The road to the capital stretched long and unbroken, paved in black stone so smooth it seemed to drink the fog.
It ran beside the railway—close enough that the tracks were always in view, like a ghost road shadowing their path.
The automobile moved like a shadow itself, low and silent, save for the soft, rhythmic thrum of its mana-core engine beneath the hood.
Inside, no one spoke.
Behind them, Rosenvale had already vanished—swallowed by mist and memory.
Ahead, the clouds sagged under their own weight, heavy with a rain that refused to fall.
The air held the hush of mourning, thick with things unsaid.
They knew what waited.
And when they rounded the bend, it rose before them like a wound in the earth.
Ground Zero.
Where once ran the proud lifeline of the empire's southern line, there now lay only ruin—a graveyard of steel and scorched dreams.
The tracks had twisted like vines under some terrible heat, curled and broken.
Iron beams jutted from the mud like shattered ribs, half-submerged in ash-streaked soil. Carriages had crumpled like tin.
One had been thrown from the rail entirely—its hull split open, its insides spilled like the belly of a whale gutted on the rocks.
Smoke still clung to parts of the wreckage, curling faintly through the fog. Wisps of it rose like the last breath of something enormous and dying.
People moved among the remains.
Not many.
Railway workers in heavy coats, brass-rimmed helmets dulled by soot and dew.
They moved slowly, reverently, like they were sifting through the bones of something sacred.
Their hands were gloved. Their faces slack with exhaustion.
A handful of Rosenvale Guard stood nearby, soaked ledgers cradled in their arms, eyes hollow.
They did not bark orders. They did not hurry. There was no need.
This was no longer a rescue.
It was recovery.
A tarp had been thrown across what was once the dining car.
The wind, mean and cold, teased its edge and lifted it—just enough for Norman to catch a glimpse beneath.
He turned his eyes away, jaw tight.
Beside him, Freya did not. Her gaze held steady, fixed on the wreckage like it held yesterday's ghosts.
Her face was unreadable, but her fingers twitched faintly in her lap.
The car slowed as they passed. Aldrich murmured something to the driver, voice low.
The automobile responded, gliding to a near-crawl along the edge of the scene.
"You alright, my lady?" Norman asked quietly.
Freya's reply came after a long moment, her voice distant.
"Do you know how they got on the train?"
The question hung in the air, heavier than the fog.
He nodded. "Gliders. I read it in Commander Vale's interrogation report." His throat was dry as ash.
Celine leaned forward slightly, arms crossed. Her gaze swept over the devastation—sharp and cold. "We were lucky, my lady."
Freya's eyes narrowed. "Yes, we were. But we still have dead from House Vermont and House Ashbourne—on Reinhart land."
She didn't need to say the rest.
That was a political firestorm in the making.
Aldrich took his pipe from his mouth and let the smoke drift lazily toward the window. "If you'll forgive me, my lady—how cordial was House Reinhart's relationship with theirs?"
Freya rolled the window down slightly. The cold slipped in.
"Like guns under the dinner table," she said.
Aldrich raised a brow, then returned his gaze to the field of wreckage. He didn't comment further.
They passed a group of workers lifting a stretcher. A shape lay beneath the sheet—small, heartbreakingly so.
Freya's hand clenched in her lap, knuckles white.
Norman saw it.
He said nothing.
None of them did.
They were mourning in silence—each in their own way.
The fog blanketed the earth like mourning silk, wrapping the ruins in stillness. The smoke rose in delicate spirals, as if trying to escape the memory.
At the far end of the site, a rail officer stepped forward and saluted.
The driver answered with a respectful nod, and the car accelerated, the engine humming a little louder now as the ruins fell behind.
But the weight of it followed them.
Not just sorrow. Not just grief.
Anger had begun to kindle in its place.
A low, simmering fire shared between them. The kind that didn't fade—it forged resolve.
The Second Glyphwork. And whoever stood behind them.
They would answer.
Freya's voice came again—cool, unwavering. "Next time we face them, we don't ask questions first."
Aldrich puffed once more from his pipe and exhaled through his nose. "Please don't kill them all, my lady. We still need bait."
That drew a faint smirk from Celine. As the road stretched on, carrying their silence...
Kingsmere—the capital of the Damacian Empire—rose like a dream carved in stone and steel.
Unlike Rosenvale's quiet fog and clinging rain, Kingsmere stood beneath a clear, endless sky.
The sun bathed its towers in gold, gleaming off glass and polished brass, warming the wide boulevards that coursed through the city like veins of light.
It was a city that dared the world to look away.
Their automobile crested a final ridge, tires humming against blackstone, and there it was in full:
Spires stabbing upward in defiance of gravity. Manalines glowing soft blue beneath translucent streetways.
Airships hovered lazily above the skyline, banners fluttering in the wind. Kingsmere pulsed with life—brazen, booming, and bold.
It was a city that thrived on motion.
People filled every corner—merchants shouting beneath striped awnings.
Noblewomen in parasols strolled past shopfronts adorned in wrought iron and mahogany.
Arcane trams rumbled overhead on suspended tracks, hissing steam and music as they passed.
Children chased each other through fountains that glimmered with floating sigils.
Norman rolled down the window and felt the warmth of the sun on his face. After the cold mist and destruction from yesterday, it felt almost unreal.
Celine, looking out the window, exhaled softly. "Look at them. I bet they don't even care what the world looks like outside Kingsmere."
Aldrich grunted. "You're right. To them, Kingsmere is the only world."
They had passed twisted metal and mourning silence just an hour before—now the world was color, heat, and noise.
The laughter on the streets felt too loud. Too unbothered. Like the city hadn't heard the screams from the wreck.
Norman couldn't help but feel like they were ghosts gliding through the land of the living.
The automobile turned into the outer ring, moving past rows of white-stone townhouses and mana-forged statues that loomed over intersections.
Steam vents hissed from below the pavement, mixing the scent of warm bread with oil and ozone.
The city was alive with movement, but none of it felt rushed. Kingsmere didn't run—it glided.
Guards in black and silver kept careful watch at every corner, dressed in polished armor, helmets styled like hawks.
Their eyes followed the Reinhart crest on the car, and they let it pass without a word.
Freya sat straight, eyes forward, her features calm but unreadable.
The streets narrowed as they entered the second ring—older, more crowded, the architecture shifting from modern steel to ornate imperial Gothic.
Golden lions perched on rooftops. Murals of imperial victories climbed across walls in mosaic tiles.
Newsrunners passed out leaflets, shouting about council disputes, trade tariffs, and a new opera sponsored by House Ashbourne.
Norman caught a glimpse of a poster pinned to a board:"Love on the Railway.""What an irony." He turned away.
Aldrich checked his watch and muttered under his breath. "Let's head back to the station first."
"You looking for anything specific?" Norman brought out his notebook. Ready to write.
Aldrich sighed, "Actually, I was hoping I wouldn't find anything..."
The Reinhart automobile slid through Kingsmere's second ring like a carriage with delusions of stealth, leaving behind wide boulevards for narrower streets where the scent of warm bread mingled with oil, brass, and mild civic unrest.
Inside the car, the mood remained heavy.
Outside, the city couldn't have cared less.
Children shrieked with laughter, weaving between café chairs.
A bard coaxed a discordant melody from a six-string automaton while two mechanical birds attempted harmonies so off-key they might've been legally considered threats.
They rolled to a stop at a red mana-lantern. A street vendor immediately latched onto them like a polite parasite.
"Roasted chestnuts? Spiced figs? Mana-pickled goose egg? Best in the capital!"
Aldrich leaned forward, squinting. "What in the seven hells is a mana-pickled goose egg?"
The vendor proudly held up a jar. The contents were... pulsing. Glowing faintly. Possibly sentient.
"Miracle cure! Clears the lungs, aligns your mana, improves digestion, and guarantees a happy marriage!"
Norman recoiled like it had personally insulted him. "Good gods, it's moving."
"I'd sooner kiss a loaded rifle," Aldrich said flatly, and began rolling the window up.
The vendor sighed like he'd heard this before and wandered off to peddle bio-luminescent poultry to someone more gullible.
The light turned green.
The car slid back into motion.
"Capital hospitality," Aldrich muttered. "Charming as ever."
Celine smirked.
Freya said nothing, but she reached up and adjusted her collar—just enough for Norman to catch the flicker of a half-smile.
Then the laughter faded behind them.
The streets narrowed. The air cooled. Their destination approached.
Up ahead, Kingsmere Central Station reared into view—towering steel spires and arched glass gleaming like the ribcage of some metallic beast.
Steam hissed from the pavement. Uniformed security waited at the private gate, already braced and polished.
Aldrich exhaled smoke and squared his shoulders. "Right, then. Let's go bother a stationmaster."