“Sir, allow me to take your luggage.”
The attendant bowed slightly at the platform entrance, palm turned upward.
His bear ears gave a subtle twitch in the station’s dim light, the tips angling toward the bag in Hui’s hand.
“Alright, I’ll leave it to you.”
Hui handed the bag over.
His movements were measured, unhurried—like handing off a document.
The attendant’s knees dipped slightly the moment he took it—the bag wasn’t large, but its weight clearly exceeded his expectations.
His bear ears went rigid for a second, then quickly returned to their polite droop.
Olivia walked at the front.
The hem of her white dress brushed across the stone steps, silver frost-flowers catching the light filtering through the ticket gate.
From the waiting hall to the platform, there was a spiral iron staircase leading down.
The railing was black cast iron, embossed with the Urske double-headed eagle relief, and at every turn a claw caught the lamplight with a glint.
The moment she stepped off the spiral staircase, the platform breeze swept through her silver-white hair.
The strands drifted behind her, nearly blending into the wide hem of her white dress.
She reached down to press the wind-lifted skirt—that motion was entirely Astrid’s teaching: three fingers, knuckles slightly bent, pressing one inch above the hem.
Perfectly placed.
The platform was larger than she’d imagined.
The canopy was an arched structure of cast iron and glass, the panes filmed with grime, turning the sunlight that filtered through a hazy gray.
The tracks extended out from beneath the platform, vanishing into the pale gray fog in the distance.
People were already queuing on the platform—a few Urske nobles in dark overcoats, along with their attendants, each carrying a suitcase or clutching a document case.
The line wasn’t long.
It was quiet.
No one spoke loudly.
Urske nobles had a better grip on their public voices than some of Eldron’s loudmouthed counts by a whole tier.
The attendant didn’t lead them to the queue.
Luggage in hand, he skirted the line and walked straight toward the foremost cars of the train.
Olivia followed behind him, with Hui and Snow further back.
There was a faint murmur behind her.
She heard the quiet whispering at her back—likely a few nobles in line exchanging opinions.
This train was long.
The front alone had two engines—two steam locomotives at the very head, their smokestacks already belching pale gray steam that condensed into a thin damp mist beneath the canopy.
The body was painted dark gray iron, rivets aligned in perfect rows, each one larger than her fist.
Behind the engines weren’t passenger cars, but three armored carriages, black iron plates welded with riveted reinforcement ribs.
Each armored carriage had a turret mounted on its roof, the barrel wrapped in waterproof canvas, leaving only the dark muzzle silhouette exposed.
Should’ve known it was Urske—they put turrets on their trains.
The attendant stopped at the door of the third carriage.
Its paint was darker than the others—a deep gray close to charcoal black.
The door handle was brass, polished bright.
The windows were larger than the other carriages’, but the glass was black, impossible to see through from outside.
A brass plate on the door bore an engraved line of gold-stamped Urske script, with a smaller line in the common tongue beneath it: VIP Compartment.
The attendant pulled the door open and stepped aside.
This carriage had only two private cabins.
The corridor was carpeted in deep red, nearly silent underfoot.
The walls were paneled in dark wood, with a wall lamp every few steps—frosted glass shades, soft halos of light rippling across the wood grain like water.
There was a faint scent of pine resin in the air—not cheap air freshener, but the natural smell of the wood itself.
A door stood at the end of the corridor; the first cabin was probably behind it.
The attendant pushed open a door in the middle of the corridor and gestured with a “please, enter” motion.
The cabin was small but well-appointed.
By the window sat a small tea table, solid wood, corners trimmed with brass.
A white tablecloth was spread over it, with a slender-necked vase holding a single unknown white flower.
The window curtains were heavy deep-red velvet, drawn back with brass hooks.
The seats were leather, dark brown, the armrests worn to a sheen.
Against the corridor wall was a fold-down luggage rack, with three neatly folded blankets already placed on it.
The blankets were gray, edged with red geometric patterns.
A crystal chandelier hung at the center of the ceiling—not large, but enough to light the whole cabin.
Its brass fittings were polished to a mirror shine.
“Alright, passengers. We depart in fifteen minutes. Please remain aboard; if you need anything, feel free to call me.”
“Thank you.”
Olivia offered her thanks.
The attendant gave a slight bow and closed the cabin door.
It shut with a dull clack, sealing off every sound from the corridor.
Hui and Snow took the two seats across.
Hui by the window, Snow by the corridor.
Olivia sat alone at the other side of the tea table, facing the window.
She gathered her skirt to the side, her silver pupils fixed on Hui’s perpetually smiling face.
“Tell me, Hui.”
Her voice was kept low—not out of fear of being overheard, but to hold her emotions in check.
“Traveling under my name—couldn’t have told me beforehand?”
Hui didn’t answer right away.
He lifted a corner of the window curtain, glanced outside, then let it fall.
The mist on the platform seemed thicker now; fine beads of condensation had formed on the glass.
“Or was this deal supposed to have me haggling with those bears myself?”
“Is Hui here as a guard, or is she here as a shield? Face-to-face price haggling with Urske nobles—so who exactly is the merchant here?”
Hui turned back.
“Princess.”
“If we’re talking deals—”
“I’ll handle the negotiations. You just need to keep your eyes on the situation around you.”
The division of labor was clear—she was the status, he was the negotiator.
He’d do the talking;
She’d do the observing.
Olivia didn’t respond immediately.
She took his words apart and chewed on them.
Sounded reasonable enough.
But that assumed the person across the table was someone you could negotiate with.
And we don’t even know who we’re dealing with.
“If he’s unreliable—”
“Grand Duke Veshkov.”
A border Grand Duke.
In the Urske noble hierarchy, a Grand Duke ranked about half a step above an Eldron duke—but only half a step.
Urske’s power core sat in Froststone City, not the border.
A Grand Duke enfeoffed to the border line was most likely someone pushed out of the central power struggle.
Or, conversely, a piece stationed to guard the frontier.
Either way, a border Grand Duke wouldn’t have much standing in the imperial center.
Back in Eldron, those stationed in border territories were nobles without enough power to remain in the capital.
Urske was probably the same.
Snow reached into his waistcoat’s inner pocket and pulled out the small notebook with worn, frayed corners.
He flipped to a page and stopped, index finger pressing against the paper, sliding down line by line.
“Grand Duke Veshkov… he was military before.”
“Later promoted to Grand Duke. Not particularly famous in Urske noble circles, but not disliked either. No scandals to speak of.”
The word “promoted” came out lightly.
Olivia ran that word through her mind—military background, promoted to Grand Duke.
That usually meant one of two possibilities:
Either he was granted the title for distinguished service, or he was transferred out from some more sensitive position.
Snow hadn’t said why, so he probably hadn’t found out.
But “not disliked” was a very delicate assessment in noble politics.
Someone who wasn’t disliked was either too insignificant to warrant dislike, or too skilled at playing the game for anyone to find a reason to dislike them.
A military man who managed the latter wasn’t an ordinary person.
“So, he’s a good person to do business with.”
Hui’s summary was concise to the point of being cold.
For him, information gathering complete, risk assessment complete, feasibility confirmed, then into execution.
That was probably why he could be vice-captain.
Snow was still flipping through the notebook.
His fingertip slid down the page and stopped at another entry.
“As far as I know, this Grand Duke is hosting a banquet in two days. Anyone who has ridden on his private line is welcome to attend.”
He closed the notebook, finger wedged between the pages as a temporary bookmark.
Olivia translated that in her head.
Anyone who’s ridden this train can attend the banquet.
That meant every passenger on this train was likely a potential deal target that Grand Duke Veshkov had filtered.
Not random passengers—invited guests.
The train was a private line, tickets were limited release, minimum boarding requirement was viscount—and then, upon arrival, he’d prepared a banquet to gather all the guests together.
This wasn’t a private line.
This was a floating business salon, with a cash-back rewards program attached.
She picked up the empty teacup on the table before her and spun it between her fingers.
But she said nothing.
What’s going to happen at this Urske noble banquet?
Unknown.
But in her experience, at any multi-person social gathering, the probability of something going wrong was proportional to the headcount.
And this was Urske, where black-robed priests of the Winter Night Church walked the streets.
Hui thought for a moment, then added one more point.
“One more thing. This Grand Duke’s son, Pavlov, was just appointed by the Tsar as Central Commander.”
“So…”
“So his son will most likely be in attendance.”
Snow scribbled a few words in his notebook, the pencil scratching for two seconds before stopping.
In the imperial regular army’s structure, a group army comprised infantry, cavalry, artillery, and logistics—at minimum tens of thousands of men.
Two group armies meant over a hundred thousand.
Central Commander wasn’t a rank; it was a position.
One man controlling two group armies—that was no small office.
Olivia didn’t respond.
She pulled up the definition of Central Commander in her mind—in the Urske imperial military system, the Central Commander held mobilization authority over two group armies.
She glanced out the window.
The steam locomotive’s thick smoke drifted from the platform side, pale gray plumes churning in midair.
The turrets on the armored carriages flickered in and out of the mist, the waterproof canvas flapping in the wind, exposing a small section of blackened metal beneath the muzzle.
She wasn’t sure what kind of man Pavlov would be.
A young man just appointed Central Commander would most likely want to prove something to his father.
If his father came from a military background, then he’d probably inherited some habits of combat—good or bad.
But either way.
The banquet will tell.