The train station functioned with the normality of a country that enjoys the luxury of peace: dozens of individuals, ordinary people like you and me, boarding to end their journeys or begin the ones that would change their lives completely. Families saying goodbye, reuniting, security guards patrolling, street vendors selling ice cream or fresh pastries.

  It was a sunny day in the Kingdom of Seryndale, old commercial neighbor and inseparable colleague of Larion, whose green prairies and massive fleets at its ports were its emblematic signature. Small, yes, but with a history of being the bazaar of the continent. Where everyone went to close deals—or heads.

  Two men intended to board a popular wagon, despite the polite old man’s insistence on taking the first-class ones to avoid the commotion of the crowd.

  "Don’t be so boring, Elijah," said the young albino with bright sky-blue eyes, smiling. "It’s rude to avoid people all the time."

  The personal butler sighed in comical defeat as city folk—especially the young girls—fought to take pictures with the young nobleman. It wasn’t just his surname that granted him fame, but his beautiful snow-angel face.

  He enjoyed signing notebooks with one hand while the other, enveloped in cold, formed perfect crystal roses that he gifted to the delighted girls.

  "For you, my queen" he said to each of them with a small bow, handing them their frozen flower. “As beautiful as your smile.”

  “KYAAHHH~!!!”

  Elijah rolled his eyes in disapproval at how shamelessly his ward took advantage of his celebrity. And for good reason—every interview he was invited to ended with him hypnotizing the journalists, who never managed to make him lose composure, not even with the most scandalous questions. That polite, feline smile was the most charming among all the youths of the Four Noble Families of Larion. And the most envied.

  “My Lord, please…This is getting ridiculous.”

  When the announcer’s voice declared the hour for the incoming travel, he made silent signals to a nearby security guard, who understood and dispersed the pretentious admirers. A second and even a fourth guard had to help push them back while they screamed the name of the white-haired boy.

  Gerard only laughed softly at the sight of guards battling with all their vital force against mere high-school girls. Elijah coughed once to call the young man’s attention so they could finally board.

  The young Frostweaver took his own suitcase from the butler’s gloved hands. At this, the old man frowned, indignant.

  "I am more than capable of carrying our luggage, My Lord," he clarified, combing his long gray mustache.

  "If you keep pushing yourself all the time, you’ll end up worse than my father," he smiled gently to the side, speaking kindly despite his grimace. "Besides, friends always help each other. You taught me that, remember?"

  Elijah blinked at yet another courteous gesture from the young man. It wasn’t the first nor would it be the last time he already helped him with daily tasks. The truth was it stirred bittersweet feelings in the old man’s chest: pride, seeing his boy grow so fast while keeping a kind heart (even if a bit arrogant), and frustration, knowing he could no longer keep up as he once did.

  Among the passengers, whispers dispersed and curious glances were thrown their way as they searched for their seats. After storing their luggage, they sat down, waiting for the journey back to Larion—back home—to begin.

  With a melancholic sigh, Gerard rested his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand, looking through the window as the train started moving. They ignored the gossiping murmurs out of pure habit.

  "You look sad, My Lord," Elijah commented, reading the folded newspaper that was on the seat. "Is something troubling you?"

  The young man’s diamond-colored eyes reflected the sunlight; he closed them before answering.

  "No, it’s just… it feels so strange to return after so long… I feel like I’ve missed so much."

  "Hm, I don’t see it that way. Besides, you were able to learn a lot from the master merchants of Seryndale this year. I’m sure your father will be proud of your progress."

  "Father is always proud of me. Everyone is. They’re not the ones I’m worried about seeing… But you must already know who I’m referring to."

  Elijah shook the newspaper once to adjust it, reading with his small glasses.

  "Ah, of course. Young Lady Miria. I can’t imagine how much you must have missed her."

  Gerard opened his eyes and let himself fall back into the seat. His gaze drifted over the rural prairies. He remembered the last time he saw his little sister, the screams of hatred and anger with which she hurled those harsh words again and again, stabbing into his chest like petrified thorns.

  I hate you, I hate you so much! Why are you always better than me at everything?! Why?! Why do you ALWAYS have to steal all the attention from Father?! From everyone?! I HATE YOU! I FUCKING HATE YOUUU!

  “Miria…”

  Rage so potent, spat by a nine-year-old girl. The next day, under the excuse of improving his studies, he asked their father to leave the palace and live in the dormitories of the Royal Guard Academy. They hadn’t seen each other since that night. The sorrow devoured all the joy of his graduation.

  After an hour of travel Elijah, and most of the passengers, fell into a deep sleep induced by the sway of the wagons. In the silence of the ride, the young man searched the pocket over his chest for his collarless heart-shaped pendant. He brushed its fine steel with the tip of his finger, opening the locket. Inside was the family photo of the four of them: mom, dad, himself, and Miria.

  With a painful smile, he held onto his nostalgic expression as he gazed at a reminiscence of better times. Of happy family times. When the palace halls overflowed with laughter. Ever since what happened to Mom… nothing was the same. Nothing.

  "The world is funny," he murmured to himself. "They all want you to be the best, and then hate you if you succeed. If you’re mediocre, they’re disappointed… if you’re excellent, they get jealous."

  He closed the pendant with a soft click and reclined in his seat. He blinked once. Again. His eyelashes grew heavy as if they had absorbed lead.

  "I wonder if she might have enrolled in the same academy I went to… Maybe—"

  His sentence hung unfinished. The wagon spun around him, as if the train had suddenly taken an impossible turn. His vision warped into blurry, distorted, liquid waves.

  "What… what is this…?"

  He tried to stand, but his knees nearly collapsed. He gripped the seatback with his right hand as a sharp stab of pain shot through his temple.

  Then the silence hit him.

  Too much silence. Not the normal quiet of a peaceful wagon, but a… dead one. A hollow, full, thick silence. The only audible sound was the muffled rumble of the tracks, as if they too were falling asleep.

  Gerard swallowed hard, forcing his vision to focus on something. He saw the other passengers… all asleep, but not truly “sleeping.”

  In rigid, uncomfortable poses. A man completely sprawled over the table, arm hanging. A woman lying on her back, eyes barely open, breathing so shallow it seemed nonexistent. Others bent forward, necks twisted at painful angles. They looked like a tavern full of passed out drunkards.

  But no one snored. No one muttered. There wasn’t a cough, nor a sneeze, nor the typical "adjusting posture" sound that any living person makes.

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  Gerard felt his heart climb up his throat.

  He straightened as best he could. The windows were completely shut. All of them. And slightly fogged, as if the train had exhaled.

  "Something… is wrong. Very wrong, Elijah. Elijah? Wake up!"

  Even Elijah looked fainted. Not asleep: unconscious. Head dropped to his chest, arms inert, breathing so faint the light barely showed movement. Gerard took his pulse: alive. Still. He tried waking him up, but it was useless.

  He let out a pained exhale as he staggered toward the wagon door.

  He struggled with the handle. Nothing. Again: in vain.

  Locked.

  "Dammit…"

  His pulse quickened. Trembling, he searched his coat pockets for his catalyst gloves. His fingers refused to obey his mana. His eyelids felt as though someone were pulling them shut.

  "Don’t close your eyes… don’t close… don’t—"

  Applause.

  Slow. Heavy. Cruel. Like gloved palms striking marble.

  The sound traveled across the wagon as if the shadows themselves had begun to clap.

  "Well, well…" said a deep voice. "The little ice doll really does resist."

  The tone was charismatic, self-assured, almost mocking. As if he were talking to an expensive toy and not to a person.

  Gerard froze. A shiver climbed his spine. He turned slowly, dragging his gaze as if it weighed a ton.

  The man came from the far end of the wagon, walking slowly. Unhurried. Unafraid.

  He was enormous. A human wall dressed in a luxurious white suit, immaculate and perfectly pressed. Beneath it he wore a red shirt that gleamed like freshly spilled blood. His hands were in his pockets, relaxed. But the worst part was his face.

  A black gas mask, a modern model, covered the entirety of it. The side tubes exhaled with a metallic, rhythmic, almost robotic sound:

  HSSHHH—KHHHH.

  HSSHHH—KHHHH…

  The mask looked like his real face. As if he needed it to exist.

  "Gas…" Gerard murmured, mind staggering.

  That was it. That explained everything. The slightly fogged windows. The bodies. The silence. The dizziness. A sedative. One far too potent and silent.

  With an act of extreme willpower, Gerard formed an ice projectile between his trembling hands. He launched it at the nearest window.

  CRACK!

  The glass shattered. The wagon filled with a deafening whistle as air rushed in from outside. The invisible, odorless gas was sucked into the current.

  Gerard fell to his knees, coughing violently. His lungs burned. He spat saliva mixed with mucus. The clean air—cold, cutting—slammed lucidity back into him like open-handed strikes.

  When he lifted his head, he saw the man’s shoes. Black, polished. Impeccable. They were the first thing he saw each time consciousness tried to slip away.

  He raised his gaze.

  Behind the dark lenses of the mask, there were no eyes. But he felt the wrinkles of an evil smile.

  "Smart," the man said, tilting his head, each breath filtering through that metallic, ominous sound. "Very smart."

  He paused, then added, almost in a playful whisper: "Looks like I’ll have to have some fun with you first."

  He grabbed him by the coat as if he were a rag and hurled him backward. Gerard flew at full speed. His back slammed against the door with a crash that emptied his lungs. A stream of blood spilled from the corner of his lips.

  Pain. Pure. Direct. Without the luxury usually granted to nobles.

  Still, he pushed himself up, trembling. Breathing as if his lungs were failing him.

  He wiped the blood with the back of his hand, clenched his teeth, and formed an ice sword. The weapon glowed blue, trembling but lethal as he walked steps forward.

  "I don’t know who the hell you are," he spat, "or what do you want… but I swear to Thelmos you won’t walk away unscathed."

  The man let out a deep laugh. Heavy. As if it came from a chest full of smoke.

  "Nobles…" he said, slowly removing his right hand from his pockets, "so dramatic."

  He cracked his knuckles with a loud snap that made the entire wagon vibrate. Then he gave a bow. Fake. Barely inclining his head.

  "I am Amon."

  The name dropped like a bomb.

  Gerard felt his stomach turn to ice.

  That name. That monster… Velkari’s nightmare. Leader of the Blackthorn, one of the most ruthless mafias in the region.

  The Butcher. The trafficker. The supposed untouchable. The later ally of The Design, the anti-blank terrorist organization. The man responsible for lawyers and judges checking their cars for explosives before turning them on.

  He was believed to be imprisoned in a maximum-security facility, hidden from the world and even from the gods themselves. Thought to be dead. Thought to have vanished from the face of the earth—not on a train full of civilians. Not on his train.

  Amon raised a finger, pointing at him.

  "I’m looking for Frostweavers." A second of silence. An audible smile. "All of them."

  Gerard felt something crack inside him.

  He didn’t say "you." He said Frostweaver. Plural. As if after him there was… another target. As if she were also on the list.

  Gritting his teeth with anger that bit into his chest, Gerard threw his ice rapier like a javelin fired from a cannon. The projectile cut through the air, razor-sharp, lethal.

  And Amon—without even turning his head—grabbed one of the unconscious passengers by the arm and lifted her as if she were a sack of flour.

  Gerard barely had time to open his mouth before he saw, horrified, the rapier pierce the woman’s torso with a wet snap. The impact pushed her backward like a broken doll, and the ice emerged from her back dripping blood.

  The world froze. The air solidified in his lungs.

  "N-No… no-no… NO!"

  Amon dropped the corpse without a trace of emotion, like someone letting go of an old umbrella. He walked over her without pause. First came the crack of ribs, then the collarbone splitting beneath his boot.

  And when his foot came down on her skull—

  CRUNCH–BLAAAGH!

  Her skull exploded like a ripe watermelon. Fragments of bone and brain matter blasted out and hit the floor at Gerard’s feet. Some bloody bits splattered onto his pants.

  "You’re a… you’re a monster!" Gerard choked out, trembling, sweating cold, retreating until he hit the dented door. His breathing was out of control. His legs felt ready to betray him.

  Amon didn't bother replying. Just limited himself to shrug in complete apathy toward the death of innocents.

  He didn’t even remove his left hand from his pocket. He continued walking toward him, slowly, with that sickening calm only killers who enjoy prolonging fear possess. The mask exhaled its breaths like a second heartbeat:

  KHHH—HSSSHH.

  KHHH—HSSSHH.

  Gerard swallowed hard, determined not to kill another innocent by mistake. He extended his arm toward the aisle and formed an ice wall, rising as a crystalline barricade between them.

  Amon didn’t even speed up. He only tilted his head with a hint of… curious interest.

  “Barriers.” He sighed, putting on his gloves. “How pitiful.”

  Without wasting time, Gerard gathered magic in both hands and created a massive sphere of compressed ice. He fired it at the ceiling.

  KRAAASH!

  The metal gave way instantly, opening a perfect escape hole.

  Using instant ice platforms, he propelled himself toward the opening. The wind bit his face as soon as he emerged outside the moving train, the roar of the tracks rumbling beneath his feet.

  But he had no time to breathe. Because the roof collapsed behind him.

  Amon emerged like a demon, leaping up from inside the wagon and smashing through the metal with such force that it tore like wet cardboard. The train, going over a hundred kilometers per hour, posed no challenge to his weight or strength.

  Gerard stabbed an ice dagger into the metal to avoid losing balance and falling onto the tracks. The wind was so violent it tore at his skin, his clothes whipping like flags on the verge of ripping apart.

  Amon landed without flinching. Still. Hands in pockets. As if enjoying a stroll atop the train. Waiting. Wanting Gerard to try something else.

  The boy managed to straighten himself. He blinked once.

  Fwip.

  Amon was already in front of him.

  “WHAT?! WHEN DID HE–?!”

  Gerard didn’t see the movement. He only saw the fist engulfed in pure negative mana approaching his face with a golden skull ring glowing like a cursed sun. The punch was a meteor meant to destroy him.

  "I’m going to die…!" Gerard thought, resigned to the impact—

  BAAAMMM!!!

  Everything turned white.

  His head snapped backward. His body flew, but before the wind could tear him off the train, Amon grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. He lifted him as if he were a child, already pulling back another punch, ready to turn his face into pulp.

  Gerard acted on pure reflex. Instinctive. Animal. Desperate.

  He extended his hand toward the giant’s chest, and from his palm burst an ice stake so sharp it looked like a needle made of doom. He drove it into the flesh of Amon’s neck with a wet sound:

  SCHK–SHRRK!

  Blood erupted like a geyser. Dark, hot streams sprayed outward, staining his face, his clothes, his eyelashes. Gerard smelled the metallic scent mixed with the wind.

  Amon let out a visceral grunt, muffled by the mask. He flung him away with a single swat, sending him rolling several meters across the roof of the wagon. Gerard tumbled, scraping against the hot metal, nearly losing both his weapon and his footing.

  Amon quickly brought a hand to his neck. He coughed, and a burst of blood spewed through the mask’s filters, splattering them with thick red.

  "COUGH–! Hrk—GHAAA–!"

  And then, his palm ignited. A black flame rose from it, enveloping the wound, cauterizing it from the inside out. The spray of blood stopped. The flesh regenerated within seconds, leaving behind new twisted scars, like burns.

  Gerard, staggering, bleeding from his nose and mouth, shook his head in disbelief.

  "Negative miracles…?!" he whispered, feeling a wave of horror deeper than any blow. "Damn it… this is going to be hard."

  Amon slowly lifted his head, his breathing echoing louder, colder, angrier behind the mask.

  "You’ve got reflexes, boy," he said, adjusting his bloodstained tie. "I like that."

  KHHH—HSSSHH.

  KHHH—HSSSHH.

  And he continued forward.

  ?