Kenyara, why are you helping us?"
Daniel Ferente's voice was hoarse, his throat still raw from dehydration. He clutched the waterskin handed to him by the wiry black man and drank greedily, the tepid liquid a relief against the dryness clawing at his throat. His two companions, white men in ragged clothes, took hurried turns drinking as well, their desperation evident. In this unforgiving land, finding water safe enough to drink was a rare blessing.
The man who had given them the water—Kenyara—was lean, his ribs faintly visible beneath his dark skin. He was in his forties, though hardship had carved deep lines into his face. His hands, deft despite their callouses, peeled an unfamiliar fruit with practiced ease.
"I was only a boy when I was sold to the manor," Kenyara admitted hesitantly, his voice low. "At first… it was hard. Old Mr. Howlett—" He hesitated, as if realizing something, then hurriedly corrected himself. "No, I don't mean to say he was bad!"
Daniel raised a hand, signaling him to calm down. His expression was understanding, his pale blue eyes steady.
Kenyara swallowed and continued, speaking in halting English. "Mr. Howlett was different. He was kind to us, kinder than most. And when young James took over… it was like waking up from a bad dream. He gave us a chance at something more."
There was an earnestness in his tone, though his vocabulary was limited. The words he did know, he clung to with conviction.
"He asked me to help you," Kenyara went on. "Told me that if I did, if I got you back safely, there'd be land waiting for me. Land I could work, land that would be mine. He said that soon, all people like me would be… would be seen as people."
Kenyara glanced up, flashing a small, uncertain smile. His white teeth gleamed against his dark skin. "I believe him."
Daniel exhaled, shaking his head as he took the fruit Kenyara offered. He bit into it, savoring the burst of cool sweetness.
"But they are your people, aren't they?" Daniel asked carefully. "This is your homeland, and yet you want to leave. You risked your life to escape with us."
Kenyara lowered his gaze. His fingers dug absently into the half-eaten fruit. "They are not my people," he said quietly.
A silence fell between them, filled only by the distant hum of the jungle.
"They call us thieves," Kenyara murmured, his voice almost lost in the night air. "Even when we look the same. Even when we share the same blood. It doesn't matter. Here, life is… hard."
He didn't say anything more, but he didn't have to. Daniel understood.
Instead, Daniel turned to his remaining companions—David and an older man, Matthew. "We're a day's journey from Mombasa," he told them. "There's a British supply port there. Once we make contact, we can arrange passage home."
David, the youngest of the group, swallowed hard. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears. "Only the four of us made it out," he whispered. "Blake… Jason… they…"
Daniel put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I know," he said. "But we survived. And once we return, James may have a way to help the others."
David sniffed, nodding. The older man remained silent, staring at the fire.
Daniel absently traced a strange, darkened symbol branded into his forearm. The markings had been there for a long time now, a constant reminder of what they had barely escaped from. He reached into his coat and touched the smooth, obsidian pendant hanging around his neck.
Somewhere out there, James Howlett was moving the pieces of a much larger game.
And Daniel could only hope they weren't already too late.
---
Steel, Fire, and Blood
A sudden sneeze broke the stillness.
James Howlett sniffed, rubbing his nose as he leaned against a coal shovel, watching the roaring flames of the steam engine's boiler. Soot clung to his clothes, but his posture was relaxed, casual—more cowboy than soldier.
"This ain't exactly your kind of place, little Jamie."
Victor Creed was shirtless, sweat glistening on his muscular frame. The fire's glow cast deep shadows over his skin, making the sharp lines of his body seem almost sculpted from stone. His hands, calloused and powerful, gripped a heavy shovel as he fed coal into the furnace.
James didn't react to the taunt. "If you used that thick skull of yours to actually learn what I teach you," he replied evenly, "you wouldn't be sweating like a pig in the sun."
Victor grunted but didn't argue. Where James remained dry and composed, barely a sheen of sweat on his brow, Victor was drenched. The difference was control—James had spent years mastering his own physiology, learning to regulate his body temperature, his heartbeat, even the flow of his blood. Victor, for all his raw power, had never bothered with such discipline.
"Don't need no fancy tricks to win a fight," Victor muttered, throwing another shovel of coal into the fire.
James smirked, fishing a cigar from his pocket. He lit it against the flames, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. "Maybe not," he mused, "but you might finally be able to beat me if you did."
Victor froze. For a moment, his grip on the shovel tightened. Then, without another word, he returned to his work.
James chuckled to himself.
They had forgone a full train crew for this mission—no conductors, no engineers. The risk of civilian casualties was too high if Adam's forces attacked. The steam locomotive was simple enough to operate with just the two of them, though it meant long, grueling shifts keeping the engine fed and the train moving.
Dawn was still hours away. By then, they'd reach the cargo depot near Gettysburg. And there, waiting in the darkness, would be their enemy.
James could feel it in his bones.
---
The Trap is Set
Miles ahead, under the cover of night, Adam watched his followers work.
Bloodied hands gripped iron tools, prying rails loose. Boulders were dragged onto the tracks, forming a crude but effective barricade. The air smelled of damp earth and something darker—something metallic.
Wadoma stepped beside him, dusting the grime from her hands. "Is it necessary to wait?" she asked.
Adam didn't answer immediately. His crimson gaze remained fixed on the tracks, his expression unreadable.
"You think a few stones can stop him?" he murmured.
Wadoma hesitated. There was something unsettling about the way he said it.
"He and his brother have killed too many of our kind," she whispered. "There has never been another like them. Never."
Adam finally turned, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. His touch was cool, almost affectionate.
"Are you forgetting?" he murmured. "For all their strength… they are still only my creations."
A distant whistle echoed through the night.
The train was coming.
Adam smiled.
And he was hungry.