CHAPTER 1: SUMMONS FROM THE FOG

The fog hangs like a shroud over the Ashwood district, thick enough to muffle footsteps and blur the lines between shadow and substance. It is the kind of morning where even the steam vents—those iron lungs of the empire’s forgotten corners—seem to whisper rather than hiss. Inspector Alaric Voss watches the courier from his third-floor window, tracking the figure’s approach through streets slick with early dew. No one visits the Ashwood district by accident, especially not a man bearing the gold-trimmed coat of an imperial messenger.

Three years, four months, and seventeen days since anyone with that uniform has sought him out. Not that he’s counting.

Alaric turns away from the window, the floorboards creaking beneath the uneven weight of his stride. His left leg, a patchwork of flesh and brass below the knee, protests with each step. The doctor had promised the pain would fade with time. Another lie to add to the collection.

His single room above the chandlery reeks of cheap tallow and cheaper whiskey. Gears and half-assembled mechanisms litter the small desk where he spends his nights tinkering—a futile distraction from memories that refuse to rust. He retrieves his service revolver from beneath a stack of outdated technical manuals, checking the cylinder with practiced precision before tucking it into his waistband.

The knock, when it comes, is crisp and authoritative. Three sharp raps against splintered wood.

“Inspector Voss?” The voice is cultured, clipped consonants betraying an upper-tier education. “A message from the Imperial Rail Commission.”

Alaric doesn’t correct the title. He hasn’t been “Inspector” since the Holloway Bridge collapse—since nineteen souls vanished into the river while he watched helplessly from the bank, his carefully gathered evidence buried beneath twisted iron and bureaucratic convenience.

He opens the door just wide enough to reveal himself: a tall man of forty-three, his once-handsome face now weathered by disappointment and the permanent shadow of three-day stubble. Gray threads the black hair at his temples, and his eyes—sharp, watchful, the color of burnished steel—betray none of the curiosity gnawing at him.

The courier, a young man with the anxious, wide-eyed look of someone venturing into territory marked dangerous on every city map, extends a brass message cylinder.

“Inspector Alaric Voss,” he says formally, though his eyes dart past Alaric to the shabby room beyond. “By order of Commissioner Thaddeus Blackwood, you are summoned to attend upon the Imperial Rail Commission regarding a matter of grave concern to the empire.”

Alaric doesn’t move to take the cylinder. “The empire made its opinion of my service quite clear, Mr…?”

“Finley, sir. Edmund Finley.” The young man shifts, discomfort evident in the tightening of his gloved fingers around the cylinder. “And if I may speak plainly, Inspector—the Commissioner was most insistent.”

“I imagine he was.” Alaric’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Did he happen to mention what fate awaits me should I decline this… invitation?”

“He said I was to inform you that refusal would result in the immediate revocation of your residency permit.” The courier swallows hard. “And permanent exile beyond the Barrier Peaks.”

Of course. Not even the decency of a clean threat. Just the promise of a slow death in the wild territories, where the empire’s reach—and protection—ends abruptly at the mountain range that divides civilization from what lies beyond.

Alaric takes the cylinder with his right hand, his left reflexively touching the revolver at his hip. The cylinder is warm, recently sealed; whatever crisis Blackwood faces must be urgent indeed to drag a disgraced inspector from the gutter.

“When?”

“The Commissioner’s train leaves Central Station at noon. You’re expected aboard.” The courier hesitates, then adds, “First-class passage has been arranged.”

First class. A final insult, reminding him how far he’s fallen from the days when such luxury was commonplace.

“How very generous.” Alaric’s tone suggests otherwise. “Tell the Commissioner I’ll consider it.”

“Sir, I’m instructed to await your—”

“You have my answer, Mr. Finley.” Alaric closes the door without another word, listening to the young man’s hesitant footsteps retreat down the creaking stairs.

Inside the cylinder, rolled tight and secured with the Imperial Commission’s wax seal, is a single sheet of paper. The moment he breaks the seal, a faint scent of ozone rises from the page—recognition ink, visible only to its intended recipient. His fingers trace the flowing script that materializes beneath his touch.

Inspector Voss,

The Trans-Etherian Line, our most ambitious achievement since the founding of the empire, faces a threat unlike any we have encountered. Workers vanish. Equipment fails in ways that defy explanation. And there are whispers—whispers I would dismiss from any source less reliable—of a phantom locomotive that leaves no tracks.

Three freight cars disappeared from the northern section last week. Not derailed. Not stolen. Vanished between signal posts, with all hands aboard.

I require your unique perspective. Your unorthodox methods. Your absolute discretion.

This is not merely about a railroad, Inspector. The future of Varn itself may hang in the balance.

Come to Central Station. Carriage Seven. We will speak further en route to Ketter’s Gate.

Commissioner Blackwood

P.S. I am aware of your current circumstances. Consider this an opportunity for… rehabilitation.

Rehabilitation. As if his fall from grace were an illness to be treated rather than a calculated execution of his career. Alaric crumples the paper, watching the recognition ink fade as it meets the oils of his skin. By the time the paper hits the floor, the message is nothing more than a blank sheet—evidence erased, just like last time.

He crosses to the small dresser and pulls out a leather-bound case, flipping it open to reveal the tarnished silver badge of the Imperial Watch. The once-gleaming surface is dull now, the imperial eagle’s wings spread across a field of gears nearly obscured by years of neglect. He hasn’t looked at it since the day they stripped him of his rank, too proud to surrender the badge but too ashamed to display it.

Alaric traces the etched motto beneath the eagle: Truth Above All. The empire’s clever lie.

“Damn you, Blackwood,” he mutters to the empty room.

Outside, the fog begins to thin, revealing grimy tenements and the distant silhouettes of the industrial district’s furnace towers. The mechanized heart of Varn beats on, indifferent to the fate of a single broken detective. The Trans-Etherian Line—the crown jewel of imperial progress, cutting through mountain ranges once thought impassable, connecting the capital to the northern frontier with unprecedented speed. Alaric remembers the propaganda posters that plastered every public space three years ago: bright futures and gleaming locomotives speeding toward prosperity.

He’d investigated the early accidents himself, before everything went wrong. Something had felt off even then—inconsistencies in the reports, workers with strange burn patterns, equipment failures that defied physical explanation. But he’d been silenced before he could pull the threads together. Whatever killed those nineteen workers at Holloway Bridge hadn’t been mere negligence. He’d known it then. He knows it now.

And apparently, Blackwood knows it too.

Alaric retrieves a battered leather suitcase from beneath his bed, layering in spare shirts, ammunition, and the small collection of custom-designed tools that had once made him the Watch’s most effective investigator. At the bottom, wrapped in oilcloth, lies the journal where he documented his suspicions about the Holloway disaster—the evidence no court would hear, the connections no official report would acknowledge.

Perhaps, after all this time, someone is finally willing to listen.

He dresses with methodical precision: high-collared shirt, charcoal waistcoat with steel reinforcement sewn between the layers (a precaution that has saved his life twice), and the long coat that conceals both his mechanical leg and the holstered revolver. The coat, once the mark of his office, is frayed at the cuffs now, the imperial insignia carefully removed from the lapel. Last comes the clockwork chronometer—his father’s—that hangs from a chain in his waistcoat pocket. The empire might have taken his career, his reputation, even his leg, but they never got the watch.

By the time he steps onto the street, the fog has retreated to wisps that curl around his ankles like supplicants. The grand clock tower at the heart of the capital strikes nine, its mechanisms visible through the translucent faceplates that have become the hallmark of imperial architecture—time itself rendered transparent, progress without secrets.

Alaric knows better.

He hails a steam-cab, a rattling, brass-trimmed contraption that belches clouds of vapor as it navigates the uneven cobblestones. The driver, a weather-beaten man with goggles pushed up on his forehead, gives him a sideways glance in the rearview mirror.

“Central Station,” Alaric says, settling into the cracked leather seat.

The driver nods. “Grand opening’s next week, eh? The Trans-whatever?”

“Trans-Etherian,” Alaric corrects automatically.

“That’s the one. Gonna change everything, they say.” The driver pulls a lever, and the cab lurches forward with a mechanical wheeze. “My cousin signed on to work the northern stretch. Good money, if you don’t mind the cold.”

“And has your cousin written lately?” Alaric watches the man’s expression in the mirror.

The driver’s eyes narrow slightly. “Matter of fact, no. Though the post up north ain’t what you’d call reliable.”

Or perhaps your cousin is among the vanished, Alaric thinks but doesn’t say. Instead, he turns his attention to the passing streets, watching as the dilapidated tenements of Ashwood give way to the gleaming facades of the merchant district, where pneumatic tubes carry messages between buildings and the sidewalks themselves move on hidden conveyor belts. The stark division between rich and poor, progress and poverty, has only widened in his absence from society.

Central Station rises at the city’s northern edge, a monumental structure of glass and iron that seems to defy gravity. Its vast dome, threaded with pulsing veins of electric light, dominates the skyline. Beneath it, a dozen platforms accommodate trains bound for every corner of the empire—but none so grand as the Trans-Etherian Line, whose dedicated terminal occupies the entire north wing.

Alaric pays the driver and steps into the station’s cavernous main hall, where iron columns soar upward like industrial trees, their branches forming elaborate support arches for the vaulted ceiling. The space bustles with travelers, porters pushing brass-wheeled carts, and vendors hawking everything from mechanical toys to miniature steam engines that children clutch as they trail behind harried parents.

He checks the massive schedule board, where brass digits click and rotate to display departure times. The noon train to Ketter’s Gate—the Commissioner’s train—will depart from Platform Seven in the north wing.

As he navigates through the crowd, Alaric feels the weight of curious glances. His coat marks him as a man of some importance, but its worn condition suggests fallen fortunes. In a society obsessed with hierarchy and station, he exists in the uncomfortable space between classes—too educated to be common, too disgraced to be respected.

Platform Seven is cordoned off by uniformed guards bearing the Rail Commission’s insignia: a winged wheel set against crossed hammers. They eye him with professional suspicion until he produces the brass cylinder, at which point their posture shifts subtly from wariness to deference.

“Inspector Voss,” one says, stepping aside. “The Commissioner is expecting you. Carriage Seven, private compartment.”

The Trans-Etherian locomotive gleams in the sunlight streaming through the station’s glass roof—a behemoth of polished brass and chrome, its massive drive wheels taller than a man. Steam hisses from release valves along its flanks, and the distinctive smell of heated metal and coal hangs in the air. Unlike the squatter, more practical engines that serve the empire’s existing lines, this one is sleek, almost predatory in its design. Something about it sets Alaric’s teeth on edge.

Carriage Seven stands apart from the others, its exterior unmarked by the usual imperial insignia. The windows are tinted an unusual smoky quartz, obscuring any view of the interior. A private security officer—not regular Rail Commission—stands at attention beside the entrance.

Alaric approaches, cylinder in hand, but the guard merely nods and steps aside without requesting identification. Expected, then. Perhaps even described.

The carriage interior is opulent beyond anything Alaric has seen in years. Plush velvet seats, mahogany paneling inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and crystal decanters of amber liquid that catch the light from brass sconces. The air smells of leather and expensive cigars. At the far end, seated behind a fold-down desk strewn with papers, is Commissioner Thaddeus Blackwood.

Time has not been kind to the Commissioner. The once-robust man whom Alaric remembers now appears hollowed out, his broad shoulders slightly stooped, his face carved with deep lines of worry. Only the famous mustache—still impeccably groomed and waxed to sharp points—remains unchanged.

“Voss.” Blackwood rises, extending a hand that Alaric reluctantly shakes. “You look… well, considering.”

“Spare me the pleasantries, Commissioner.” Alaric remains standing, declining the offered seat with a small shake of his head. “Your message mentioned vanishing freight cars.”

Blackwood sighs, lowering himself back into his chair. “Direct as ever. Very well.” He slides a thick folder across the desk. “Three separate incidents in the past month. The first, we attributed to landslide—the northern stretch passes through unstable territory. The second might have been banditry, though no bodies or wreckage were recovered.”

“And the third?”

“The third defies explanation.” Blackwood’s fingers drum against the desk, a nervous tattoo that betrays his composure. “A full freight train with seventeen crew aboard, carrying industrial equipment and raw materials for the frontier settlement. It passed Signal Point 147 on schedule… and never reached Signal Point 148. The distance between them is less than five miles of open track, with clear sightlines the entire way.”

“Weather conditions?”

“Clear. Daylight. Multiple witnesses at both signal points. The train simply… ceased to exist.”

Alaric opens the folder, scanning the first report. The details are sparse, technical—track conditions, load weights, crew manifests. Nothing to suggest what might have happened to seventeen souls and several tons of steel.

“Why me?” he asks, looking up from the papers. “You have an entire commission of inspectors who haven’t been publicly disgraced.”

Blackwood’s expression hardens. “Because you’re the only one who ever noticed the pattern. Three years ago, before Holloway, you filed a report suggesting irregularities in the initial prototype tests. Equipment failures that followed no logical sequence. Workers reporting ‘disturbances in the air’ before accidents. You were right, Voss. And I was wrong to dismiss it.”

Alaric stares at him, a cold realization settling in his gut. “You knew. Even then, you knew something wasn’t right with the project.”

“I suspected,” Blackwood corrects, looking away. “But the Trans-Etherian is more than just a railroad, Voss. It’s the future of the empire. Connecting the capital to the frontier changes everything—resources, defense, population distribution. The emperor himself staked his reputation on its completion.”

“And nineteen lives were an acceptable sacrifice.”

“No.” Blackwood’s fist comes down hard on the desk, rattling the decanters. “No life is an acceptable sacrifice. Which is why I need you now—before the official opening next week, before thousands of lives are placed at risk.”

The train whistle sounds, sharp and insistent—five minutes to departure. Outside the window, porters and technicians scurry about in last-minute preparations.

“I’m not an inspector anymore,” Alaric says, though his fingers tighten on the folder. “Your own commission made sure of that.”

“For the duration of this investigation, your rank and privileges are reinstated.” Blackwood reaches into his coat and withdraws a small leather case. Inside gleams a newly minted badge, identical to the tarnished one in Alaric’s suitcase, but untouched by disgrace or doubt. “Unofficial, of course. The Holloway verdict stands—publicly, at least.”

Alaric doesn’t take the badge. “And if I find evidence that implicates your precious Commission? Or worse, the imperial family themselves?”

Blackwood’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Then God help us all.”

The train lurches into motion, steam billowing past the windows as the mighty engine begins its journey north. Alaric feels the familiar sensation of departure—that momentary suspension between what was and what will be, between the known past and the uncertain future.

“One last question,” he says, finally taking the seat across from Blackwood. “These reports mention ‘phantom locomotives.’ What exactly am I looking for?”

Blackwood reaches for one of the crystal decanters, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into each of two glasses. He pushes one toward Alaric.

“Workers along the northern stretch have reported sightings of a train that isn’t on any schedule. They describe it as… spectral. Translucent, even. Wreathed in black smoke and emitting a light that hurts the eyes.” He tosses back his drink in one swift motion. “Several claim to have seen faces pressed against the windows—contorted, screaming. By the following morning, those workers either disappear… or are found dead beside the tracks, their eyes burned from their skulls.”

Alaric lifts his glass but doesn’t drink. “You believe in ghost stories now, Commissioner?”

“I believe in what I can measure and prove,” Blackwood replies, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “But I’ve seen the bodies, Voss. I’ve seen what remains of their eyes.” He leans forward, the light from the sconces casting dramatic shadows across his face. “There’s something on those rails that shouldn’t exist. Something we may have invited without understanding what we were dealing with. And if we don’t stop it before the grand opening…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

Outside, the capital recedes into the distance, its towers and smokestacks dwindling against the horizon. The Trans-Etherian Line stretches before them, silver rails cutting through countryside toward the distant northern frontier—and toward whatever horror awaits in the shadow of progress.

Alaric finally takes a drink, letting the burn of expensive whiskey chase away the chill that has settled in his bones. He’s chased ghosts before—the ghosts of his failures, the ghosts of those nineteen souls who still visit his dreams. But a ghost train? A phantom locomotive that devours men and machines alike?

That would be new, even for him.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the train whistle sounds again—long, mournful, almost like a cry of warning. Beside him, Blackwood flinches, ever so slightly.

“We arrive in Ketter’s Gate by morning.” The Commissioner closes the folder with a decisive snap. “The Chief Engineer’s daughter will meet you there—brilliant girl, if somewhat… difficult. Her father disappeared two weeks ago. If anyone knows where to begin, it’s her.”

Alaric nods, staring out at the passing landscape as twilight begins to gather at the edges of the world. In the darkening glass, his reflection stares back—a ghost of the man he once was, summoned from exile to chase shadows along the empire’s iron veins.

Somewhere ahead, a freight train has vanished without a trace. And in the distance, if the stories are to be believed, a phantom locomotive waits—bearing death and secrets Alaric can only begin to imagine.

The Trans-Etherian Line has beckoned. And as the capital fades into memory behind him, Alaric Voss knows with grim certainty that he is being carried toward his redemption… or his doom.