Fausta Markovic's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Fausta stood on the platform and watched the Vandenberg crew search the same three flatcars for the fourth time. The tungsten steel was gone — two tons of it, vanished sometime between midnight and dawn. The railroad company had already sent word up the line: no trains move until someone pays or someone hangs. That meant Nilhark would starve before winter if this didn't get solved. She'd spent five years trying to make this place safe, and now it might die over someone else's theft. She walked the platform's edge, boots ringing on metal scaffolding, and studied the station yard. The crane sat idle, its massive electromagnet dangling useless above empty rails. No scorch marks. No broken locks. Someone had known exactly when the guards changed shifts. She stopped at the arch where the train waited, blocky and still under the white lights. The Vandenbergs would pull their garrison if this went unsolved — they'd said as much when they refused her before. But if she found the steel first, brought it back herself, they'd owe her. Not money. Something better. A trainer for the militia. A reason to keep Nilhark on their maps. She turned toward the guard house, already calculating who would talk and what it would cost. The garrison door opened before she reached it. A Vandenberg officer stepped out, face hard as the steel walls behind him. He told her to stay out of it. Company business, company justice. She met his eyes and didn't move. He could lock her out or let her help — either way, she'd find that steel. Because Nilhark's problems were always Nilhark's problems, and she'd stopped waiting for anyone else to solve them. He stared at her for three long breaths, then stepped aside. She walked past him into the cold metal building, already forming questions. Inside, three guards sat around a table covered in manifests and route maps. One pointed to a chart showing the crane operator's log — the electromagnet had been activated twice during the night shift, not once as reported. Fausta leaned over the table and traced the timeline with her finger. The theft wasn't outside work. It was inside. She looked up at the officer who'd let her in and saw him already reaching for his radio. This changed everything. The Vandenbergs would want this quiet now, contained before word spread that their own people were selling their cargo. That gave her leverage. She straightened and named her price: a professional trainer for Nilhark's militia, stationed for two years minimum. The officer's jaw tightened, but he didn't say no. He told her to find proof first. She was already halfway to the door.