Iglika: But it was still just a dream.
Iglika: Peace talks? So, we're just giving up!?
She'd grown to despise the general's ever-kindly smile.
General Spase: Iglika, this is the best outcome ... We need to look towards an acceptable compromise.
Iglika: Compromise? "Freedom for our homeland"—wasn't that the entire point of this damned war?
General Spase: We haven't abandoned our goals. We've been promised greater autonomy.
Iglika: In word only.
General Spase: This has always been the work of generations.
General Spase: We've bled long enough. We'll sign the treaty, but our fight will go on.
Iglika: In the empty promises of old men—what became of those condemned arcanists, General?
General Spase: Mind your words. Their files are in the archives. If you cared, you could have checked.
The general's sharp reply chokes her. Spiteful words hang on her tongue.
Iglika: I won't agree—and neither will my troops.
General Spase: The folly of youth. I had hoped giving you that command would teach you responsibility.
His acrid words form a crack in his facade of kindness. But Iglika doesn't flinch. She leans in close.
Iglika: We're already rebels, General.
With that, she turns, offering no salute, leaving the loathsome place behind her.
Shepherd: C-Captain ...
Shepherd bursts into Iglika's office, clutching a stack of letters.
Iglika: Any replies?
She snatches the bundle, tearing them open one by one.
With each, her face darkens further. In the end, only a few remain on the desk—the rest she burns to ash at her fingertips.
Iglika: We've lingered on this border too long.
Iglika: I'm not one for bargaining or kissing rings; I thought we were better than this ...
Iglika slumps back, rubbing her forehead.
Iglika: They've already divided Oreinósia among themselves.
Shepherd: So now what do we do?
She leans back, the front legs of her chair tipping up. In the cracking sway, she feels as if she's walking a tightrope.
Iglika: There are still a few we can trust. Get these letters out.
She points to the last few letters she has to send.
Iglika: Then ... I'll call a rally.
Iglika: Go.
Shepherd: Yes, Captain.
As he turns to leave, a soldier delivers another envelope.
Shepherd: Looks like there's one more.
Iglika: Leave it there.
Shepherd: Ah.
He sets it on Iglika's desk and leaves.
Iglika: ...
She eyes the letter with suspicion—she thought she'd already received them all.
Iglika: Who could this one be from?
But staring is useless. Iglika lifts the envelope from the desk and slices it open.
Iglika: ...
Run
Iglika: ...
Iglika: Aghh!
Flames roar in her ears. Her body feels nothing but numbness.
Iglika: No ...
She tries to lift herself up, only to realize one of her arms is not there.
Iglika: **** ...
Through searing pain, she crawls through the fire, finds her severed limb, and stitches it back on.
Iglika: Naive ...
Iglika: In methods and in ideals ... you are far too naive ...
She wipes blood from her face, feeling torn flesh under her fingers.
Stitch by stitch, she repairs her body.
Just as she once gathered back her scattered comrades, one by one.
Iglika: You think killing me will stop someone from rising to rip off that mask ...
Iglika: You think killing one will silence the rest ...
Iglika: You chose wrong ... fire ...
Iglika: Fire can't kill me.
Three years later
A train cuts through rolling fields of white snow. Inside, it is warm and bright.
Corvus presses her hand to the windowpane, feeling the cold beyond. Across from her sits the train's conductor, his chest festooned with medals.
Conductor: Madam, I do believe I know the truth.
Conductor: You survived that blast, living in hiding under a pseudonym—"Corvus."
He closes a thick dossier, letting it fall with weight onto the table.
The dossier lands with a heavy thud.
Corvus: Yes. You're right.
Corvus glances at him, then resumes her stitching.
Conductor: I must inform you then, in light of this revelation, I will have no choice but to turn you and those refugees over to the authorities.
Conductor: And naturally, the one who sponsored your employment at Vienna-Pannonian Railways in the first place.
Corvus: Is that the company's position?
Conductor: The company? They don't know yet.
He rises, silver medals gleaming in the candlelight.
Corvus: Did you earn those? Or is that the going rate for betraying defenseless people?
Conductor: I couldn't care less about them. You're the main prize.
He orders the guards while heading for the door.
But Corvus's voice halts him.
Corvus: Conductor, do you know where this train is headed?
Corvus bites off her final thread, her embroidery complete.
The conductor looks at her, puzzled. The red symbol on her cloth strikes him with dread.
Corvus: Me and my people will not be handed over.
The guards at the door turn. He sees the same symbol stitched inside their collars.
Conductor: You ...!
Before he can act, he catches a glimpse through the doorway: a row of attendants, all bearing the same mark, standing ready.
Corvus steps to the rear window. The horizon glows pale with a new dawn.
Corvus: No matter how many times it falls, the sun will rise again.
Corvus: Nusha. I promise you, I will stitch this land back together.
