Chapter 17 - The Warrant of IronThe air in the grand hallway turned ice-cold.
Evangeline instinctively stepped in front of Julian, her hands clenching into fists against her blue wool dress. Her newly healed legs stood firm and immovable against the hardwood floor.
"Touch him," Evangeline called down, her voice ringing clear and fierce across the high ceiling, "and my father will have the railway guards tear your college down brick by brick."
Thorne chuckled dryly, pulling a thick parchment scroll from his inner coat pocket. It bore the dark red wax seal of the High Provincial Court.
"Your father’s trains run on iron, little girl, but the law runs on ink," Thorne said, holding out the scroll. "This is an arrest warrant issued by the Chief Justice. The boy is charged with unlicensed practice of medicine, witchcraft under the municipal code, and the theft of medical secrets. He leaves with us today, or Lord Vance will be stripped of his corporate charter before nightfall."
Julian felt the old, cold fear prickling at the back of his neck.
He looked down at the parchment scroll, then at the iron-strapped leather cases carried by Thorne's guards. He knew what was inside those cases. He had heard the street stories under the Blackwood Bridge—stories of the Guild's secret basement laboratories, where unwanted orphans and vagrants were tied to steel tables, their blood drained into glass vials to fuel expensive elixirs for dying aristocrats.
“They will put you in a cage and drain you until you're dust,” his grandmother’s warning echoed once more.
Arthur Vance looked at the warrant. The iron lord did not flinch. He did not yield a single inch. Slowly, deliberately, Arthur reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a small, silver whistle.
He blew a sharp, silent blast.
Within three seconds, the heavy velvet drapes along the hallway collapsed. Ten heavy-set men in dark navy coats—Arthur's private railway security force, armed with heavy brass truncheons and repeating carbines—stepped out from the shadows of the gallery, surrounding Thorne and his guards.
"Your paper means nothing in this house, Thorne," Arthur said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying rumble. "This estate is registered as a private railway depot under imperial charter. The provincial court has no jurisdiction here."
Thorne’s smile vanished. His yellowed skin turned pale as he looked around at the ten armed railway guards pointing carbines at his chest.
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"You are declaring war on the medical establishment, Vance," Thorne hissed, his knuckles turning white around his cane.
"No," Arthur corrected, stepping forward until his broad chest nearly touched Thorne’s nose. "I am declaring that this boy is my son. And anyone who tries to take my son leaves this property in a wooden box."
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