Flint led the Eastern Alliance cavalry in a full-throated charge, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Break their lines! Keep them off the Hammer!"
The mounted warriors surged forward, longshooters cracking as they loosed shots at the Crimson Legion. The Legion's soldiers, better armed and better trained than common raiders, reacted quickly. The sharp rattle of repeaters erupted from their lines, sending bursts of lead into the oncoming cavalry. Eastern riders were ripped from their saddles mid-gallop, their bodies tumbling through the dirt, but the charge did not falter.
Through the thick of the battle, Flint wheeled his horse around and rode for the heart of the Alliance's war machines, where Jasper commanded the Hammer.
The massive railway cannon groaned as it was pulled into position, the bulls straining against the weight. It was an ungainly beast of a weapon, its long barrel extending over a reinforced frame mounted on colossal wheels. It bore none of the Once-World's old elegance—no sleek, factory-polished finish, no powered rail system to guide it. But it did not need those things. It needed only to fire.
Jasper, standing atop the armored chassis, meekly orders the crew as they load another shell. The Hammer's design had come from old schematics left behind by Gemma—one of the last great Knower and engineers of the Eastern Alliance, the legendary Tinkerer. In the Once-World, weapons like it had been mounted on vast, thundering trains that could fire across entire battlefields. The Easterners had no such luxury. So they had repurposed it—dragging it across the wastes with brute strength alone, its barrel still capable of spewing fire and ruin.
Flint rode up alongside her, his horse snorting and stamping as he pulled it to a stop. "Jasper! Focus fire on the machines!"
Jasper, startled by the arrival of Flint, nervously answers. "Y…Yes sir!"
The Hammer's barrel lowered, its sights trained on the rusted horde still encircling the remaining slaves. The crew worked quickly, shoving another massive shell into the chamber. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and sweat.
Then—
A deafening boom.
The Hammer fired, the force of the shot shaking the earth. The high-explosive shell streaked across the battlefield, slamming into the heart of the machine horde. The explosion sent metal limbs and shattered plating flying in all directions. A massive crater yawned where the automatons had once stood, clearing a path for the surviving slaves.
On the high perch of his mobile tower, the Consul's expression twisted into one of sheer panic. He knew that weapon. He had seen it in the old records, in the texts of the Once-World.
"A railway cannon," he murmured, his voice trembling. "One of ours… from before the Collapse..."
His hands tightened on the armrests of his throne.
"Destroy it!" he roared. "All forces, engage the Easterners! Bring that thing down!"
The Crimson Legion shifted their focus, turning their repeaters on the advancing cavalry. Gunfire cracked in quick succession, cutting down more riders. But the Easterners did not slow. Those who remained in the saddle fired their longshooters back, their precision honed by years of war.
Bodies fell on both sides. The battlefield dissolved into chaos.
As the cavalry reached the enemy lines, they abandoned their horses, drawing swords, axes, and spears. The Legion's soldiers, trained to fight in formation, met them head-on, their own melee weapons flashing in the dim light.
The clash of steel rang out as the battle became brutal, close-quarters combat. Easterners and Legion soldiers alike roared battle cries, hacking and stabbing, trampling the fallen beneath their boots.
Amidst the carnage, Jasper barked new orders, loading the Hammer for another shot. She would keep firing until there was nothing left to fire at.
Backed at the battlefield, the remaining slaves can sense that the tide has turned.
Snow saw her opening.
With the Legion distracted, she turned to the others. "This is our chance. Get in there and hit them while they're split!"
Rook, still breathing heavily from the fight, narrowed his eyes. "And what about you?"
"I'm going after Rain."
Rook hesitated. Snow was already gripping her longshooter, her expression unreadable. He sighed. "Try not to die."
Snow didn't reply. She was already moving.
She weaved through the chaos, ducking beneath a swinging axe, stepping over the broken bodies of Legion soldiers and Easterners alike. Smoke choked the battlefield, the scent of burning gunpowder thick in her nose.
At the far end of the conflict, she spotted her target.
Rain.
The girl was struggling, her wrists still bound by chains, dragged toward the rear of the mobile tower by one of the Consul's guards—a brute of a man clad in scavenged armor, an axe made from an old saw blade strapped to his back.
Snow raised her longshooter, her breath steady.
One shot.
The crack of gunfire cut through the air. The bullet hit its mark, slamming into the guard's shoulder. He staggered with a grunt of pain, releasing Rain's chain.
Snow stepped forward.
The guard turned to face her, his expression dark with rage. He wrenched the axe free and took a step toward her.
Snow, in response, reached for her knife.
For a brief moment, the battlefield around them faded into the background—the war, the machines, the cannon fire.
There were only two of them.
And only one would walk away.
————————————————————————————————————————————
The Consul's guard was not just some brute in scavenged armor—he moved with the efficiency of a trained killer. His saw-blade axe might have been unwieldy in another man's hands, but in his, it was an extension of his own body, swinging with terrible precision.
Snow darted in, her knife flashing in the dim light, but each strike was met with the shriek of metal as he parried, deflecting her attacks and countering with brutal swings that forced her back. His reach was greater, his stance disciplined. Every time she tried to close in, he shoved her away with a sharp thrust of his shoulder or a sweeping kick, keeping her at bay before following up with wide, bone-splitting arcs of his axe.
Snow barely dodged one such strike, the saw teeth of the blade passing inches from her face. She hit the ground in a roll, coming up with her longshooter in hand. A quick breath, a steady aim—she pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out, but the guard moved faster than she expected. With a sharp twist of his arms, he swung his axe into the bullet's path, and the shot ricocheted away harmlessly. Before Snow could fire again, he rushed her, closing the gap with terrifying speed.
Snow threw herself aside, but he was already swinging downward, the jagged edge of his weapon cutting through the air. There was no time to raise her knife, no time to shoot.
Then a dull *crack* rang out.
The Consul's guard staggered, a snarl of surprise leaving his lips. He turned his head slightly, blinking in disbelief.
Rain stood behind him, fists clenched, her chest rising and falling in quick, panicked breaths. In her hands, she still held the rock she had just hurled at his head.
"You—" he began, but Snow didn't let him finish.
The longshooter came up again, the barrel leveled with his chest. This time, she didn't hesitate.
The shot punched through armor, through flesh, embedding itself deep in his ribs. He gasped, his body jerking violently. Blood bubbled from his lips as he staggered back, trying to steady himself. His fingers flexed around the handle of his axe, as if he still believed he could swing it one last time.
Then he collapsed.
Snow exhaled, lowering her longshooter. She stepped forward, placing a boot on the man's chest and wrenching her bullet free before turning to Rain.
"Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice softer than before.
Rain shook her head, eyes wet with relief.
Snow knelt beside her, bringing up her longshooter again. Two precise shots shattered the chains binding Rain's wrists and ankles. As the metal links fell away, Rain barely had time to rub the soreness from her wrists before Snow pulled her into a fierce embrace.
Rain clung to her, burying her face in Snow's shoulder. "I knew you'd come for me," she murmured.
"Always," Snow replied, her fingers tightening around Rain's back. Then, after a pause, she added, "Though you did take your time throwing that rock."
Rain laughed, and before Snow could say another word, she pressed their lips together. Snow melted into the kiss, letting herself forget, just for a moment, the war raging around them.
But of course, the moment couldn't last.
"Really?"
Snow broke the kiss with an irritated sigh, turning to glare at Rook, who stood a few feet away, arms crossed.
"You could have waited," she snapped.
"I could have," Rook admitted. "But then again, we could also be getting out of here before more of them show up."
Rain chuckled, pressing one last peck to Snow's lips before standing. "He's got a point."
Snow grumbled under her breath but helped Rain to her feet. The three of them picked their way back through the battlefield, fighting their way through the chaos. The Crimson Legion and the Eastern Alliance were still locked in brutal combat, though the tide had clearly shifted. The Legion's ranks were breaking.
At last, they reached Flint, who was rallying his warriors for the final push.
He glanced at Rook first. "You fight well," he said.
Rook nodded. "And you know how to make an entrance."
"Flint," Rain said, stepping forward. "Thank you. If you hadn't come…"
Flint waved a hand dismissively. "We had our reasons," he said. "The Eastern Alliance needed to test the Hammer. And we've had our eyes on the Crimson Legion for a while now."
Snow frowned as Rain and Flint continued talking. She didn't like how close they were standing. How friendly Rain was being.
"So," Snow interrupted, folding her arms, "why are you here? The Eastern Alliance never cared about the Darklands before."
Flint, catching on to her tone, glanced at Rook, who only smirked knowingly.
"Trade," Flint answered smoothly. "We've realized the North isn't as dead as we thought. If there are people living here, there are things worth trading for."
"But the Legion?" Rook asked.
Flint's expression darkened. "When we heard they were heading toward Paradise, I personally convinced the Alliance to intervene. We couldn't let them take whatever was there for themselves."
At the mention of Paradise, Snow and Rain exchanged a glance.
They had wasted too much time already.
The battle was finally coming to an end. The Crimson Legion, leaderless and outnumbered, had begun surrendering. The Easterners moved through the field, gathering survivors, tending to the wounded, securing prisoners.
Snow and Rain approached one of the captured Legion soldiers.
"The Consul," Snow demanded. "Where is he?"
The soldier sneered. "Ran."
Snow stiffened. "Where?"
The soldier chuckled darkly. "Paradise. He's going to claim it for himself."
Snow turned away, jaw clenched. The Consul was ahead of them.
They had no time to waste.
They bid their farewells—Flint, Rook, even Jasper and Bricks. Snow gave Rook a firm nod. He had been an ally. Maybe even a friend.
Then she whistled.
From the distant hills, a shadow stirred. A streak of white and silver raced toward them, hooves pounding against the dirt.
Shimmer.
The horse had stayed close, watching, waiting. And now, as Snow reached out, Shimmer slowed to a halt beside her, nuzzling her shoulder.
Snow climbed into the saddle, then reached down to pull Rain up behind her.
Rain wrapped her arms around Snow's waist, resting her chin against her shoulder.
With one last glance at the battlefield, Snow clicked her tongue.
Shimmer reared up, then shot forward, hooves tearing into the ground as they sped toward the horizon.
Toward Paradise.