The man in the overcoat didn’t board with the others.

Marigold clocked him from the platform—wrong boots for a rancher, no calluses on his hands, but a customs stamp fresh on his satchel.

“Middle car,” she said softly to Rose. “If he follows, we switch trains at Surfside.”

Only then did the whistle call—low and long. Not loud, but heavy, like it had seen things.

Rose didn’t move at first. The engine stood before her, black with use, coughing out steam in short gusts. It was older than she’d expected. An iron beast patched more times than it cared to admit. But the men said it would make the trip. She said a short prayer asking for it to hold.

Marigold was checking her straps again. “Come on,” she said. “I want to get a good seat.”

Rose gave a nod. She followed up the steps, knees stiff. Inside, the car smelled of oil and boiled coffee. The benches had cushions, but not much give. At least they were dry.

As they entered the car, they saw a merchant in a green felt coat studying a ledger on his lap. Farther down, two Raleigh Rangers dozed with rifles between their knees, boots dusty from the trail and coats sun-faded to the color of old cedar. One Ranger cracked an eyelid as they passed, the kind of look that weighed a person without a word. Rose had ridden against men dressed just so, years ago, and the memory of their war cries, the grito, settled in her bones like old trail dust. At the rear, a pair of women in patched shawls spoke low over a wicker basket that smelled faintly of apples. The man in the overcoat stayed on the platform.

They took seats by the window. Neither spoke at first, each lost in her own tangle of thought.

The coach itself smelled of coal and warm brass, an old scent lodged in the back of her throat. In another life it had meant troop cars, wounded men, and sealed orders carried in jacket linings still warm from the messenger’s chest. She watched the track unspool east, the line vanishing into a haze where the sky bent to earth, and she wondered if Joseph was looking west toward the same curve, thinking of her. If Joe Junior was safe, in his caravan on the road. If Mercedes was saddling up for patrol. The thoughts came like burrs, brushed off with the same old care as she folded her hands over the satchel.

The engine blew another long whistle as it started its slow acceleration to the coast. The lines were Church-blessed, their engines no more advanced than sanctioned combustion thresholds. Faster rails had been attempted from time to time, but the projects never seemed to reach production. The Church had its rules, established by the Angels thousands of years ago, and their paladins made sure everyone stayed within those limits.

Steam feathered past the glass, followed by the slow clank of rods driving the wheels beneath their feet. A faint taste of coal grit rode the air, settling in the teeth if you breathed too deep.

Rose leaned on the sill, prairie rolling past. Wheat-stubble plains gave way to low, grassy rises. The occasional windmill turned lazily in the sun. A scarecrow stood sentry over a tilled plot, arms raised like a man in surrender.

Ninety minutes, maybe more, passed before they spoke.

“You ever think about Lily?” Marigold asked.

Rose didn’t turn. “Lily?”

Marigold gave a slow nod.

“She always braided your hair tight,” Rose said.

“Said it was respect.”

“She braided mine tighter.”

“She liked you first.”

That pulled a faint smile.

Rose sat back. “She told me once her name made her angry. Said she wouldn’t have joined if she’d known the training officer would give her that name. She wanted to be Daisy.”

Marigold gave a short laugh. “I’d forgot that. She certainly was a daisy, alright.”

Farther off, a cluster of burned-out homesteads flashed past—scorched timber frames and collapsed roofs still black with soot. The newspapers had called them remnants of ‘clean-up battalions’ sent to quell unrest along the delta. No one ever seemed to rebuild. Some said the fires were started by agitators from the Confederation; others whispered of purges sanctified by the Church for those who trespassed against the tenets of the Book. The Church itself offered no public statement.

“I almost didn’t come with you,” Rose said.

“I know.”

“You left too much out.”

“I had to. Needed to know you were in or out first.”

Rose faced her. “And now?”

Marigold’s jaw flexed. “The Garden is split. Most still back the crown. That Jezebel Morcant kisses up to every royal functionary who even looks crossways at her.”

“Azalea Morcant?” Rose asked. “You are not telling me she’s in command?”

Marigold nodded sadly. “I’m afraid so. She’s why I retired. It was either retire, take command, or kill her. I’m not stupid enough to want to run things. And do you know how much the laundries charge to get bloodstains out of good muslin? I didn’t want to deal with the cleaning bill.”

Rose nodded. She understood Marigold’s dilemma. But Azalea? Light preserve them. There was no one and nothing that harpy wouldn’t sacrifice if it furthered her own ambition. Rose had jerked her up more than once when Azalea had overstepped. And twice she’d had to show that displeasure physically. Once in front of Azalea’s squad. If she was leading the sisters of the Veiled Garden, as the Valkyries were formally known, it was no wonder Marigold had gone to such lengths to find Rose and ask for her help.

“You said there were other factions?” Rose said. “I’m not surprised if Azalea is running things.”

Marigold slowly nodded now. “A lot of the petals want to leave Granblue altogether, given Azalea’s leadership qualities. However, a few... want more.”

Rose didn’t ask. She knew what “more” meant. That group had tried to recruit her and anyone who had talent or skill for years.

“Unregulated Thessa. And no controls over their Gift,” she said.

“And worse. Old notes. Scavenged tech. There are even more rumors.”

“Let me guess. Pthomas?”

Marigold gave a slow nod.

The name hung there. Heavy.

“And the Church? They still looking to burn us as heretics?”

Marigold’s jaw tightened. “That’s as bad as ever, but it’s not all. Granblue’s keeping its eye on the Confederation and the Freeholds both. The new king’s already called up reserve divisions twice this year—each time blaming ‘uncoordinated Church messaging.’”

She glanced out the window, then back at Rose. “The talk is that the Church itself is splintering. There are those who feel the petals can be redeemed if they submit to the Church. Official doctrine still holds the line, but there are some firebrand priests suggesting more—saying that faith should govern all, political not just cultural.”

Rose shook her head. “That’s hard to believe. Are the paladins pushing this? I heard that one who gave you such a hard time became a prelate.”

Marigold smiled ruefully. “It’s not just Dorrin anymore. He was bad enough, but he’s…mellowed. Word is, three paladins were seen on the north wharf in Morgan’s Landing two weeks back—in full armor, asking about shipments, names, papers. People are getting nervous.”

Rose looked out the window again. “That means they’re past suspicion. They’re starting to move.”

Neither woman said anything more for a while.

The train swayed. The afternoon light stretched longer on the ground. It would be tomorrow morning before they reached Surfside. Maybe longer if the rails weren’t clear.

The rhythm of the rails worked at her, a slow hammer loosening lids on memories best left shut. She timed the sway of the coach to her old drills—one, two, shift; one, two, breathe. Better than counting empty chairs back home. Better than wondering how long the ranch could hold if she never came back.

The train slowed briefly near a junction. Brake shoes sang a low note on the curves, metal talking to metal. No station, no signals. Just a dirt track veering east and an old signal box leaning like a drunk.

Rose tensed. Two figures stood in the grass, motionless. Not workers. No tools. Broad-brimmed hats.

One lifted a hand—not waving but signaling. The train didn’t stop.

“See that?” Marigold murmured.

Rose nodded. “They were signaling someone on the train—or getting a signal. Should we be concerned?”

Marigold’s eyes flicked toward the men signaling from the side of the tracks, their arms cutting sharp shapes against the sky. “Hard to say,” she admitted.

Rose’s gaze tracked past them to the Rangers in the carriage. One of them shifted in his seat. He’d also seen the men signaling. “If those men are thinking about trouble, it might be we’re safer than usual.”

Marigold followed her look and smirked. “Rangers won’t suffer Greybacks—not for a heartbeat.”

Rose said, “You think it’s Greybacks? I thought we just had to worry about train robbers.”

Marigold flashed a wry grin. “Could be. I thought I’d done a good job of covering my tracks. But I didn’t exactly get permission to leave the country. And Greybacks seem to be everywhere these days looking to bring back a runaway in chains. That’s part of the problem we’re going to solve. Hopefully that’s the worst it could be.”

What could be worse than the Granblue Security Service? Rose thought morosely. Granblue didn’t let Valkyries go. They owned the Thessa, said they owned everyone with the Gift, and they sent Greybacks after anyone that tried to slip the leash. She’d known that the day she left.

A lone sheepdog loped alongside a distant fence line, visible just long enough to make them both pause. That meant that somewhere nearby, a ranch still ran, still worked. That meant something. It meant hope.

Marigold glanced down at Rose’s gloves. “You’re stiff.”

“Some days more than others.”

“Joseph know?”

“He doesn’t ask.”

“He should.”

Rose gave her a look. “He’s a good man. But he’s still a man. As long as I can walk, he won’t try to carry me.”

Marigold didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

They rode quiet for a while. The air in the car grew thicker as the sun dipped lower, and the countryside took on a golden-gray haze. A steward passed by offering hard biscuits and dried fruit. Rose declined, but her stomach was already knotted with hunger. She’d burned through more than just breath in that last fight. The jerky and persimmons in her satchel weren’t much, but she unwrapped them with purpose—eating slowly, carefully. She needed every bite to settle back into herself.

Across from her, Marigold had bought everything the steward offered—biscuits, fruit, even a tin of pickled roots—and was eating with the careless gusto of someone who knew the next day might not come with a menu. She caught Rose’s glance and shrugged, offering Rose a box of biscuits. “Can’t fight on an empty stomach,” she said, mouth half-full.

Outside, hills of dry yellowed rock rose in the distance. Some said those hills had been hollowed out back in the Second Expansion, stocked with supplies and buried gear—the miracles of the First Age. The old vault cities. None had ever been found in one piece. Treasure-hunters died quick out there.

Sleep used to come easy—a drop into darkness. Now it came slow, if at all. Her joints ached. Her mind wandered: to fences that might need mending, to Mercy’s silences, to the way Joseph stared at horizons like he’d lost something out there.

She used to ask what haunted him. Now she only wondered. Their love had rounded its edges into something durable—and quietly distant. And yet, when the fire burned low and the ranch fell quiet, she sometimes missed the man who had once followed her into exile without a second breath. Who had asked her seventeen times to marry him and only took each no as a temporary setback. He never acted inappropriately, never imposed beyond the limits she set on their relationship. But he also never gave up on her. On them. What had happened to that man?

She turned that thought over like a coin—heavy with old worth. No currency.

She looked out the window as the train crossed a large river. The sound of the tracks changing as the train moved from land to bridge. She heard laughter from the women at the end of the car…

And just like that, the river came back.

Lily’s boots had sunk into the riverbank. The water was high and fast that spring. She’d been laughing—loud and sharp, so unlike her usual calm.

Rose pulled herself from the current, dripping and cursing.

“Next time, use your feet,” Lily said.

“I was.”

“Then lose the boots. I’m not telling the commander you drowned chasing a helmet.”

They both laughed—and Rose remembered that sound. Clean. Warm. Like nothing could touch them.

Two days later, Lily was dead—bled out in a snowfield with an arrow in her skull. Rose never forgot the silence that followed. She’d heard plenty of men scream, but Lily hadn’t made a sound. And that had terrified her to her core.

The train hummed beneath her. Real, steady. Not the river. Not the snow.

Rose blinked. Night had settled. Outside, a gull screamed once and vanished into the haze. The lamps inside the railcar glowed soft amber as the cars rocked gently back and forth. Most of the car was quiet. A few snores. The rustle of blankets. Wind hissing past the windows.

Rose eventually stood, stretched her legs, and walked to the small vestibule between cars. A draft breathed through the gasket; the door iron shivered against its latch. Cold air hissed through a cracked seal as Rose opened the door and exited the car. She breathed in. Smelled only coal smoke and brass.

Her knees ached. She rubbed them without thinking. Then she turned and went back to her seat across from Marigold, who was softly snoring.

How many more rides like this did she have in her? How many more nights? As she rubbed her knee again, her mind drifted to another night shortly after Lily’s funeral. The night that changed the trajectory of everything.

The wind off the water was clean. Salt and cedar, strong enough to sting the nose. Lily’s funeral had been a grand state affair, and it had taken far too long to find transportation to the front. He hadn’t been at the funeral. The Confederation was moving toward Kingston, which meant he would be the tip of the spear if they tried anything.

He was clean-shaven then—hadn’t changed his name yet. But he had been her Joseph since the day she’d saved his life seven years prior. The smile was small, but it still stopped her heart.

“You’re late,” he said.

“You parked the war on the wrong coast,” she said.

“I’ll bring that up with the Reaper at the first possible opportunity,” he said dryly as he took her hands in his. “I’m sure he’ll regret his actions once he knows it inconvenienced you.”

They didn’t hug. Didn’t kiss. Just clasped hands.

That night, she told him she was leaving the Valkyries. She hadn’t expected his answer.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch.

He just sat across from her, quiet for a long time. Then he said, “If you go, I’ll go.”

She stared at him. “You’d leave your command? Granblue? Everything? I can’t ask that.”

“I already did the math,” he said. “I know what war takes. It won’t let us go. The king won’t let us go. So we leave it behind. You walk away, Rose, I’ll be three steps behind you. Maybe four, if you pack too fast.”

His eyes held hers then—warm, steady. “You make a life anywhere; I’ll help build it. You can go alone, you’re strong enough. But you don’t have to be alone.”

He reached across the table, took her hand again. Didn’t squeeze. Just held.

And for the first time since Lily died, she believed she might actually get to grow old.

Rose stirred, rubbed her eyes. “We near Surfside?”

“Closer. You should start to see the outskirts in a few minutes,” Marigold said. “Crew said we’ll change engines at the pier yard.”

Rose nodded. “And then straight on to Morgan’s Landing.”

Marigold leaned back. “There’s a contact in Morgan’s Landing. Used to be with our unit—long before the split. She was Dahlia. Goes by Dolly now. She kept her head down after Azalea was promoted and wrangled an early retirement. Then she started selling fish and customs permits out of the east docks.”

“Reliable?” Rose asked.

“Mostly. She’s careful. But she’s scared now. That’s why she’ll talk.”

Rose nodded. “You trust her motives?”

“No,” Marigold said. “But I trust her fear.” Outside, the land began to flatten, a wide reach of pale earth and salt-stained grass. Somewhere beyond the haze, the sea waited—quiet, unreadable.

The whistle cried once, low and long, as the train curved east. The station came into view, a ghost of girders and steam beyond the haze.

The steady beat of the pistons under the floor felt almost like a pulse, driving them east with iron certainty.

Rose rolled her shoulders, set her jaw, and let the earlier thoughts drain away. Her fingers found the cleaver’s handle under her coat, the familiar weight steadying her. Her thumb brushed the worn leather grip Joseph had mended last winter, the wrap neat as any tailor’s, the leather still warm. Reflection had its place, but Surfside was close now—and the pistons kept time.

“Are you ready?” Marigold asked.

Rose didn’t answer right away. Her gaze followed the blur of the ridgeline until it vanished behind grain-stained glass. Signal arms chopped from danger to clear, and the pistons answered.

“We’ll have to be,” she said. “We don’t get to be flowers anymore. Only thorns survive the harvest.”

At that, the steam whistle blew as the train rolled on.