Chapter 12

Two figures loomed in front of the wagon.

At a glance, they might be mistaken for two people standing back to back—but the Lumina made it clear: they were one.

One wore a cravat, a waistcoat, and polished boots scuffed only by arena dust.

The other? Barely clothed. A hunched, feral shape clinging to the same body like a tumor in rags.

The more refined figure turned—just enough so it was only him facing the three.

“Welcome... honored guests…”

Behind him, limbs thrashed wildly—until one hand, tangled in rope, yanked.

A low groan.

A sharp shear.

The bell above gave way.

The clapper crashed down in a spray of dust and rope, the hook at its end sharpened to a vicious point. It caught the Lumina’s light and held it—gleaming like a tooth too clean for this place.

The gentleman straightened with eerie grace—then tilted backward, letting the weight shift.

The feral twin dropped to all fours beneath him, spine bowed like a bridge, rope still coiled around one wrist.

Now perched atop the beast’s back, the refined one settled into a mock sitting pose—

one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, head lolling upside-down with a smirk.

“We do so hope you’ll… stay a while.”

Zina, Edmund, and Harriet raised their Stakehammers in unison, slow and uncertain.

The fused body twisted, vertebrae crackling like splintering wood—

and with a sudden lurch, the hook came screaming across the arena, the bell rope snapping taut behind it.

Zina dropped to all fours, instincts beating thought.

The hook passed inches overhead.

Edmund and Harriet didn’t dive so much as fell forward, instinct slamming harder than form.

A tangle of limbs, packs, and hammer grips.

The hook passed overhead with a shriek of iron, pulling dust and straw in its wake.

The rope dragged like a live thing behind it—still moving.

The figure twisted again, rope cracking like a whip—

and the hook came sweeping back from the other side, faster this time.

Zina planted her hammer, head-down into the dirt, and hit the ground flat, hugging the haft like it was her last friend on Faltenia.

The rope coiled around the shaft mid-swing—caught—and yanked her two feet sideways, dragging a deep furrow in the dust.

Harriet and Edmund were already sprinting forward, knees high, hammers low—until the refined figure raised one arm.

“Ignis.”

A comet of fire erupted from his palm—arcing low, fast, and glowing red like a promise.

Edmund and Harriet hit the dirt again, diving opposite directions just in time.

The Ignis roared between them, trailing sparks—

then slammed into a distant tent, which went up like dry parchment, flames licking high into the canvas ribs.

Harriet scrambled to her feet and broke wide.

She ran with everything she had—Stakehammer swinging wild in one hand, the other raised high like she was waving to a crowd.

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“Hey! Neat trick!”

“Why don’t you come try choking on something real!”

The figures twitched, the clean twin's gaze snapped to her.

Harriet grinned, teeth bared.

“That’s right. Come earn it, you freaky moppets!”

Edmund was slower getting up—

first crawling, then suddenly sprinting full-tilt toward the rope, still taut and groaning from its last swing.

He raised his Stakehammer overhead, both hands clenched tight, and brought it down with everything he had.

The impact cracked like thunder.

The rope shuddered, then slammed to the ground—pinned, its tension broken.

The Twins jerked—leashed for just a heartbeat—held down like a tent collapsing under its own weight.

That heartbeat was enough.

Zina came charging in on all fours, her length of rope in her mouth, a blur of fur and motion.

Her tail snapped behind her, ears flat, eyes locked in.

Stakehammer dragged the rope behind her, coiled and snarling like a chain meant for execution.

Zina was upright now—still running, but the rope gripped tight in both hands, dragging behind like a serpent on fire.

She twisted hard—torque through her hips, weight behind the pull—and swung.

Her makeshift mace—hook, rope, and hammer knotted together by momentum and rage—came around full arc and smashed into the princely twin’s face.

The sound was wet.

Eyes ruptured.

Teeth flew.

His nose tore sideways, and lips peeled back in a bloody rictus.

He shrieked—high, animal, and awful—clawing at what was left of his face, rope still half-wrapped around his jaw.

Edmund and Harriet were also closing in on the twins.

Edmund came down with his Stakehammer, aiming for anything that looked like a body—

but the feral half skittered just enough to the side.

The hammer struck dirt with a heavy whump, the blow kicking up a gout of dust and straw.

Harriet followed—coming in low, then rising hard.

Her Stakehammer caught the beast-side square in the ribs, and the whole twisted mess toppled.

The gentlemanly twin hit the ground beneath the pile, arms bent awkwardly, sandwiched to the earth.

Zina didn’t wait.

She came sprinting back in on all fours, leapt high—then pounced onto the heap with a snarl.

She was all claws and teeth now—ripping into the feral twin atop the mound, tearing through flesh, splitting sinew.

Chunks of something wet hit the dirt.

She didn’t care what was organ and what was meat.

Edmund and Harriet joined her—

bringing their Stakehammers down again and again,

aiming for anything that wasn’t already under Zina.

The beast below Zina wasn’t done.

It clawed back with everything it had—

gashes opened across her shoulders, tearing through canvas and into flesh.

One rake caught her across the chest, deep and burning.

It tried to fight.

Zina closed her eyes—and kept digging.

There were snaps now, wet crunches, the sound of bone giving way to will.

Then, moments later—

its heart spilled out, black and steaming in the dirt.

Harriet paused mid-swing.

Shifted her grip.

Flipped the hammer—striking face to stake—and drove it clean through the writhing lump.

The feral twin began to fall apart, crumbling into ash.

The rope slackened.

The clawed hand let go.

But Zina didn’t stop.

Her mouth was full of gore and cinders,

her eyes clenched shut, tears streaming.

She’d moved on to the other brother—

tearing into the spine now, pulling it loose like unraveling a rope she refused to let go.

Edmund found a moment—just enough to reload his Stakehammer.

He kicked Zina off the pile, boot to her shoulder, and brought the hammer down on what he guessed was the gentleman’s heart.

Too shallow.

The body twitched, but didn’t die.

Harriet stepped in—already adjusting her grip—and they fell into rhythm, no words needed.

Swing. Breathe. Swing. Breathe.

They fell into the rhythm Rail Crews were known for—strike, breathe, strike, breathe—driving the stake in deeper with each blow.

The refined twin thrashed weakly beneath them, blood coughing from where his face used to be.

Zina returned a moment later—Stakehammer in hand again,

coat shredded, face smeared with gore and black mud.

She just joined in—

swinging with everything she had,

blood and ash flinging wide with every impact,

the rhythm of three hammers pounding something that refused to die.

The final strike landed with a crunch and a hiss.

Then the body gave.

It split, spine to chest, and plumed into ash like a bonfire gone out.

The cloud spread wide—greasy, black, and slow to settle.

It drifted over the crew like snow that hated being touched.

Zina fell first.

Not gracefully. Just—collapsed.

Stakehammer slipping from her grip, arms wrapped around herself like she didn’t know what else to hold.

Sobbing now, ugly and full, tears cutting lines through the filth on her face.

Harriet dropped next, flat on her back, breathing like she’d sprinted through a thunderstorm.

She didn’t even look at the others—just stared at cloudy sky, mouth half-open, eyes unfocused.

Edmund knelt—shoulders heaving.

Stakehammer still clenched, but only because his fingers wouldn’t let go yet.

The ash kept falling.