sigh, stretching his arms forward until his fingers brushed the edge of the table between them. He looked from one identical face to the other, eyes bright with familiar ease, as though the train ride had merely continued a conversation paused days ago rather than reunited them by chance.
"Well," he said, settling back, "either this train is getting popular, or fate has decided I don't get a quiet day ever again."
Gin's lips curved into a mild, knowing smile, while Kevin let out a short laugh, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees. The two of them sat the way they always did—mirroring each other without effort. Same posture, same calm confidence, same build honed by years of physical work rather than combat drills. The only real difference, as always, was the thin line of colour tracing the seams of their academy shirts—purple for Kevin, silver for Gin.
"You say that like you want quiet," Kevin replied.
"I say it like I've never experienced it," Taren shot back.
Kevin chuckled, the sound easy and unrestrained, while Gin merely tilted his head slightly, amusement settling quietly behind his eyes.
"You walked over here," Gin pointed out.
"Details," Taren waved off. "Important people don't worry about details."
The train hummed steadily beneath them, its motion smooth and constant, the Sol's glow slipping in and out of view as the carriage subtly adjusted its trajectory. Around them, the noise of other passengers ebbed and flowed, but their corner of the compartment felt oddly self-contained.
"So," Taren said after a moment, tapping the table lightly with his knuckles, "where are the famous twins heading?"
Kevin glanced at Gin, then answered. "Ashkara Kingdom."
Taren's eyes lit up with interest. "Ashkara? That's not exactly on the sightseeing route."
"It's not meant to be," Gin replied. "That's part of the appeal."
Taren leaned forward again, intrigued. "Assignment?"
Kevin nodded.
Gin folded his hands loosely in his lap. "We're meeting a craftsman."
Taren blinked. "Just one?"
Kevin laughed softly. "Just one."
There was something in the way he said it—casual, but weighted—that made Taren tilt his head.
"A well-known one," Gin added.
Taren leaned back, letting the words settle. "Let me guess," he said. "Old. Legendary. Probably scary."
Kevin considered it. "Retired."
"That tracks."
"Peaceful," Gin said.
"That's disappointing."
Kevin smiled at that. "Not everyone wants to intimidate students."
"Sure they do," Taren replied. "They just pretend they don't."
Gin ignored that. "His name is Oliver Wilson."
The name landed heavier than expected.
"He was the one who suggested hand knuckles as a base tool for Patrol trainees."
Taren let out a low whistle.
He tilted his head. "Why knuckles, though?"
Kevin raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Taren continued, warming to the question, "why not a blade? Or a knife? Or a staff? Or something dramatic. Knuckles seem… simple."
Gin answered calmly. "Too sharp is dangerous. Too long is easy to disarm. Too complex breaks when it's needed most."
Kevin nodded in agreement.
Taren considered that, gaze drifting to his own hands. "So knuckles are… balance."
"Exactly," Gin said. "They amplify what's already there instead of replacing it."
Kevin leaned forward slightly. "From what we've studied, Oliver Wilson went through dozens of designs before settling on the final structure. Different metals. Different resonance patterns. Different ember conduits."
Taren's eyes widened. "So these things we're using are like… version what? Thirty?"
"Forty-two," Gin corrected.
Taren stared at them. "You're joking."
Kevin smiled. "We're not."
For a moment, Taren fell quiet, imagination filling the gap. In his mind, he saw the craftsman already—tall, broad-shouldered, hands scarred from decades of work, voice deep and steady like metal cooling after a forge. A man who didn't speak unless it mattered. A man who understood strength not as force, but as restraint.
He snapped back to the present with a grin.
"So," he said, "this legendary retired craftsman—he's really going to help you? Two academy students? Messing with his peaceful life?"
"He always does," Gin said. "The academy still seeks his guidance. He trains students when needed."
The train gave a low, almost imperceptible shift, its hum deepening as the lights along the compartment subtly adjusted. Outside the wide windows, the stars rearranged themselves, and the vast curve of Helior Prime began to emerge—its artificial platforms glimmering faintly, framed by the overwhelming presence of the Sol.
Kevin noticed it first.
He straightened slightly, gaze flicking toward the window before returning to Taren. "Looks like Helior Prime's coming up."
Taren followed his glance, then nodded. "Yeah. That's my stop."
Gin raised an eyebrow. "Already?"
"Day trip," Taren said, pushing himself upright and stretching his arms. "Movie."
Kevin blinked. "Alone?"
Taren scoffed. "What kind of tragic existence do you think I live?"
Gin's eyes narrowed with interest. "So?"
"So," Taren continued easily, "Cyros and Aerin are coming too."
For half a heartbeat, Kevin didn't react.
There was a brief, almost imperceptible pause—his breath hitching, his posture stiffening just a fraction before he realized it was happening. His heart skipped, sharp and sudden, like missing a step he hadn't known was there.
"Aerin?" he repeated.
Taren nodded casually, oblivious. "Yeah. Why?"
Kevin was already on his feet.
Gin's eyes widened—just slightly—before his expression shifted into something far more dangerous: amusement.
"Wait," Gin said mildly. "Kevin."
Too late.
Kevin turned in place, scanning the compartment with open urgency, eyes moving row by row, seat by seat. His earlier composure evaporated, replaced by something rawer and entirely unguarded. He leaned forward, craning his neck, then froze.
There.
Near the far window.
Aerin stood near her seat, one hand resting lightly on the overhead rail as she adjusted the strap of her bag. She was dressed casually, her Patrol uniform replaced by something softer, lighter, and for a moment, Kevin forgot how to breathe.
Beside her stood Cyros.
Of course he did.
Cyros was calm in the way only he could be—hands relaxed, posture unassuming, presence steady without effort. He didn't look impressive in the traditional sense. He simply looked… certain. As if space itself made room for him without being asked.
Kevin's heart sank and lifted at the same time.
Gin followed his line of sight, then let out a low, satisfied hum. "There she is."
Kevin swallowed. "Why didn't you tell me she was here?"
Taren blinked. "You didn't ask?"
"That's not—" Kevin stopped, then ran a hand through his hair, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he looked standing there. He sat back down slowly, trying to regain composure. "Never mind."
Gin watched him with open amusement. "You stood up like the Sol blinked again."
Kevin shot him a glare. "Don't start."
"Oh, I'm absolutely starting," Gin replied. "You almost tripped over the seat."
"I did not."
"You emotionally did."
Taren glanced between them, something clicking into place. His grin widened. "Oh."
Kevin stiffened. "What?"
"Oh," Taren repeated, louder now. "That explains a lot."
Gin nodded. "Doesn't it?"
The announcement chimed overhead, calm and melodic.
Now arriving: Helior Prime
Taren stood, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "Well," he said, "this is me."
Gin rose as well, offering a casual nod. "Enjoy your movie."
Kevin hesitated, then stood too. His gaze flicked once more toward Aerin, who had begun walking down the aisle alongside Cyros. She looked focused, composed—but there was something lighter about her than before. Something he hadn't seen during training.
Taren noticed. Of course he did.
He followed Kevin's gaze, then smirked. "You know," he said, lowering his voice just enough, "you could've just walked over and said hi."
Kevin exhaled sharply. "Now?"
"Why not?" Taren shrugged. "Trains are temporary. Regret isn't."
Kevin hesitated.
Then the doors hissed open.
The noise of the station flooded in—voices, footsteps, announcements echoing across metal and stone. The moment slipped past him, carried away by movement and sound.
Cyros stepped off first, hands in his pockets, gaze already forward. Aerin followed, pausing briefly to look back at the compartment before continuing.
She didn't see Kevin.
The doors began to close.
Taren turned, walking backwards for a step as he addressed the twins. "Good luck with your craftsman," he said.
Kevin managed a faint smile. "No promises."
Gin raised a hand in farewell. "Take care, Patrol."
As the doors slid shut, Gin leaned closer to Kevin, voice low and amused. "So."
Kevin didn't look at him. "Don't."
Gin grinned anyway. "Ashkara's a long ride. Plenty of time to think."
Kevin sighed. "I hate you."
"No, you don't," Gin said cheerfully. "You hate that I noticed."
The train began to move again, Helior Prime slipping behind them as smoothly as it had arrived.
Gin leaned back, folding his arms behind his head, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. "Don't worry," he added lightly. "If it's meant to happen, it will."
Kevin stared at the closed doors long after the platform disappeared from view.
Gin's smile widened.
"And if it's not," he said, voice almost gentle, "watching you panic will still be worth it."