Chapter Four: The Last Winter of the Heath
The wind shrieked through the heath like a thing in pain.
It tore at the gorse and bracken, raked frozen claws across the riverbanks, and whistled its way into burrows and dens where even the deepest tunnels could not keep it out. The Great Oak, gnarled and old as time, groaned beneath the weight of ice. Its ancient branches stood bare against the colorless sky, black veins in a corpse-gray world.
Beneath its roots, Evoker Kalo huddled in his burrow, listening to the wind howl.
He had been hungry before. He had never been starving.
His shelves, once stacked with dried mushrooms, sweet roots, and berries from the autumn haul, now held only dust and regret. The last of his potatoes—shriveled, soft with rot—had gone into a stew the week prior, more water than meal. His vegetable patch, once the pride of his careful hand, lay dead beneath a sheet of frost that even his magic could not break.
Magic.
He should have seen the signs. It had faltered all season. Spells that once flowed through him like water now sputtered like dying embers. His fingers trembled when he reached for power. The warmth that once flooded his chest when he worked small magics—coaxing the soil to yield, whispering to the river to bring fish—had grown cold.
Something was wrong with the heath.
And he was not the only one suffering.
Luken Otterpaw and the Frozen Bend
Across the heath, where the river bent like a crook-fingered hand, Luken Otterpaw lay curled in his warren beneath the fallen willow.
The water had always been his friend. It had brought him fish, frogs, fresh reeds for his bedding. Now it stood locked in ice, its surface cracked and jagged like shattered glass. The chill in his bones never left him, even wrapped in the last of his hoarded blankets, even with the fire burning low at his side.
His stores were nearly gone.
He had rationed. He had gone without supper. He had chewed on bark when the hunger grew too sharp. Still, his belly ached, and when he caught sight of his own reflection in a patch of thawed ice, a thin, hollow-eyed stranger stared back.
And the others—**the rabbits, the voles, the hedgehogs and hares—**they were worse off.
Some had already gone. Some had simply vanished into the blizzard one night and never returned.
The heath was dying.
The Wizards’ Arrival
The storm broke on the first day of spring, but the warmth did not come.
Instead, on the open stretch of the heath, three figures stood where nothing had stood the day before.
They were clad in blue, their robes untouched by dirt or weather. The eldest’s beard shimmered like frost, his eyes pale as winter’s breath. The second was tall and thin, his fingers restless, turning over a silver quill as though already writing names. The third, a woman cloaked in azure and gold, smiled the way only a cat smiles before the kill.
Before them stood a simple wooden table.
Upon it—contracts.
When the first of the heath dwellers stumbled forth, drawn by desperation, the wizards greeted them warmly. Their voices were soft, like gentle snowfall.
"Sign, and be saved."
"Sign, and be fed."
"Sign, and the heath will be yours again."
And so they did. One by one, hunger-weakened paws clutched quills, and names were written in shaking hands.
They never read the fine print.
The Mark of the X
By the time Kalo and Luken arrived, it was too late.
The wizards’ presence was already a whisper in the heath, a silent thread weaving through hollow burrows and empty dens. The promise of warmth, of full bellies, of life beyond the cruel winter—it had spread like wildfire.
Neither of them hesitated.
Kalo’s hands, thin but steady, took the quill first. The tip hovered over the parchment, his heart hammering in his chest. He knew, deep down, this was wrong.
But the heath needed him. And he could not help it if he was dead.
So he pressed the quill to the paper, scrawled an X.
Luken followed.
They looked at each other. They would endure. They would protect their own. They would fight.
The contract vanished in a burst of blue fire.
And the sky—the sky cracked.
A wall of shimmering force rose at the heath’s border, stretching from the river to the deep woods, from the marsh to the hills. A cage of glass and storm, humming with the weight of magic.
And then, from the bracken, the woods, the hunters emerged.
Not in a charge, not in a frenzy—but like a tide.
Dark figures, draped in leather and bone, stepping with slow, measured certainty. Their knives gleamed in the last of the daylight. Their bows were already drawn.
The hunt had begun.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 4: First Breath of Fire
The night was thick with fog as the great barn doors groaned open, revealing the dark, mist-laden tracks beyond. The scent of damp earth mixed with coal smoke, swirling through the workshop like a living thing. The Puffing Dragon loomed in the flickering torchlight, its green hull gleaming, steam curling from its undercarriage like breath from a slumbering beast.
The Blue Wizard stood at the threshold, his sapphire robes catching the light of the lanterns. His eyes shimmered with anticipation, his fingers twitching at his sides as he felt the pulse of magic humming through the engine’s frame. This was not just a machine—it was a vessel of power, a fusion of metal and sorcery, a thing of purpose. But what that purpose would be… remained to be seen.
Grix, standing beside him, cracked his knuckles and shot the wizard a sharp-toothed grin. "So, we taking this beast for a ride, or just standing here admiring it?"
The wizard didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stepped forward, resting a hand against the cool metal of the train’s side. Beneath his palm, he could feel the energy thrumming within, waiting to be unleashed. "All is in place?" he asked without turning.
"Aye," Grix said. "Boiler’s hot, pressure’s stable, and the tracks are clear. Our little helpers loaded her up with enough coal to get her moving." He motioned to the brownies, who had finished their work and now stood gathered near the walls, watching with wide, soot-streaked faces. Their job was done; now came the moment of truth.
The Blue Wizard stepped up onto the footplate, the steel warm beneath his boots. The cab was spacious, with brass levers and polished gauges that ticked softly in the quiet. A single iron lever jutted from the side, engraved with ancient runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light. This was no ordinary throttle—it was the key to unlocking the true nature of the Puffing Dragon.
Grix climbed up beside him, rubbing his hands together. "Shall we?"
The Wizard exhaled, then grasped the lever with both hands. The runes flared at his touch, bright blue light dancing along their edges. He spoke a single word, an incantation that sent a ripple of energy through the train’s body.
The effect was immediate.
The boiler roared to life, a deep, guttural sound that echoed through the barn. The pressure gauge flickered wildly before stabilizing, the needle hovering just below the red zone. Steam gushed from the side vents, curling in thick, ghostly tendrils. The wheels groaned, metal straining against inertia.
Then—movement.
A jolt ran through the cabin as the Puffing Dragon lurched forward, its wheels rolling over the tracks with a deep, resonant clank-clank-clank. It was slow at first, the massive engine dragging itself free of its resting place like an ancient creature waking from centuries of slumber. But as he adjusted the throttle, the train’s momentum built.
The barn fell away behind them as the Puffing Dragon surged onto the open tracks, its dark green hull gleaming under the moonlight. Smoke billowed from its stack, thick and black, blending with the night sky. The engine let out a deep, thunderous chuff, and the whistle shrieked into the darkness like the cry of a dragon unleashed.
The Blue Wizard grinned, a rare, almost feral expression. "Perfect."
Grix cackled, slapping the control panel. "She’s a beauty, alright!"
The train gathered speed, its wheels a blur of motion as it thundered down the track. The countryside rushed past in streaks of silver and shadow, the land itself seeming to bow before the power of the engine. Trees trembled as it passed, the wind rushing in its wake.
But this was more than a simple test run. He had not built the Puffing Dragon for mere transportation. No, this train had a far greater purpose—one that was not yet fully understood. He could feel the arcane forces bound within its steel and brass, the raw energy that surged through every pipe and piston. The spells woven into its frame were ancient and potent, drawn from forgotten texts and whispered incantations.
Would it be a force of industry, carrying goods and people across vast distances, reshaping trade and travel? Would it carve through mountains, lay tracks where none had dared go before, opening new paths to the unknown? Or would it become something else entirely—something more dangerous, more unpredictable?
That was the question no one had yet answered.
A flicker of movement caught his eye—a shadow on the ridgeline to the east, just beyond the tree line. The Blue Wizard narrowed his gaze. They were being watched.
Grix must have noticed too, because he muttered, "Looks like we got company."
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for a lever marked with a single glowing rune—a rune of awakening, of full power. If those in the shadows wished to witness the birth of the Puffing Dragon, then they would see it in all its might.
With a single motion, he pulled the lever.
The train howled.
Flames burst from the smokestack, licking at the night sky. The engine roared forward, its speed doubling, the very air vibrating with its fury. Sparks flew from the wheels as magic coursed through its veins, turning iron and coal into something more, something alive.
The wizards eyes burned with the reflection of fire. "Now," he whispered, "let’s see where the rails take us."
As the Puffing Dragon tore through the darkness, the shadows on the ridgeline began to move.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
