Chapter 20

Something hung wrong over the Armstrong Holding, North Drift.

The night pressed heavier than before—thicker, like it knew who was coming.

The terraced pit still yawned wide, its ledges carved deep like the ridges of a giant’s broken jaw.

But something had changed.

Figures now lined the upper terraces—twelve in all, spaced like sentries, like kings.

Each held their pose with theatrical stillness—arms crossed, blades resting on shoulders, heads tilted just so.

One leaned forward slightly, grinning wide. Another rolled their neck until it cracked like breaking ice.

A third stretched their arms above their head, like warming up for a performance.

This was their mine now.

They’d come back to reclaim it.

And they had no reason to fear what climbed the slope.

They gathered at the bottom—dozens, maybe more—

pressed shoulder to shoulder in the dark.

Just breath, and heat, and the slow scrape of claws across stone.

The Crusher House groaned—same old rocks getting chewed up for ore.

Chains clinked overhead, uneven and off-beat.

The Ore Sorting Shed shuddered under its own rust, tin sheets flapping like ragged flags.

A rope winch swayed side to side, groaning louder than it should have.

Seven beams of white light cut through the fog—

sharp, straight, and steady.

A perfect line, aimed straight at the pit.

Shadows twitched. Some skittered.

Many just froze—

dozens of red eyes caught in the false sunrise marching toward them.

One of the figures moved—fast—

hurling a length of timber like a javelin at the center beam of light.

It whistled through the fog.

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Its intended victim radiated an aura of gold and a slab of metal rose to meet it—

a coffin shaped monstrosity.

The timber shattered on impact.

A mockery of the vampire’s masters—

and a message louder than any war cry.

The figures marched forward—just a few steps.

Another vampire broke ranks, eager to try their luck.

It hurled a stone toward one of the flanking lights.

On the wind-up, it bowed its head—

light spilling across the ground like reverence gone wrong.

The rock struck true—rang off a helmet like a bell.

No flinch.

From the opposite end, another figure moved—

a twist of the shoulder, casual.

An answer.

A pickaxe flew through the air, fitted with clamps—

a forgewood stake on each end.

It hit the thrower dead-center,

drove clean through the ribs,

and turned him to ash on the spot.

The nodding figure raised his head again,

calm. Unshaken.

And the lights marched forward once more.

One last figure tried a different approach.

It came zipping forward on all fours—low, fast, twitching with confidence.

A silhouette flickered in the light: wolf ears. Claws. Hunger.

It lunged for the therian.

She caught him by the throat mid-air—lifted him clean off the ground.

Her jaw sank into his face.

Then she slammed him into the dirt hard enough to crater it.

A second figure stepped forward—

one clean swing overhead.

The body ashed on contact.

A breeze swept through the terraces, low and cold.

It carried words with it—soft, almost reverent.

"Lumina."

A white flare shot into the sky—

high, silent, and then—

detonated.

Light crashed down like judgment.

Most of the pit went blind in an instant.

The few who could still see…

wished they couldn’t.

Laid bare in full view: Rail Crew 68.

Liza stood at the point—shield raised, face unreadable.

This wasn’t like any Rail Crew the vampires had survived before.

Under their coats, chainmail gleamed—most silver-bright, others darker.

Their loadouts were absurd:

Stakehammers. A shield like a tombstone.

One carried a small canon.

An orc grinned wide, twin hammers resting across her shoulders.

Modified pickaxes gleamed like damnation.

Gone were the miner’s rags.

Fossan pauldrons flashed across most of their shoulders.

Small shines caught the light at joints, necks, knuckles—

places where Fossan had been set into armor, but none of them matching.

The pit ruptured open—

vomiting a tide of snarling, thrashing bodies that came pouring up the walls.