Daris’s gaze didn’t waver from Liska’s face. His dark eyes, which had been so sharp a moment ago, now softened, settling into the familiar, weary expression she knew. The tension in his shoulders eased. He sighed, a low, rumbling sound. “My father,” he began, his voice raspy, “was a trapper. Got caught in his own snare once. Had to stitch him up with fishing line and a dull hook. Nothing fancy. Just… practical.” He finished tying off the last knot on her left arm, his movements still too precise for the story. He picked up the needle and thread, then slowly, deliberately, put them back in the hidden compartment. The flap clicked shut, the wall seamless once more. He rose, his presence suddenly looming in the small room, casting a long shadow over her as she sat on the stool. The smell of burnt wood and kerosene still clung to her clothes, a sharp contrast to the antiseptic scent of the salve on her skin. “The guards,” Liska said, her voice still rough. “Are they still out there?” “Aye. Two of them, by the door. Another two by the barn. The patrol leader doesn’t take kindly to having his time wasted.” Daris’s tone was flat, devoid of the earlier feigned terror. He walked to the window, pulling back a corner of the faded curtain just enough to peer outside. A faint glow from a distant lantern illuminated the rain-slicked cobblestones. Liska watched him, a thousand questions burning in her chest. The easy lie, the practiced performance. The way he’d healed her without a single wasted motion. It didn't fit. None of it did. But the mission. Kian’s warning about the Brass King. The train. It had to be tonight. The memory of the baker’s limp body, executed for possessing a few scraps of twine, spurred her. “I need to go out,” she said, her voice firm. “I need fresh air. My head is spinning from the smoke.” Daris turned from the window, his expression unreadable. “Fresh air won’t fix burnt flesh, Liska. And the guards won’t care for your delicate constitution.” “They won’t care for a woman who needs to relieve herself either,” she retorted, pushing herself up from the stool. Her legs felt wobbly, but she forced herself to stand tall. “I’ll go to the privy. They can watch all they want. It’s better than smelling like a bonfire all night.” Daris studied her, his eyes narrowed. He looked from her bandaged arms to her determined face. After a long moment, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Alright,” he said, his voice low. “But you go and you come straight back. And don’t give them any trouble.” He opened the cottage door, stepping out first, his broad back momentarily eclipsing her view of the two Gresnian Enforcers standing guard. They wore heavy, oil-stained coats and carried carbine rifles, their faces grim under the brims of their caps. Daris exchanged a few curt words with them, his voice a low rumble she couldn’t quite make out. Liska followed, her pace slow and deliberate, playing the part of a woman shaken by a domestic accident. The chill night air bit at her exposed skin, a welcome shock against the lingering heat of her burns. The Enforcers barely glanced at her as she shuffled towards the outhouse, their attention fixed on Daris. She could feel their eyes on her back as she entered the small, dilapidated shed. Inside, the stench was overpowering, but Liska ignored it. She unlatched the back window, a small, barely visible opening obscured by overgrown nettles. With a grunt of pain from her bandaged arms, she squeezed through, dropping silently to the muddy ground outside the cottage perimeter. She moved like a shadow, hugging the treeline, her weaver’s smock discarded for a dark, hooded cloak. Her usual light-footed courier's gait was hampered by the soreness of her burns, but the urgency of her mission propelled her forward. The train whistle, a mournful wail, echoed through the night, growing steadily louder. The Iron Rail was on schedule. Reaching the main rail line, Liska found a cluster of low-lying brush, a perfect vantage point. The military transport, a long serpent of black steel, rumbled towards her. She counted five cargo cars, just as Kian had described. As the engine drew level, she sprinted, her boots churning mud, and launched herself onto the ladder of the last car. Her burnt hands screamed in protest as she hauled herself up, clinging to the cold metal. Inside the cargo car, the air tasted of ozone, damp sulfur, and cold grease. Two state soldiers lay sprawled on the grimy floor, their tunics stained dark, revolvers still holstered. Not a single bullet casing was visible. A silent, efficient kill. The Brass King was here, or his men were. Liska crept forward, her hand on the hilt of her hidden knife. Her extraction plan, a swift, quiet snatch-and-grab of the mineral crate, was in ruins. A group of masked figures in dark, utilitarian gear were moving through the cargo cars, their movements fluid and practiced. They weren’t looking for minerals; they were planting satchel charges, small canvas bags packed with explosives, against the bulkheads of the cars. “Faster, you oafs!” a deep voice commanded from the lead figure, whose mask was adorned with crude brass rivets. “We detonate in three minutes. Strip the conduits, then get out!” Liska pressed herself against a stack of empty crates, her mind racing. Detonation? This wasn’t a retrieval, it was sabotage. Her rebel cell needed those minerals intact. If she moved now, she could probably take down one or two, but the others would be on her instantly. She was outnumbered, outgunned, and her arms were still screaming. A sudden, jarring lurch. The train shrieked, metal grinding against metal. A flicker of panic went through the masked figures. “What in the blazes?!” one of them yelled. The Brass King’s leader turned, his head snapping towards the rear of the train. Then, a blinding flash. A deafening roar. The satchel charges, planted too hastily, detonated prematurely. The cargo car buckled, tearing apart with a sound like a giant’s scream. Liska was flung backwards, the world spinning into a maelstrom of smoke, splintered wood, and twisted metal. Heavy iron pipes rained down, crushing and tearing. A searing pain shot through her leg as something massive pinned her, grinding her into the floor. The train screamed again, a dying beast, as it violently derailed, careening off the tracks into a shower of sparks and mangled steel. Silence, thick and absolute, descended, broken only by the hiss of steam and the groaning of tortured metal. Liska lay trapped, her breath ragged, her entire body screaming. The mangled bulkhead pinned her thigh, steel biting through fabric into meat. Through the swirling smoke and the dust, a dark figure emerged, limping slightly, but otherwise unharmed. The masked leader of the syndicate. He moved with a predatory grace, surveying the wreckage. He stopped a few paces from Liska, his silhouette menacing against the smoldering debris. He raised a hand to his face, adjusting his brass-riveted mask. Just then, a loose piece of jagged, bent pipe, dislodged from the shattered ceiling, swung down with a sickening thud. It struck the side of his head, not hard enough to injure, but precisely enough to snag the edge of his mask. The crude brass rivets groaned, then ripped. The mask tore away, falling to the grimy floor with a clatter. The face revealed beneath was not that of a stranger, but one Liska saw every morning across her breakfast table. Daris. His eyes, now cold and utterly devoid of the warmth she’d come to know, scanned the wreckage, then fixed on her trapped form. He saw only a hooded rebel, another obstacle in his path. Without a flicker of recognition, the Brass King raised his signature revolver. The heavy black steel glinted, aimed directly at her head.

Collision on the Iron Rail