The Ol’ Five Seven did not slip out of Rafborough.

  It roared out.

  Stone groaned beneath its weight as the fort rolled from the Tower Drome, tracks biting down and pulling the machine forward one deliberate segment at a time. The gates had been pulled wide, iron ribs locked open, and the ground beyond bore the scars of countless departures. This one felt different. People stood back farther than usual. Workers paused longer than they meant to. Conversations fell quiet as the fort’s shadow moved across them.

  The ley-rail waited.

  It ran straight and true from the city’s edge, a massive roadway of fitted stone blocks that stretched toward the horizon. Each block was etched with runic script, worn smooth in places by centuries of passage, still faintly luminous where the lines caught the light just right. Power flowed through it in a way you could feel in your teeth, a low vibration that never quite stopped.

  The Ol’ Five Seven eased onto it, the transition smooth despite the mass. The runes answered the fort’s presence with a soft, steady glow, the rail accepting the load without protest.

  Inside, the fort was alive.

  Engineers worked the boilers in tight coordination, sweat darkening their collars as gauges were checked and rechecked. Valves hissed, then settled. Pressure climbed into the green and stayed there. One man called out numbers. Another repeated them back. No one raised their voice. There was no need.

  Nearby, artificers stood at their stations around the power, lift, and heat stones. The stones sat in their housings like captured suns, light refracted through protective lattices and rune bands. The artificers’ hands moved with practiced care, fingers tracing sigils in the air, adjusting flow and balance. A fraction too much lift and the fort would skate. Too little and it would grind itself apart. Heat had to be bled evenly. Power had to be shared.

  The stones hummed.

  On the gun decks, crews took their positions.

  The two light energy cannons in the side turrets tracked through their arcs, gunners checking traverse and elevation, running dry cycles to feel for hesitation. The weapons responded cleanly, smooth as they came around. Power indicators glowed steadily. Cooling arrays were clear.

  At the front, the main gun waited.

  The full-sized energy cannon sat in its forward sponson like a restrained animal, barrel aligned just off center, its limited arc a reminder that this was a weapon meant for commitment, not casual fire. Gunners ran their hands along the housing, checked couplings, and confirmed charge parameters. The cannon did not rotate far, but where it pointed, it dominated.

  Above them, in the tower, Doke had the sharpshooters spread out.

  They moved without needing instruction, slipping into positions that offered clear sightlines forward and to the flanks. Optics came up. Lenses adjusted. Range marks were checked against known distances on the rail. Spotters lay prone or braced against low walls, eyes already scanning far ahead.

  No one spoke unless they had to.

  Doke watched the horizon through his own scope, seeing not what was there but what might be.

  Below, Jordy had the stormtroopers organized and ready.

  They stood near their STVs, compact tracked machines lined up in orderly rows, engines idling low. Armor plates were sealed. Energy rifles were checked and slung. Each trooper knew where they were meant to be when the fort stopped and where to go if it did not.

  Jordy walked the line once, then again, eyes catching small things. A strap adjusted here. A visor reseated there. He did not bark orders. He did not need to. When he spoke, it was quiet and precise.

  The stormtroopers listened.

  In the command room, Otwin stood with the Fort Master at the central table.

  The room was built for function, not comfort. Displays lined the walls, showing internal systems, external views, and the slow forward progress along the ley-rail. The Fort Master moved between stations with the ease of a man who had done this for decades, accepting reports, issuing corrections, keeping the machine balanced.

  Otwin listened.

  “Boilers steady,” came one report.

  “Lift stable,” said another.

  “Main gun online. Charge cycling nominal.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Otwin nodded at each, eyes flicking to the displays, confirming what his ears told him. The DAC offered supplemental overlays when he allowed it, highlighting minor variances and projected tolerances. He acknowledged them without comment. This was not the place to micromanage.

  The Fort Master glanced at him once, assessing, then returned to his work.

  Otwin did not try to take the man’s job.

  He took the weight instead.

  The Ol’ Five Seven gathered speed, the ley-rail carrying it cleanly out of Rafborough. The city receded behind them, walls shrinking, towers flattening into the distance. Smoke rose in thin lines from chimneys and exhaust stacks. Life went on.

  Otwin watched it disappear from the forward view.

  He did not feel regret.

  He felt responsibility.

  Reports continued to come in, a steady stream that painted a picture of order. Everyone was where they were supposed to be. Everything was doing what it was designed to do. The fort moved as one piece, systems interlocking the way they had been meant to.

  “Rail clear ahead,” came Doke’s voice over the line.

  “Stormtroopers ready,” Jordy reported.

  Otwin acknowledged both.

  The ley-rail stretched on, runes flowing beneath them like a river of carved light. The Ol’ Five Seven rolled forward, heavier than before, sharper than before, carrying men who knew what they were doing and a commander who was learning what it meant to send them into danger.

  The hunt had begun.

  ***

  The walls of Rafborough were old in a way that most took for granted.

  They rose in layered stone and iron, thick enough to stop a charge and tall enough to make the slums below feel smaller than they actually were. They were not just the city’s outer defenses. They were something more deliberate than that. A division made permanent. On one side, paved streets and regulated traffic. On the other, sprawl, smoke, and the press of people who lived close to one another because there was nowhere else to go.

  The wall did not just keep enemies out.

  It kept order in.

  A man stood on the parapet, coat pulled tight against the wind that rolled in from the open land beyond the city. He was not a guard in the traditional sense. He wore no livery, no obvious insignia. His boots were practical. His gloves were thin and fitted. Anyone passing him might have mistaken him for a clerk or a messenger, taking a moment to catch his breath.

  In his hands was a device.

  It was no larger than a slate, its surface dark and glassy, etched with fine runic lines that shifted faintly as information scrolled across it. Numbers updated in steady intervals. Symbols flared briefly, then faded. The man’s eyes moved quickly as he read, lips tightening with concentration.

  Next to him stood Sir Helmut.

  Helmut’s uniform caught the light even here on the wall, dark fabric trimmed with subtle insignia that marked rank without display. He wore no armor and no helmet. He did not need them. His posture alone marked him as one with authority. Broad shoulders squared, hands resting loosely at his sides, weight balanced as if the stone beneath his feet might suddenly give way.

  He watched the horizon.

  “What is it?” Helmut asked.

  The man did not look up right away.

  “The target is on the move,” he said. “Leaving the city.”

  Helmut turned.

  He stepped to the edge of the wall and looked out over the slums, past the rooftops patched with scrap and tar, past the narrow lanes where people already paused to stare. The land beyond opened up, flat and broken, the ley-rail cutting a clean line through it.

  The Steam Fort was unmistakable.

  The Ol’ Five Seven moved with slow certainty, its moving onto stone as it aligned with the rail. From this distance, it looked almost serene, a blocky silhouette against the open land. Closer, Helmut could see the details. The reinforced hull. The sponson at the front where a larger weapon sat mounted. The faint glow where runes along the rail answered the fort’s passage.

  It was leaving.

  Helmut watched it for several seconds without speaking.

  “Send a message to the commander,” he said at last. “I believe our target is in a Steam Fort leaving the city.”

  The man nodded.

  “Right away, sir.”

  He reached into his coat and withdrew another device, smaller and more compact than the first. This one hummed softly as it activated, runes lighting along its edge. He adjusted a dial with his thumb, aligning frequencies only he understood, then began inputting the message.

  Helmut remained at the wall.

  The city spread behind him, layered and busy, unaware of how closely it was being watched. Rafborough had always been a place that thought itself too small to matter. Too far from real power to be worth attention.

  That illusion was ending.

  “Confirm tracking,” Helmut said.

  “Confirmed,” the man replied without looking up. “Signature matches. Movement consistent with a mid-sized civilian fort operating on ley-rail. Power output elevated. New weapon signatures detected.”

  Helmut’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “New how?”

  “Not previously cataloged on that platform,” the man said. “Forward mounted. Energy-based. Output potential higher than expected for a fort of that size.”

  Helmut allowed himself a small, humorless smile.

  “They’ve been busy,” he said.

  The message device chimed softly.

  “Transmission sent,” the man said. “Encrypted. Priority channel.”

  Helmut nodded.

  “Good.”

  He kept his gaze on the Ol’ Five Seven as it gathered distance, the fort shrinking slowly as it moved farther along the rail. It did not hurry. It did not try to hide.

  Confidence.

  Helmut turned back toward the city.

  “Keep tracking,” he said. “I want updates every quarter hour. If it changes speed or course, I want to know immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man adjusted his device and resumed reading, fingers moving with practiced ease.

  Helmut stepped away from the edge and began walking along the wall, boots ringing softly on stone. Below, life continued. Traders argued. Children ran. Smoke rose from cook fires.

  None of them knew that a decision had just been made.

  The Ol’ Five Seven rolled on, carrying its commander and his people toward whatever waited beyond the rail.

  And behind them, unseen but no longer idle, eyes followed.