Feralynn’s eyes snapped open—

  her red irises pulsing faintly, glowing like embers.

  She was drenched in sweat, muscles clenched, breath coming fast and shallow.

  Her fingernails had carved into the seat cushion, and her mouth hung open, gasping like someone dragged up from drowning.

  Her gaze darted around the train cabin, but nothing had changed.

  The deep blue carpet beneath her boots.

  The sliding wooden door with its frosted glass panel.

  The dark, polished walls.

  Outside the window, a gray autumn sky blurred past—villages rolling by like memories she didn’t own.

  Rain tapped softly against the glass.

  Beside her, her mother slept soundly, breathing deep and calm—

  undisturbed by her daughter’s silent unraveling.

  It must’ve been the whistle.

  The train.

  That sharp scream through the countryside.

  Maybe that was what pulled her out of the dream.

  She didn’t know whether to curse it…

  …or thank it.

  The slow, rhythmic rocking of the steam train shifted her weight forward.

  “I need a smoke,” she muttered under her breath.

  She glanced at her mother again—peaceful, still clutching her bag like it was the last safe thing left in the world.

  “Mom… rest. I’ll be right back.”

  Her voice was soft, almost guilty.

  She brushed a loose strand of hair from her mother’s cheek, eyes filled with quiet worry that refused to surface.

  Then, grabbing the blanket folded near their feet, she pulled it gently over her mother’s shoulders, tucking her in like it mattered.

  She slipped out into the corridor.

  The train was nearly empty.

  She walked silently, boots whispering across the floor, until she found a car with an open window.

  From her coat pocket, she pulled a box of Stein’s—her favorite cigars—and a silver zippo engraved with the head of a wolf.

  Her father’s gift.

  With a flick, the flame bloomed.

  One clean motion.

  She lit the cigar she stole from one of the passengers while boarding and inhaled.

  Smoke curled from her lips as her gaze locked onto the world beyond the glass—towns, hills, and nameless homes sliding past in silence.

  “So peaceful…” she muttered.

  Then a pause.

  “How do people even live like this?”

  Colder now.

  More bitter than curious.

  “Not that I care. Whatever. At least we got the passports and immigration tickets in time…”

  Nearby, tucked into a booth, a soft crackling buzzed from a radio.

  An elven man in a sleek overcoat sipped his coffee, reading a paper like it was any other morning.

  The voice of a news anchor stuttered through the static:

  “In today’s headlines: The nations of Soleria and the Velkaris Empire have reached a landmark peace agreement, officially ending tensions following the eight-year war in the southern human territories. Prime Minister Jackoi Harsh met today with the newly appointed representative of the Rebellion Party in Lardron to finalize terms after years of division…”

  Feralynn scoffed.

  “Peace, huh?” she muttered. “Yeah. Tell me another fucking joke.”

  She took a long drag, exhaling slowly.

  “Give it two years. Bet they’ll be killing each other again. Suits are all the same.”

  Her eyes drifted back to the horizon, thoughtful for a beat too long.

  “We’re almost in Larion…” she whispered. “I don’t want to get my hopes up…”

  A longer pause.

  The kind that almost cracked.

  “…But they say it’s peaceful. Prosperous.”

  And then, softer:

  “At least Mom will be safe there.”

  She pulled again from the cigar, let the smoke trail upward—

  —and kept watching the world go by.

  ...

  ...

  ...

  Later on.

  The train screeched to a halt with a long whistle, a heavy hiss, and one final burst of steam.

  At Larion Central Station, the stone platform hummed softly with quiet movement.

  Passengers began stepping down from the long iron carriages—elves adjusting their cloaks, dwarves lugging worn leather packs, humans holding their children’s hands, and horned folk with tired eyes scanning for their next connection.

  Some stretched their legs after hours of sitting. Others whispered about directions, jobs, or where to spend the night.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Guards in polished blue-and-silver uniforms stood watch nearby, alert but not intervening.

  Porters wheeled luggage carts past benches where an orcish mother tied scarves around her children’s necks.

  A gnome with a briefcase checked his watch and sighed.

  It was just another arrival. Nothing special.

  But for many, it was the beginning of something new.

  Among the crowd, two women with ink-black hair stepped onto the platform—one tall, one slightly shorter, yet their faces mirrored each other with only age to divide them.

  One had red irises like the sharpened edge of a dagger.

  The other, warm brown eyes, soft like a cup of hot chocolate.

  Immigration officers waited near folding desks, their hands busy with stamps and paper, calling out the newly arrived from the foreigner cars.

  A line had formed—long, winding, made up of all kinds of people. Names were called. Documents requested. Passports examined.

  Then, it was their turn.

  The adult woman handed over the papers.

  Another form followed.

  The registrar read through the documents, barely raising his head—his eyes did all the movement.

  The woman in front of him smiled, nerves cracking through the corners of her mouth. The girl didn’t. Her expression stayed flat, distant—so unreadable it felt like absence.

  THUD.

  THUD.

  “Welcome to Larion. Please follow the line.”

  A red APPROVED stamp slammed down onto the papers.

  “Next!”

  They gathered their documents, lifted their bags, and stepped forward.

  Outside, the air was brisk—crisp with autumn cold.

  Coal smoke drifted from chimneys and train exhaust, mixing with the scent of wet stone and roasted chestnuts from a street vendor nearby.

  Wooden signs swung from black iron brackets, swaying gently in the wind, listing destinations in a dozen languages.

  An old loudspeaker crackled overhead, its voice as frayed as the sky:

  “Welcome to Larion. Immigration services are located at the east platform. Please have your documents ready.”

  Darina turned to her daughter, eyes shining.

  “Fer… I can’t believe it. We’re finally here.”

  But the girl didn’t answer.

  Her gaze remained hard, fixed on nothing in particular—like she was still somewhere else entirely.

  She just reached out and took her mother’s hand.

  Held it.

  Said nothing.

  Only breathed—

  a slow, quiet exhale that landed somewhere between exhaustion and fragile relief.

  The danger was behind her.

  But peace?

  No.

  She didn’t feel safe.

  Wasn’t sure she could feel safe.

  Maybe not ever.

  The only thing she knew for certain was this:

  Whatever comes next…

  they’ll survive it.

  After a trip on the public trains, the two women arrived in a cozy neighborhood. The houses were simple—middle-class, some a bit lower. Nothing fancy, but nothing crumbling either. Just... normal.

  As they walked, Fer carried her bags, eyes sharp as they scanned the surroundings. The peace felt strange.

  An orc boy jumped through puddles with his little brother, giggling as water splashed up their legs. Elf children pedaled past on bicycles, their tiny bells ringing with cheerful tones. An elderly human man slouched against a fence, puffing on a pipe, while a stocky dwarf in a tracksuit jogged by, breath misting in the cold autumn air.

  Fer’s breathing stayed tight—old habits. Her ears picked up everything: the laughter, the rustling leaves, the rubbery roll of bicycle wheels, the squeaky suitcase wheels behind them, the dwarf’s labored breath.

  Every. Damn. Sound.

  “I think this is it, sweetie,” Darina said, pointing to a modest one-story house with a sagging porch and a wild, overgrown yard. “We’ll live here for now. Once I get a good job, maybe we can move to a more central apartment. You’d like that, right?”

  She smiled up at her daughter, barely having to lift her chin to meet Fer’s eyes.

  “Mom, I don’t want you overworking yourself. I can get a job. Easily.”

  “Nonsense.” Darina’s tone turned firm, but playful. “You’re going to study at Larion Magic School. Period.”

  Fer sighed. “Okay… but if you need help, I’m there.”

  “Shush, shush, shush.” Darina waved her hand with mock sternness. “You’re too young for the working world. War doesn’t compare to the hell of a 9-to-5.”

  She turned toward the house, pulled out a key, and unlocked the door.

  Inside, the welcome wasn’t exactly… warm.

  “I. Hate. Dust,” Fer muttered as she stepped into the living room.

  Cobwebs dropped from corners. Old cardboard boxes were stacked like forgotten memories. A thick layer of dust blanketed everything, giving the place the look of a forgotten tomb. At least the couches were covered in white drop cloths.

  “Don’t you think your aunt could’ve… Dunno, at least hired someone to clean?” Fer asked, side-eyeing the chaos.

  Darina sighed, pressing a hand to her face. “She’s a slow old woman with a worse memory than mine...” She looked at a metal box rusty on the edges resting on a coffee table. “Well, at least we got a floating mirror to watch some TV in the meantime…”

  Then she clapped her hands, her usual cheer returning. “No matter! A couple mugs of coffee and we’ll turn this place around. You take the suitcases to the bedrooms—I’ll try to get the stove running without blowing the roof off.”

  Despite her exhaustion, Fer smiled. Just a bit. Just a little bit. She didn’t get it—how her mother stayed optimistic no matter what—but it always lifted something heavy off her shoulders.

  Maybe she didn’t understand it, but she appreciated it. Deeply.

  It took hours—and a caffeine buzz strong enough to kill an elephant—to get the new home into shape. It wasn’t sparkling, but it was livable. Mother and daughter, exhausted from the cleaning spree, collapsed onto the red sofa in the center of the living room.

  Feralynn noticed some firewood stacked in the old fireplace. From where she sat, she lazily lifted a hand, extended her finger, and fired a small flame. The logs caught instantly, crackling to life.

  "Mom..." she murmured, eyes fixed on the growing fire. "Do you think I'll do okay in school?"

  It wasn’t like her to show vulnerability. But everything was changing. And for once, she needed more than a soldier with a riot shield to protect her—she needed something gentler. Something warmer.

  Darina reached out and took her daughter’s hand. She saw the flicker of tears behind those red irises.

  "Honey," she said softly, "you’re going to do just fine. I know it. You’ll make mistakes—probably a lot of them. You’re coming from a world most of these kids can’t imagine, and it’s your first time in a real school." She chuckled gently. "Knowing your temper, I wouldn’t be surprised if you land in the principal’s office after your first fistfight."

  She smiled at the memory.

  "But whatever happens, I won’t be angry. I’ll understand because I love you, sweetie."

  Feralynn didn’t answer. The tears slipped free, soundless and clean. She didn’t sob, didn’t sniffle—just leaned in and hugged her mother tightly.

  Darina blinked, a bit surprised at first—but then smiled, brushing a hand through her daughter’s short black hair, gently and lovingly.

  “We’re going to be ok…”

  Fer just sniffed. Finally cracking.

  “What if I kill someone again?”

  “Shhhh, shhh. You won’t. No one is gonna try to kill you.” She said, while tapping softly her back. “You’re no longer in danger, sweetie…”

  They just keep there. Fer kept sobbing, quietly. Her mother just hold her. She held her like she was the last spark of joy and sorrow she had left. Because maybe... she was.

  “You’re safe now…”

  Just the fire from the burning logs spoke for them, as silence closed the room.

  ?