The steam train did not sound its whistle as it drifted into the lower subterranean siding of District One Central Station.
It rolled in under heavy brakes, its iron wheels screeching softly against the wet steel rails. The platform was dark, shrouded in cold mist and grey soot. The high arched glass roof above the tracks was dark, its gas lanterns unlit by order of the Imperial Guard.
Prince Bastian was the first off the armored caboose, his knee-high boots striking the wet flagstones with a quiet, solid thud. He wore his dark military coat, his lever-action rifle held across his chest, his jaw set as his dark eyes scanned the shadowed iron pillars supporting the street level above.
Behind him, fifty union ironworkers and riflemen stepped down in disciplined silence, their heavy wool coats dark with soot, their weapons checked and ready.
Elara Vance stepped onto the platform last.
