"It's a great privilege to join Lady Vivian on such a crucial mission… even if it involves so many weapons," Morris said, eyes flicking nervously between the stacked rifles and polished pistols lining the carriage walls. He shifted in his seat, careful not to let his elbow brush against a trigger or bayonet. The smell of gun oil clung to the air, sharp and oily, at odds with the plush velvet seats and gilded wood panels that framed the interior.
Across from him, Vivian and the others—Logan, Voros, Oscar, and Jane—were all business. They checked weapons with the smooth, mechanical grace of people who'd done this a hundred times before. The quiet clicks of locking mechanisms and the rasp of blades sliding into sheaths filled the space. Nobody spoke. Tension hung heavy, as if even breathing too loudly might trigger something neither mechanical nor entirely rational.
