Ashes of the Elite-Chapter 56: The Station

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The white light vanishes in an instant, leaving a heavy pull in my gut. Vertigo sways the world around me, but this time I manage to grind my teeth and ride through it, only a grimace betraying the nausea clawing at my stomach. Awakened Kennet is already smirking at me when I steady myself, like she was waiting to see if I'd embarrass myself again.

"We're at the train station in Lusa," she says, that mocking lilt still in her voice. "All the first-year academy-bound students gather here. We saved you the scenic route."

I barely register her words at first because the sight before me steals the air from my lungs. I've never seen a train except in the books Cain forced me to read. Now, I'm standing toes away from one of those iron monsters. Each engine is a black behemoth longer than any street, as tall as two houses stacked atop one another. Steam erupts from their chimneys in ragged breaths, veiling the tracks in shifting white, while iron wheels bigger than carriages gleam in the winter sunlight. Massive, ribbed carriages stretch behind them, dozens in a row painted black.

For a moment, I just stare. There are dozens of them on the tracks, each wider than a farmhouse and packed with people. I can feel the vibration of their weight through the stone platform. Porters stagger as they haul crates the size of livestock cages. It's chaos, but ordered chaos, every traveler and worker moving with purpose through a maze of arches and overpasses.

I drag my eyes across the platform, taking it all in. This is no boring outpost; this is the capital. This is Lusa's station, and it is a beast. Polished pale stone sprawls beneath my boots, slick with melting snow and crisscrossed by iron rails. Arched glass ceilings yawn overhead, filigreed with frost, letting in watery winter light. The air smells of engine smoke, wet wool, and roasted nuts from some distant vendor. I recognize the looks we get: fearful glances and mothers steering their children away from us. I suppose two people materializing in front of them isn't a regular morning occurrence.

Tracks weave and cross and branch like veins in a body, forming an entire network sprawling out across the station and beyond that, across the continent. Raised platforms, twisting signal towers, and fortified checkpoints will dot the landscape. Soldiers and engineers will move among them, shouting orders, checking manifests, and maintaining the trains like priests tending sacred beasts.

I realize, in a sudden jolt of understanding, that this isn't just transportation. It's the Empire's bloodline.

This is how the King moves his armies. This is how he crushes rebellions before they can crawl out of the dirt. How he can wage war across a thousand miles of snow, mountain, and forest without breaking a sweat. His architects and Elites carved this system out of the earth, and in doing so, stitched nations together with steel and smoke and blood. These trains make the whole continent small enough for him to hold in one fist.

Kennet follows my gaze, then gestures down the length of the platform toward a sturdy, official-looking building. "See that building at the end there?" she asks with a bored tone. I follow her pointing and spot a sturdy, thick-walled structure, dark stone and metal reinforced. Crown flags flutter from its roof. "That's where you need to go. Crown-run office. Elites and Inquisitors will be waiting inside to herd you all together."

The way she says "herd" makes me want to punch her. Hard.

"They'll bring all the new Elites to the academy at the same time, nice and neat." She says, some predatory satisfaction flickering in her eyes. Then, with a lazy salute, she chuckles, "Good luck, darling." You'll need it."

Before I can even spit out a retort, she vanishes again in a flash of blinding white. I'm left alone on the platform seething at her audacity.

I clench my fists, stuffing the hate back down into the pit it's been growing in. I set off toward the Crown building, boots crunching against the frost-laced stone, the weight of too many eyes burning into my back. The voices in my skull hum low, pleased at my anger, murmuring that patience is the first step to conquest.

I start walking.

The crowd parts around me without thinking. Maybe it's the way I move, shoulders squared, every step deliberate. Maybe it's the look in my eyes. Either way, people make space, and I don't hesitate to cut straight through their little circles of safety. Their fear is obvious; I taste it in the way conversations falter and parents grip their children's hands a little tighter when I pass.

It should make me feel something—guilt, maybe, or shame the way I once might have flinched under all those watching, fearing eyes.

Now there's only a savage satisfaction behind the mask I wear. I let my face settle into something cold, distant, something that doesn't invite questions or kindness. Arrogance comes easy now, like armor sliding into place. If they want to see a monster, I'll let them. It's easier if they look at me in terror. Easier to forget the ache of missing faces and old laughter.

I scan the crowd for threats, for trouble, but mostly I see weakness. All these people enjoying their lives, rushing to catch trains, sharing pastries, huddling against the cold. A cruel part of me wonders what point their lives have. What do they contribute to the world? The voices in my head savor these thoughts, nudging me gently, whispering, They don't matter. None of them matter. They'll kneel one day. 

As I press through the crowds, something catches my eye. A little commotion, a knot of station guards struggling to lift a crate that's toppled off a handcart. The thing isn't even that large, but the three men have already started shouting at each other. One blames the other for pushing too fast; another just whines about his back, and a fourth, a pale, soft-looking clerk, hovers at the edge wringing his hands uselessly, waiting for help instead of offering any. They fumble. They bark at each other. No one steps forward to take control.

Pathetic.

None of them make a decision; none of them seize the moment and act. Over something so simple as well, they are incapable. Their helplessness is a stain that spreads, drawing frustrated glances from bystanders who mutter but don't offer help, either. The moment stretches, awkward, until finally a porter, a giant of a boy from a passing train, sidesteps the whole mess, grabs the crate alone, and heaves it up onto the cart with one motion. All the detriment in this world stems from a lack of individual ability. If you can't act, if you can't adapt, you're dead weight, a burden on everyone else. That's what I've learned over the weeks with my Royal trainers. I used to pity people like this, such as the shine addicts in the outskirts, but pity, I know, is just another kind of weakness. I keep walking, face blank and eyes cold, and tell myself I'll never be like them ever again.

I fix my gaze on the building ahead, the one Kennet pointed out, and crack my neck. I can already see the guards posted outside, stiff-backed and armed, scanning the crowd.

They're expecting students. They're expecting the next generation of loyal Elites.

They have no idea that the thing walking toward them isn't loyal to anything but himself.