Chapter 2

Leandra had a paper in front of her—one of many in the drawer labeled Rail Crew 68.

They hunted more than they worked, and most of their contracts are through her, to Leandra's dismay.

She took a long swig of coffee, raised her pen, and waited for the numbers she needed to get them out of her sight.

"Aright guys, how many?"

The goblin from the crew was just as ready with the numbers.

“Eighty-three small, twenty-one medium. Six hours of shift into the night, ma’am,” Edmund chimed.

Edmund was always great with numbers, precise with numbers. If life ran a different course, he would be an engineer tweaking mining equipment or working at an apothecary. Unfortunately, the best money was with a Rail Crew and especially Rail Crew 68. His math already figured that out long before he even got there.

With a scribble and seven eager stamps, Rail Crew 68 had done it again.

Now they sat at a long table in the Isarn Arms, flanked by an open aisle and neighboring crews. Townsfolk filled the rest, sharing space if not stories.

Stew and ale made their rounds, plentiful and well-earned, as the crew retold the night’s work in loud, laughing detail.

“—Yeah! That’s the best part! I love how their limbs can go the other way!”

The therian woman grinned, proud of the way bodies should not go.

Zina Barghest. Ex-Rescue Crew.

The black and red fur of her wolf ears twitched with amusement, and her yellow eyes—sharp and lupine—flashed with something far too gleeful.

She was damn good at setting bodies right—a fracture here, a sprain there.

But her true calling?

Inflicting those same injuries… on whatever the town deemed acceptable.

“Frankly, I wish you’d just ash the poor fellow and get on with it.”

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Reuben settled his spoon into the stew, blonde slicked-back hair forgetting the “slicked-back” part and threatening to fall into his eyes.

He smoothed a hand over his head. Order restored.

“Why do you insist on prolonging their eternity?”

He tore a piece from the shared loaf and bit into it, already chewing before anyone could answer.

Eleanor leaned in from across the table, eyes wide with enthusiasm.

“No, I get it! I mean—Zina’s not wrong. Breaking them a little slows ’em down, keeps ’em honest.”

She gestured animatedly with her spoon, almost knocking over her mug.

“But Derrick wouldn’t need to. He’d just—”

She made a few vague jabbing motions in the air, as if illustrating some impossibly fast dismantling technique.

“You know. Disarm, off-balance, straight to the heart. Doesn’t even need pain to win.”

She sat back, nodding like she’d just quoted scripture.

Harriet didn’t even look up—just scoffed into her mug.

“You say that like the man didn’t bleed.”

Eleanor blinked. “He didn’t. Not when it mattered.”

Harriet leaned back, one brow raised.

“El, we all bleed. You think he floated through a fight untouched like some spirit of vengeance?”

She tapped her spoon against her bowl. “I’ve seen what Zina leaves behind. That works. That ends fights.”

Zina raised her mug, clearly pleased.

“Zina’s right. Pain’s communication.”

The orc woman slurped loudly. “Besides, Reuben only likes ash because he doesn’t get to hear the screaming.”

Reuben didn’t rise to it. He just sipped his ale like a man long past the point of being offended.

“Thank you for that insight, Beatrice,” he muttered.

The orc woman beamed, cheeks still full of stew.

“Anytime.” She raised her spoon like a toast and kept chewing.

Another table of younger miners—mostly Survey Crew, more map than muscle—had gone quiet watching Zina. One of them rubbed their arm like the pain had jumped the gap between tables.

They sat stiffly, clearly redoing their estimates now that they were back.

At a quieter table near the window, a Forestry Crew had gone still—not fearful, but focused. One of them had stopped mid-chew, eyes fixed on Zina like she’d set off a tripwire only they could hear.

The laughter had started to stack—Beatrice’s spoon-gestures, Eleanor’s latest Derrick theory, Zina miming how many directions a femur could bend.

That’s when Albrecht finally spoke.

Voice low. Even.

“Enough.”

The table stilled, not out of fear—but respect.

He let the quiet sit a second longer than comfortable.

“We got the job done. That’s enough glory for tonight.”

He took a slow sip of ale, eyes scanning the pub.

“Let Survey recalculate and Forestry stew. They’re not who I’m worried about.”

The joke had drained from the table.

“Anyone heard from the Gravein girls lately?”