Chapter 1

Night pressed heavy against the Armstrong Holding, North Drift.

The terraced pit yawned wide in the earth, its ledges etched like layers of a giant’s toothless jaw. Rusted rail tracks crisscrossed the upper rim, winding between crooked buildings that had never known polish—just soot, grease, and the weight of a hundred years of work. The Engine House wheezed softly, its big iron lung still exhaling leftover pressure. Somewhere, a steam valve cried in the dark, echoing through the spoil heaps like a warning no one wanted to hear.

Cold wind swept down from the higher ridges, rattling tin sheets nailed to the side of the Ore Sorting Shed. Loose chains clinked like laughter. Empty ore carts, left half-loaded, groaned as they shifted slightly on their warped rails. A rope winch creaked back and forth—was it moving, or was that just the wind?

And then the pit blinked.

One pair of red eyes. Then another. Then a dozen. Then too many.

Seven beams of light swept the dark.

A feral shape twisted into view—barefoot, rawboned, hunched like it had forgotten how to be human. Farther up the ridge, another figure stood perfectly still. Tall. Draped in old-world finery. Its presence didn’t announce itself, but the message was clear: command, control, hunger.

Each member of Rail Crew 68 marked them in silence—

A threat here. A complication there.

Every movement was another line on the bill.

And the numbers were rising fast.

"Alright crew—Armstrong money’s good money. Base pay wasn’t bad, but let’s really dig into their coffers."

A lean therian woman clicked her blast stake into place with a clean, practiced motion. Her wolfish ears—black with red flicks—twitched once, then again. Her tail was already swaying—eager. Unsubtle..

“That’s always the plan, Albrecht,” she said. “I just like breaking bodies more than mending them.”

A goblin a few steps off gave her a glance, then quickly looked away.

He was already sweating—and it wasn’t from the cold.

That attitude was exactly why he really, really didn’t want her as his medic.

The screaming started low—then spread like fire.

Commons, dozens of them, shrieking from the tunnel mouths.

They’d seen the lights.

They’d seen the crew.

And they were starving.

The hunger had finally broken their patience.

They broke like a dam.

Twenty-five savages tore loose from the tunnel mouths, limbs flailing, mouths wide, eyes lit red.

Some came clawing up the terraced slopes, scraping for handholds on wet stone. Others burst through the spoil heaps, dirt and rust spraying behind them. One vaulted an ore cart like it weighed nothing, shrieking loud enough to shake loose the breath in your chest.

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Three broke ahead of the pack.

One came low, arms pumping wild, feet slapping gravel as it lunged straight for the dwarf—mouth open, jaw unhinged like it planned to bite through bone.

Another clambered up a spoil heap, then dropped hard behind the crew, swinging a rusted rail spike like a club.

The third didn’t hesitate—just sprinted in a dead line toward the therian, screaming high and sharp, hands clawed like it could tear through gear and hide both.

Unfortunately, the Rail Crew also decided to move.

The therian stepped into her attacker’s momentum and swung low—savage and precise. Her stakehammer hit just above the knee, and both legs went sideways with a wet snap. The body didn’t fall so much as collapse, rolling end over end into a miserable heap.

From behind, the second one rushed in—only to meet a full-body strike from the orc member. There was no stake or the telltale boom, just raw impact. She slammed it square in the chest like a battering ram. Ribs cracked. Air fled. The thing flailed backward, clutching at nothing. She grinned. He tried to scream.

And then there was the dwarf.

He moved like he’d been doing this longer than the mine had existed. Short hammer. Short reach. Long memory.

He waited—just a fraction longer than most would dare—then took a step forward and swung. Clean. Heavy.

The stake punched straight through the center of the chest.

The thing twitched once, surprised, then fell to ashes.

Albrecht didn’t stop. He walked past the falling dark snow and made for the one the therian had downed, boots crunching gravel as if the fight wasn’t worth noticing. Ash blowing behind him like a snow drift and from that drift six other figures and lights followed.

A red aura began to seep from the downed woman—thin, flickering, desperate. It was usual among Commons. They’d try to patch themselves just enough to get in one more bite before the night was over.

Albrecht was going to have none of it.

He stomped on her throat—hard. The glow scattered like roaches, and he gave a short grunt.

“Eleanor.”

She stepped up without hesitation, duster catching the wind.

With a swift rise over her head, her stakehammer came down on the vampire, right in the chest.

The boom cracked sharp across the pit—but she missed the heart.

Too shallow. Off-angle.

Albrecht didn’t scold her, his hammer was already in the air.

The rest of the crew arrived—quiet, calm—and began taking turns.

One strike. Then another. Then another. Clockwise, like a chore wheel.

Stakehammer to chest. Rotate. Repeat.

Each blow drove the stake deeper. Each swing settled the issue further.

Six more came barreling in.

There was no coordination—just hunger and speed. One leapt from a spoil pile, swinging both fists like a child having a tantrum. Another dropped low and ran on all fours, teeth clacking in time with its hands as it scuttled across the gravel.

They hit the crew all at once.

Each was denied—flung aside, folded in half, or simply broken on approach by the wheel of pain they were trying to stop.

Ash finally spilled between the crew’s formation, a dull cloud pushed out by weight and motion. Without a word, they turned. Boots shifted. Grips adjusted.

They moved as one—right onto the next nearest body.

This time, it was the goblin who stepped up.

His strike wasn’t true either—but that was just how Rail Crews worked.

One body at a time. One correction at a time.

And after a few dozen, new figures began to approach.

Older. Sharper.

The kind that led the tides of the hungry dead.

An Enforcer closed in, mace already mid-swing.

The crew didn’t scatter.

They didn’t scream for mercy.

They simply adjusted.

The orc and the therian turned slightly from the body still twitching at their feet.

One hammer met the mace mid-air—knocked it off-line with a dull clang.

Another came in low, caught the Enforcer between the legs. Monster or not, the sound was wrong.

Ash rose behind them as the last body finished crumbling.

And then they were on him.

Seven hammers. Seven figures. One rhythm.

The sounds of blasts and metal hemorrhaging echoed from the mine long into the night.

Fossan cracked. Ash scattered. Bodies fell.

Again.

And again.

By the time the sun finally crept over the ridge, the echoes had gone still. The crew stood among the soot and ruin, steam rising off their gear, boots coated in layers of ash.

The morning light made it easier to count.

Eighty-three Commons.

Twenty-one Enforcers.