Mugs shattered over the Malice’s skull, ceramic splinters raining down like shrapnel. Boot knives flashed in the dim light. Fists met sizzling flesh.
The pinned Yardrat was ripped free as his comrades barreled into the Malice, knocking it to the ground.
One miner ripped off his suspenders, wrapping them around the Malice’s thick neck, hauling back with a snarl as steam spurted from its torn sinews.
Another jammed a rusted wrench between its joints, twisting hard until something snapped.
Bolton could only watch as the fight turned savage.
Blood hit the floor.
Steel clashed against bone.
The Malice didn’t go down easily.
But for the first time—it wasn’t winning.
It shuddered, writhing beneath the assault, its once-mighty form buckling under the sheer weight of the attack. The train car shook from the violence, metal groaning under the onslaught.
And then—Enton spoke.
"Why die for the royal boy?" His voice cut through the chaos, smooth yet laced with a dangerous edge.
His stance was unshaken, despite the battle raging around him. He hadn’t lifted a finger to fight yet—not fully. Instead, he stood among the carnage, the very picture of control, his dark coat barely rustling despite the wind whipping through the broken train windows.
He tilted his head slightly, his black paperboy cap casting a shadow over his sharp, monstrous features.
"Surely the Yardrats of Quadrant Ten have more to live for than some royal who doesn’t give a damn whether they breathe or rot in the mines."
Bolton’s pulse spiked, but before he could speak—Chief Hogswind did.
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“Interesting theory.”
The words were slow, deliberate.
Then—Hogswind threw his mug.
The heavy ceramic tankard, still full of mead, slammed into Enton's chest, drenching his pristine military-style coat. A blatant, dripping insult.
Silence.
Bolton felt his stomach knot. No one disrespected a Primarian Hammer like that.
The air crackled between them, tension humming.
“One,” Chief Hogswind continued, his voice thick with amusement, “you present your point with a giant monster. Not dissimilar to those we fight every day. Mind some that have killed our own daily.” He gestured vaguely at the raging Malice, still thrashing under the miners' assault. “That’s a piss-poor start.”
Enton’s golden, inhuman eyes narrowed.
“Two,” Hogswind continued, “this gives us grounds for a royal favor. Tit for tat. Knuckles for Blood.”
"A royal favor?" Bolton repeated aloud, blinking.
He turned to Sarah, who silently mouthed: that’s not a thing.
Hogswind grinned.
“And three—” He cracked his knuckles, flexing his massive hands. His smile turned razor-sharp.
“You fucked with a really really old Yardrat.”
His voice dropped low, words heavy as iron.
Bolton barely had time to register the meaning before he followed Hogswind’s gaze—down the aisle of the train, toward the bar.
Pistol stood behind the counter, hand resting lazily on his massive hand cannon, the smirk on his face as sharp as a whetstone.
Enton’s coat still dripped with mead.
The train lurched beneath them.
And the fight wasn’t over.
Aurous was in motion—a force unto himself, too fast, too fluid for Bolton’s eyes to track. One second, he was dodging Enton’s strikes with an almost playful grace. The next—
A sound. A sharp, splintering crack.
Bolton barely registered what had happened before he saw it—a jagged shard of metal, flung loose from the chaos, slashing across Aurous' cheek.
Bolton barely had time to process it—until he saw the blood.
Not just black like the oil-stained ichor of machines.
But red.
A sickening mix of both, swirling together in a color that should have made sense—but didn’t.
Something inside Bolton twisted.
The Quadrant Leaders had never been Yerro’s chosen. Never blessed with strength beyond their own.
They had been machines all along.
Sarah exhaled sharply beside him. “I don’t think we were meant to see Quadrant Leaders fight.”
Then, she hesitated—correcting herself.
“Actually, we weren’t meant to see them lose.”
