The rhythmic *tick-tick-tick* accelerated, a frantic drumbeat against Zivena’s palm. The amber glow pulsed faster, illuminating the frosted glass. A proximity detonator. Wired to Nika. Zivena’s gaze snapped to the window, the frosted pane a blur of passing snow-dusted firs. No hesitation. She hurled the device with a practiced, overhand arc, a blur against the dim light. It sailed outward, a tiny, glowing projectile, vanishing into the swirling white. A silent count of two. Three.
Then, a thunderclap. Not from within, but just outside the chassis. A flash of white light slammed into the hull. The transport shrieked, steel groaning under blunt trauma. One moment, they were speeding through the blizzard; the next, the world inverted as the iron frame flipped end over end. Zivena, still clutching Nika, felt the jarring impact as she was pressed against the ceiling, then the floor, then the ceiling again.
Nika’s cry was swallowed by the din of rending metal and shattering glass. Bramien, a shadow in the chaos, threw himself over them, a living shield. His broad back absorbed the brunt of the final impact as the carriage spun off the icy track, plowing deep into a snowbank with a final, shuddering crunch. Steam hissed violently from ruptured pipes, mingling with the biting cold.
Silence. Or, a close approximation. The hiss of steam, the moan of settling metal, the distant whine of the wind. Zivena blinked, her vision momentarily swimming. A cold, wet weight pressed against her, Bramien’s arm still wrapped protectively around her and Nika. His breath was ragged, a low growl escaping his throat. A trickle of blood ran from his temple, stark against the white snow coating his hair.
“Are you… unharmed?” Zivena’s voice was flat, assessing. Her own body throbbed with a dull ache, but no broken bones. Nika, tucked against her chest, coughed, then stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, wide and tear-filled, but intact.
Bramien slowly pushed himself up, wincing. “Solid construction, after all.” He grunted, his gaze sweeping over them, verifying their safety before his own. “Ingenious little bomb. Almost had us.”
“Almost doesn’t count.” Zivena shifted, carefully extracting Nika. The little girl clung to her, small tremors still running through her. Zivena deployed a small, reassuring pat on Nika’s back. Tactical comfort measure, to minimize long-term psychological impact. “We need to move. This wreckage will draw attention.”
Yovela, remarkably, was already climbing out of the fractured driver’s compartment, a streak of soot marring her cheek, but her elaborate coat somehow mostly intact. “That was… invigorating!” she declared, shaking snow from her vibrant red hair. “That viper Ignac! He truly has no bounds. Setting off a tracker on a child? Despicable.” She stomped her foot, a cloud of snow puffing up. “My steam-runner! Ruined!”
“Minor setback.” Zivena observed the dense forest of fir trees, their branches heavy with snow. They were deep in the outskirts of the Varga lands, miles from any settlement. The cold bit through her wool layers like iron teeth. She closed her eyes for a fleeting second, accessing her inner space. The grand, iron-doored portal at the far end of the vast lobby, locked until now, shimmered. The bomb’s proximity detonation had been the final trigger. It swung open, revealing a new chamber.
Inside, a dizzying array of schematics glowed, holographic projections swirling around an illuminated pillar. This was her past self’s deepest trove. Her gaze zeroed in on the largest blueprint. It depicted the entire Varga Manufacturing plant, rendered in fine detail, and highlighted in flashing red was the primary steam-pressure valve, the regulator feeding power to every piston and gear in the sprawling facility. A single line of text pulsed beneath it: *Solstice Protocol: Overpressure Cascade. Primary Detonation Point.*
[Final Encryption Unlocked: Solstice Bomb Core Identified. Central Steam-Pressure Valve, Varga Manufacturing Complex.]
Zivena’s eyes snapped open. “The bomb is tied to the main steam-pressure valve of the foundry,” she announced, her voice devoid of inflection. “Ignac plans to overload it.”
Yovela gasped, rubbing her arms. “The holiday gathering! He’ll do it during the assembly tomorrow! Everyone will be gathered in the main square, right under the master steam tower. He’ll blame you, Zivena! You’re the outcast, the ‘mad tinkerer.’ He’ll collect the insurance on the entire production facility and frame you for the massacre!” Her voice rose, fueled by indignation and a very personal vendetta against Ignac. “The sheer audacity!”
Bramien, meanwhile, was fiddling with a salvaged, battered radio unit from the steam-runner’s dashboard. He rotated a large dial, static hissing, until a distorted voice crackled through. “—attention, all citizens of the Varga territories. By emergency decree of Elder Ignac Varga, martial law is now in effect. All roads are sealed. A bounty of one million blueprints is hereby placed upon the head of Zivena Varga, her accomplice Bramien Varga, and their daughter Nika Varga. They are deemed enemies of the people, responsible for the recent acts of sabotage and the grievous harm to Elder Varga. Report any sightings immediately. A prosperous winter awaits those who comply.”
One million blueprints. The ultimate currency. Ignac was playing for keeps, using the winter holiday as his stage for ultimate devastation and profit. Zivena listened, her expression unchanging, yet a terrifying smile slowly stretched her lips, deadpan and utterly chilling. Her eyes, usually analytical, now held a glint of genuine, focused fury. Ignac had pushed too far. He had touched Nika. He had threatened her ability to acquire wealth and resources. He had declared open season on her family.
She reached into her mental space, bypassing the usual storage compartments, pulling from a newly accessible section of her vault. The hum of displaced air was barely audible over the wind. With a soft *thump* onto the snow, Zivena deposited a colossal piece of hardware. It was a multi-barreled monstrosity, sleek black metal and glinting brass, fed by an enormous drum magazine. Wires snaked from its frame, suggesting an energy source far beyond Ostrovya’s current understanding. Diesel-powered. A rotary cannon, capable of delivering a blistering hail of fire. It was a weapon designed for a battlefield, not a snow-dusted forest.
“Time for a hostile takeover.”