Rosenvale Station's North Conference Room had been chosen for one reason: it bore no allegiance.
No family crests adorned the walls, no oil portraits of stern ancestors glared from above.
Just cold, unyielding stone, dull burnished wood, and furniture so practical it was almost contemptuous of ceremony.
Two long tables, heavy and scarred by time, had been pushed together into a wide oval.
No one sat. A single lantern hung above, flickering slightly as it swayed from a draft that slipped through the cracked vents overhead.
Its light cast long, shifting shadows across the chamber's stone floor.
Commander Vale stood at the far end of the room, hands clasped behind his back, his figure stiff with purpose.
Flanked only by Sergeant Kael and a silent scribe, he wore the uniform of a Rosenvale officer—plain black, sharply pressed, unadorned except for a dark blue armband at his bicep: the mark of jurisdiction.
He had left his commander's badge behind. Today was not about rank. It was about control.
The heavy door creaked open.
Lord Victor Vermont entered first. The head of the provincial Vermont line, he moved with the effortless precision of a man who had never been denied access to anything.
He was draped in mourning garb—sable wool coat lined in silver thread, tailored to perfection.
Upon his breast glinted the Vermont sigil: a rearing elk encircled in a crown of frost. The emblem was polished to a mirror sheen.
Victor's face was long and sharp, each feature carved by generations of noble breeding: high cheekbones, a hooked nose, and cold silver in his neatly combed hair.
His eyes swept the room once, calculating. His expression betrayed nothing—except the rigid tension in his jaw.
Behind him came two attendants. One, a slim woman in a slate-gray dresscoat with an ocular monocle—her fingers twitched constantly, as if already taking notes.
The other, broader and silent, wore a reinforced overcoat and bore a short mana-spear slung across his back, the crystal cartridge on its hilt pulsing with quiet menace.
The opposite door opened.
Lady Marin Ashbourne entered like a storm wrapped in silk.
A gust of cold followed her in—unnatural, as though summoned.
She wore a high-collared traveling cloak of deep emerald green, fastened with a bronze clasp in the shape of a coiled serpent.
Beneath the cloak: black robes stitched with faint, angular glyphs, the arcane markings catching the lantern light like silver veins.
Her auburn hair was braided tightly over one shoulder. Her eyes—cunning, burning—locked instantly with Victor's.
She was younger than him by at least twenty years, yet her presence pressed into the room with the weight of command.
Only one steward followed her—a thin, pale man with darting eyes, as if already anticipating blood on the floor.
The room held its breath. Even the lantern's flame seemed to falter.
Marin spoke first—sharp and scornful."Victor. Come to collect your apology, I presume?"
Victor didn't blink. He stepped forward, smooth as a winter wind."Only if it's engraved on the coffin of the bastard who sabotaged that train."
"Enough theatrics." Vale's throat tightened. He stepped forward, voice firm. "Both your houses lost kin. Both received preliminary casualty reports. And both have the right to be here—for the investigation."
Marin's voice cut through, cold as steel."Three of mine. Dead. Including the Ashbourne heir."
Victor's tone was silk over ice."Your heir had a fondness for trouble, as I recall. Unlike my niece—gentle, peace-minded. She did not deserve to die like this."
Marin's knuckles whitened on the back of a chair, but she said nothing.
"Sit." Vale gestured toward the table."There will be time to mourn later. For now, I believe you both prefer answers."
With visible reluctance, they moved. The nobles sat across from one another, neither looking away. Their stewards remained standing—tense, silent, like soldiers at the edge of a battlefield.
The scribe quietly unfurled a long parchment scroll along the table, her quill already poised.
Sergeant Kael stepped forward, setting down a polished steel tray at the table's center. A ripple of unease spread through the room.
Vale lifted the cloth.
Revealed beneath: a shattered fragment of mana-conduit. Scorched. Warped. Still humming faintly with residual energy. Its fractured surface bore a glyph—dark red, jagged—pulsing like a dying heartbeat.
Vale let the silence linger before speaking.
"This was recovered from the wreckage," he said evenly.
Both nobles leaned forward, expressions darkening.
"It does not match the rail's official schematics," Vale continued. "The mana frequency is irregular. Untuned. Incompatible with the safety failsafes of the central engine. In short—this was an unauthorized power source."
Lady Marin's lips curled.
"You're saying someone rigged the train with... this?"
"Yes," Vale replied. "The engine was tampered with—scratched runes, overridden regulators. This conduit? Likely part of a secondary ignition path."
Victor Vermont narrowed his eyes, fingers steepling.
"Sabotage, then. The question becomes... by whom?"
Marin turned to him—slowly, dangerously.
Her voice dropped to a near-whisper."I know that look, Victor... Don't you dare try to pin this on me."
Victor tilted his head slightly, his expression the picture of measured civility.
"Oh, dear Marin. I admit our houses have had... disagreements. But I'm not foolish enough to point fingers. Not yet."
He paused."However, you must admit. This reeks of experimental mana—tech. And House Ashbourne has a certain reputation when it comes to reckless ambition."
Marin's steward flinched.
Marin, however, smiled faintly—though it didn't reach her eyes.
"Careful, Victor. The last time someone accused me of recklessness, they ended up banned from the Parliament. Or had you forgotten?"
Vale said nothing. He let the words hang as the air curdled into something brittle.
The broken mana-conduit still lay on the table like an accusation—its glyph pulsing faintly with a residual thrum, unnatural and sickly.
The nobles' shadows danced across it under the lantern, sharp as blades.
"So," Marin Ashbourne said at last, her voice quiet but sharp as broken glass, "we're agreed, then. Sabotage."
The word hung heavy in the room, echoing off stone like a curse.
Victor didn't lift his gaze from the shattered glyph fragment. His jaw flexed, the tendons in his neck taut.
"We're agreed something was done," he said slowly, voice like frost cracking underfoot. "But by whom... that's where the blades come out."
Only then did he look up—his eyes locking with Marin's.
The tension between them sparked like static. The air in the chamber felt colder.
Marin's fingers twitched at her side, eyes narrowing, but before she could speak—
"Enough riddles," Commander Vale cut in, voice suddenly loud in the confined space. His gaze swept over both nobles with hard intensity. "Lord Vermont. Lady Marin."
He stepped to the table, resting a hand on the edge of the mana-conduit, still faintly pulsing with residual energy.
"It wasn't random. It wasn't an accident. We've confirmed it." He exhaled slowly. "This was the work of the Second Glyphwork."
The silence was immediate, thick as stone.
"The—Second Glyphwork!?" Victor and Marin said together, their voices overlapping in stunned disbelief.
Marin's face drained of color, her lips parting in a breathless pause.Victor took a sharp step toward the table, his voice suddenly edged with steel."Are you certain, Commander?"
Marin followed, her tone clipped and biting."Yes. Commander Vale. That's a hell of a claim. Do you have proof?"
"Of course we do." Vale's gaze didn't waver. "Two inspectors caught one of their mages red-handed—on the train. We've since apprehended several more. Each one armed. Trained. Tattooed with the Second Glyphwork's mark."
He met their eyes. "Most of them are in Rosenvale custody. If you want to interrogate them, be my guest."
Marin took a slow step back, her cloak whispering against the floor. Her voice was low, coiled with fury.
"And you're telling us this now?"
Vale's eyes met hers, sharp and unflinching."You didn't exactly give me a chance to speak before sharpening blades."
Victor's jaw tightened, the sharpness in his expression giving way to cold calculation."If it really was the Second Glyphwork…" he murmured, more to himself than anyone, "then what were they after? A political message? Chaos?"
Vale folded his arms, his voice steady."That's what we intend to find out."
He stepped aside, the heels of his boots scraping faintly against the stone floor. He extended a hand toward the far doors—tall, iron-banded, and still shut tight.
"If you're willing," he said evenly, "you can accompany me to the hangar. We recovered the front locomotive."
A beat. His voice lowered, weighted.
"One of the inspectors stopped detonation. And it hasn't been touched since. I'm the only one who's gone near it."
He looked between them, letting the implication settle.
"I saved the first inspection for you two."
A heavy pause followed—thick with calculation.
Victor's fingers twitched once before stilling on the tabletop. His gaze slid to Marin, guarded and precise.
Marin, in turn, tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing as if trying to detect a trap hidden in the offer.
Their eyes locked across the table. Neither spoke. But something passed between them—an unspoken truce wrapped in barbed wire.
Grim resolve. Thinly veiled suspicion.
Vale watched them both, arms folded, jaw tight.
Then he gave a final nod, the movement sharp.
"So. Are you coming?"
Victor was the first to rise, the motion fluid, practiced. He adjusted the cuffs of his mourning coat, eyes glinting.
"Of course we are," he said smoothly, then turned slightly, gesturing toward Marin with a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "After you, my dear."
Marin stood without ceremony, her cloak flaring slightly as she moved. Her heels echoed coldly on the stone. She glanced sidelong at Victor, lips curled in a dry, mirthless smirk.
And without waiting, she strode toward the door.
Victor followed at a deliberate pace, their attendants falling into step behind them like clockwork.
Commander Vale remained for a moment longer, watching their retreating figures.
The broken conduit still pulsed faintly on the table, casting a sickly red glow on the stone.
Then he turned, exhaling through his nose, and followed them out.
The door groaned shut behind them, sealing the room—and the ghosts it held—back in silence...