The sirens didn't wail so much as cough awake—thin, broken, like an old man's lungs.
I was in the depot workshop, elbow-deep in a cracked pump, when the first ward shattered. The sound was sharp and cold, like a wineglass screaming, and then the floor trembled. Dust fell from the rafters. My spanner rattled out of my hand and clattered to the grate.
Someone shouted above: "They're through the second ring!"
My gut tightened. The second ring wasn't supposed to fall—ever. Not without days of warning.
I forced the coupler into place, hands slick with oil, and tested the feed line. Weak stream. Useless for the base now, but maybe good enough for the engine I'd been patching. Maybe.
Another ward broke. Closer this time.
The depot doors boomed as something slammed against them. The steel groaned. Out in the distance, I could hear it—the stomping rhythm of hundreds of feet that shouldn't be running.
I grabbed my tool roll and bolted.
The depot stretched before me, a cathedral of dead machines. Locomotives lined the bays, stripped to skeletons. One stood mostly whole—a rust-red diesel, long nose, windows choked with grime. No armour. No wards. Just an empty shell of iron and wheels.
It was the only thing left between us and the grave.
"Elias!" a voice cut through the din.
I turned just as she came pounding down the catwalk. Rhea—red hair in a sweaty mess, mail torn under her leather, chest heaving. Even half-burned with soot, she radiated heat like a forge.
"They've broken the inner fence," she barked. "We've got minutes, maybe less!"
I looked past her to the train, to the rust flaking off its sides. Not ready. Not safe. But it could move. That was more than the base could do now.
"Engine first," I said, already climbing into the cab. "If it doesn't start, we die here anyway."
Another boom rattled the depot. A scream. The sound of bones breaking under teeth.
Rhea spun on her heel, her lips moving in a chant older than either of us. Heat shimmered around her, sweat dripping from her chest, leather straining against curves as the words built to a crack. She spat the last syllable—"Ignis!"—and flame bled between her fingers.
She charged the doors.
I slammed into the driver's seat, shoved aside the dust, and laid a palm on the ignition relay. The battery had long been dead, but the lines were still remembered. Spark magic fizzed up my arm like a thousand needles.
"Ferrum et vis," I muttered, keeping my voice steady. "Awaken."
The relay twitched. The engine coughed once.
The depot doors burst inward. The first of the Dead hurled itself through—pale skin, jaws snapping, eyes milked white. More slammed behind it in a tide.
"Sixty seconds!" I shouted.
The engine coughed again, deeper. Smoke spat from the exhaust. The smell of oil and old journeys filled the cab.
Rhea's fire lit the platform in orange. The Dead shrieked as flame took them, but still they pushed, stumbling through fire, climbing over each other in a wall of gnashing teeth.
I pressed harder, feeding more current through the relay. My hand shook. The panel hummed as if it were about to burst.
The locomotive roared. Not healthy, but alive.
Hope kicked my chest—then froze when the side window darkened. A face slammed against the glass, skin grey, mouth working in a chewing rhythm that turned my stomach. Nails scraped down the pane. Behind it, more bodies piled, their mouths opening in that awful, hungry chorus.
I gritted my teeth and shoved the throttle forward. The wheels jerked, squealed, then settled into a grinding roll.
We were moving.
"Boarding!" Rhea's voice thundered over the chaos.
From the catwalk above, other witches were already rushing in, their voices carrying incantations I half-recognised. Light flared. Shadows warped. The smell of smoke and blood thickened.
The whole depot trembled with screams.
And then I heard Rhea again, closer now, fire licking her arms like a second skin.
"Elias!" she roared, eyes blazing. "We're not getting another chance—get this thing onto the rails!"
The Dead slammed into the cab again, glass bowing, teeth gnashing.
I clenched the throttle tighter. The Witch's Locomotive had woken. Now we had to see if it could run.