Chapter 15

The large performance tent loomed in the distance.

The canvas was drawn tight—too tight—over its frame, as if the tent had been nailed to stillness. Not a single breeze dared touch it.

Its stripes had once been bright, maybe red and gold. Now they ran like blood through dirty gauze—faded, rotted, and streaked with something that had never been paint. The peaks leaned forward slightly, like a beast crouching low, hiding its eyes behind the curtain of its mane.

Even from this far, the lights could be seen.

A string of lanterns circled the canvas—clustered at odd intervals, like someone had copied a proper layout by hand and gotten it wrong.

Each one burned low and red behind their warped glass or stained mica panes.

They didn’t flicker like flame should.

They pulsed—one after another, in slow, rhythmic sequence.

As if each lantern were opening its eye. Watching.

Somewhere inside, a band was warming up.

Too far to hear notes. But the rhythm pulsed underfoot.

Like a heartbeat.

Just shy of the main tent stood a narrow wooden stall—once a caricature artist’s booth, if the painted sign could be believed.

A cartoon man smiled from the board above, his nose exaggerated to the size of a boot, his teeth like fence slats. Most of his head had been scratched out with a knife.

The booth had a slanted roof and half a wall, offering a little shelter from the open grounds.

Inside, a broken stool. A table covered in warped paper.

Dozens of faces sketched in charcoal and ink—some finished, others violently smeared.

One had Liza’s eyes. Another had Mabel’s hair.

But the walls were dry. The wind didn’t cut through.

And for a few minutes, it was enough.

They were staring out into the fairgrounds when three new lights joined Lumina’s glow.

A therian, a goblin, and a human—drawn silhouettes against the dark. All three looked ragged: dust-caked, blood-marked, worn thin by the run.

But they walked. Still walked.

When they caught the telltale gleam of Liza’s helmet catching firelight, their pace quickened.

Liza stood to meet them.

But the therian broke into a sprint, crossed the last stretch in seconds, and buried her face in Liza’s shirt.

Pure sobbing. Raw, shuddering sobs that made Liza freeze where she stood.

Mabel looked up at the other two, concern settling hard behind her eyes.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“What the forge happened out there?”

Liza held the girl tightly, arms firm around shaking shoulders.

The sobs didn’t stop, but they slowed—enough for the others to speak.

Harriet stepped forward, voice strained but standing.

“You do not want to know what we had to go through to bring our Enforcer down.”

She exhaled, one hand on her hip, the other resting briefly on the goblin’s back.

“I knew Zina was one bad puppy, but—shafts below—I’m real forgin' glad she’s on our side.”

Edmund didn’t speak.

He just turned, doubled over, and puked into the dirt.

No one blamed him.

They were used to blood. Used to ash.

But what Zina had done back there?

Blatant war crimes.

Two more figures emerged into Lumina’s searing glow.

One dragged a forge hammer behind him, its head scraping faint lines into the dirt. In his other hand—

a helmet. The carbide lantern smashed, water trailing as he walked.

The second had hammers slung across both shoulders, one hand resting on each haft like she were giving someone a piggyback ride.

As they got closer, the details came into focus.

Reuben’s face was streaked with dried blood—some his, some not.

Beatrice was worse.

She looked dipped in gore.

They finally reached the group.

Their pace didn’t quicken—just steady, spent, like men walking out of smoke.

Every step had been earned.

Mabel rose to meet them, eyes scanning from blood to bruises to the battered helmet in Reuben’s hand.

“Hard shift?” she asked, voice low.

Reuben glanced at the mess Zina had become—still clinging to Liza, still shaking.

Then he looked back at Mabel.

"Yeah,” Reuben said. “Kinda regret telling Zina to finish fast.

Zina let out another sob—louder this time.

Liza just held her tighter, one hand patting slow, steady circles on her back.

Everyone—except Zina—looked up at the tent.

It loomed like a beast squatting in the dirt, bloated and waiting.

The canvas sagged in places, stretched in others, as if it had grown over something too large to hold.

Its peaks curved like horns. Its seams pulsed with heat.

What should have been rope ties looked more like tendons.

And the main entrance?

A mouth. A gaping slit held open by rusted stakes, just wide enough to swallow the next act whole.

They shared a glance.

Silent, heavy, and enough.

Liza kept one arm around Zina, her voice steady.

“That’s a Lord in there, crew. I don’t even have my pilebunker anymore. Every stake costs me two to drive by hand.”

Zina’s sobs began to slow. Not gone—just quieter.

Liza looked back to the tent.

“We’re not doing a direct run. Not if we want everything still attached.”

She squeezed Zina’s shoulder.

“We’ll end up like her, at best.”

Everyone who could managed a nod.

It was Harriet who cut the silence next, her tone dry but clear.

“Yeah, stakes are running low and we’re all slagged.

Marching into our doom isn’t a plan—just a shortcut to the grave.”

Mabel gave Edmund a few firm pats on the back as he finished retching.

“You’re Rail Crew 68’s inventory guy, right?”

A few dry heaves later, he wiped his mouth with a sleeve and nodded, voice barely there.

“…Yeah. Yeah. I know what we started with. Give me a moment—I can figure what’s left.”

Mabel gave him a soft, genuine smile—the kind that made people believe they’d live through things.

“Good. Help me tally, then.”

She glanced toward Liza.

“Me and sis can cook something up.”