The hiss of pressurized steam was deafening. Thick, black smoke billowed from the locomotive's chimney, swallowing the pale morning sky above Valorheim Central Station.
Revan stood on the platform, his breath pluming in the freezing air. He adjusted the cuffs of his immaculate black servant's attire, his eyes fixed on the entrance of the Z-Class Express Train.
Marshal Dain Ashworth had been the first to board, his heavy steps disappearing into the security carriage after that brief, chilling moment of recognition between them. As Sylvia's shadow, Revan had already memorized the classified dossiers on all four 'meat shields' assigned by the family. He knew Dain was a decorated veteran of the Unification Wars. A man like that didn't escort cargo unless it was either priceless, or apocalyptic.
Next to arrive was Professor Mirael Thorne.
She almost tripped over a stray piece of luggage as she boarded, her hands full of rolled-up parchment. She wore thick, double-lensed glasses and muttered soundlessly to herself, completely oblivious to the freezing wind.
'Archmage Thorne's younger sister,' Revan noted, feeling a sudden, dull ache behind his eyes. 'Elara's aunt.'
But what caught Revan's attention wasn't her clumsy demeanor. It was the moment she glanced toward the sealed cargo carriages at the rear. For a fraction of a second, the clumsy, absent-minded professor vanished. Her eyes behind the thick lenses turned sharp, cold, and calculating—like a surgeon sizing up a patient on the operating table. Then, just as quickly, she adjusted her glasses and hurried inside.
'Two different people in one body. Dangerous.'
The third passenger was Lyra, a maid officially assigned to the VIP carriage.
"Welcome aboard!" she greeted cheerfully as Revan handed over one of Sylvia's smaller bags.
"Thank you," Revan replied politely.
But as their hands brushed, Revan felt it. Her palms were rough. Calloused. But the callouses were in the wrong places for a maid who spent her days scrubbing floors or polishing silver.
'Those callouses... they're from gripping a sword hilt,' Revan concluded instantly, matching the physical evidence with the suspiciously clean background check in her dossier. 'A heavy one. A claymore or a greatsword.' He offered her a polite, empty smile and stepped back.
The last to board was Lord Cassian Voss.
He arrived with the kind of calculated tardiness that screamed arrogance. He wore pristine white gloves and a tailored suit that probably cost more than Volkar's entire forge. His smile was perfectly symmetrical, practiced, and entirely devoid of warmth.
When Cassian saw Sylvia waiting near the VIP entrance, his smile didn't waver. He offered a slight, theatrical bow. "Lady Sylvia. A profound pleasure to be traveling with you."
Sylvia, true to her nature, didn't even blink. She offered him a frigid, dismissive nod and turned her back on him completely, leaving his charming smile to freeze in the morning air.
He knew exactly who Cassian was. House Voss controlled the most lucrative black market and smuggling rings in the eastern corridor. Sylvia didn't have friends; she had strategic assets. If she was willingly bringing a snake like Cassian into the Borderlands, it meant this mission was deeply entangled in the criminal underworld.
Revan cataloged every detail, every micro-expression, every inconsistency. He didn't say a single word. He just updated his mental threat-assessment for each of them.
***
With a jolt that rattled his teeth, the slumbering steel beast finally awoke.
The train lurched forward, slowly at first, then gathered speed as it left the station behind. The rhythmic clacking of the iron wheels against the tracks became a constant background noise, accompanied by the smell of burning coal and machine oil.
The layout was standard for an armored transport, but far more luxurious than he anticipated. The locomotive at the front, followed by the VIP carriage for Sylvia, Cassian, and Mirael. Behind that was the security carriage where Dain and the guards were stationed. Then came Revan's quarters—a small, functional, windowless box typical for a servant.
And finally, at the very rear, the sealed cargo carriages.
The afternoon bled into evening, and as the sky outside turned pitch black, the real battlefield began not with swords, but with silverware.
The dining carriage was opulent. Velvet curtains, mahogany tables, and crystal chandeliers that swayed gently with the train's motion. Everyone was present, save for Marshal Dain, who had chosen to eat in the security carriage.
Revan stood quietly in the corner, a perfect, invisible servant, pouring wine and observing the predators at the table.
"I must say, Lady Sylvia," Cassian began, swirling the red wine in his glass. "It's a rare pleasure to share a journey with you. The Vespera family has always been... reclusive."
"We value our privacy, Lord Voss," Sylvia replied flatly, slicing her steak with surgical precision. She didn't look at him.
"Of course," Cassian smiled smoothly. "Privacy is essential. Especially when conducting... delicate operations. My family, for instance, has several interests in the eastern corridor. It's a messy business, but someone has to manage it."
Revan froze mid-pour.
'The eastern corridor?' he thought, his mind racing. 'He's dropping bait. He's talking about the black market routes.'
Sylvia paused, her knife hovering over her plate. She finally looked at Cassian, her pale violet eyes freezing the air between them. "I wouldn't know anything about that, Lord Voss."
Beside them, Professor Mirael seemed completely oblivious to the tension.
"Oh, the Borderlands are fascinating!" she chimed in, excitedly waving her fork. "The residual mana anomalies from the Unification Wars! The mutated flora! It's a goldmine for my research. I simply cannot wait to examine the samples we're transporting."
Revan glanced at Sylvia. Her jaw tightened imperceptibly.
'She's annoyed,' Revan noted. 'Mirael is talking too much. They're heading into a war zone, and this woman thinks it's a field trip.'
At that moment, Lyra approached the table to refill Cassian's water glass. As the train hit a slight bump, the pitcher jolted. A splash of boiling hot tea spilled directly onto Cassian's gloved hand.
"Oh! My deepest apologies, My Lord!" Lyra gasped, quickly reaching for a napkin.
Cassian didn't flinch. He didn't hiss in pain. He didn't even look at his hand. He just continued smiling at Sylvia.
"It's quite alright," Cassian said smoothly.
Revan's eyes narrowed. 'Boiling water on thin fabric, and he didn't even blink. His pain tolerance is either inhuman, or he's suppressing it with Aura.'
The dinner concluded in suffocating silence. Sylvia retired to her quarters without another word.
***
Midnight.
The train was quiet, save for the relentless clacking of the wheels.
Revan slipped out of his small quarters. He wore his black combat gear, moving through the dimly lit corridors like a ghost. He bypassed the security carriage, using the exterior maintenance ladder to climb onto the roof, the freezing wind tearing at his clothes.
He needed to know what they were transporting.
He dropped down silently onto the connection platform between his carriage and the first cargo wagon. The heavy iron door was locked, but that wasn't the problem.
The problem was what was painted on the door.
Glowing faintly in the darkness, etched in fresh blood and mana, was a complex sealing rune.
Revan felt the air leave his lungs. He recognized those jagged, chaotic lines. It was the exact same sealing sequence used to contain the illegal mana catalysts.
The implication hit him like a physical blow.
'House Vespera is truly one of the masterminds behind the Crimson Tears,' Revan's mind raced, a cold dread settling deep in his chest.
'Absolute fucking lunatics. Are these sick bastards actually trying to breed an army of mutated freaks out in the wasteland?'
He didn't touch the door. It was rigged with traps that would trigger an alarm the moment his mana brushed against it. But he didn't need to open it. He already knew enough to realize they were sitting on a powder keg, and his own master was the one holding the match.
Revan climbed back onto the roof and made his way back to his carriage.
He dropped down into the narrow, dimly lit hallway outside his room, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins.
He took one step forward, and froze.
He wasn't alone.
Standing at the far end of the narrow corridor, leaning casually against the wood-paneled wall, was Marshal Dain. The scarred man's arms were crossed over his broad chest. He blended into the shadows so perfectly that Revan hadn't sensed his presence at all.
For a moment, neither man moved. The only sound was the rhythmic thud of the train tracks.
Dain's sharp, freezing eyes locked onto Revan's. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't sound the alarm.
He simply stared at the boy in the servant's uniform.
"You move quietly," Dain said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that barely carried over the noise of the train.
Revan maintained his perfectly blank expression. "I am a servant, Marshal. It is my job to be unseen."
Dain scoffed softly, a bitter, humorless sound. He pushed himself off the wall and took a slow step forward.
"A servant," Dain repeated, tasting the word as if it were poison. He stopped a few feet away, his towering frame casting a long shadow over Revan.
Dain looked at Revan—really looked at him. At the shape of his jaw, the dark circles under his eyes, the way he held himself perfectly still, ready to strike or flee.
"You know," Dain murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You are too much like your father, boy."
Revan's heart stopped beating for one full second.