《Gearpunk》 Chapter 0: Gearpunk ...~Five years prior to Chapter 1 Michael Tick, tock, the hammers fall, Turn the gears, obey the call. Thirteen hands to guide the way, Thirteen hearts to make them stay. Tick, tock, the city groans, Steel and stone, it bleeds and moans. Yerro sleeps beneath the street, Pray he never lifts his feet. Tick, tock, the King decrees, Bow your head and bend your knees. For when the colossus wakes to roam, He¡¯ll leave no heart nor home. The great banquet hall of the Primarian Royale pulsed with life, its massive gears clicking and clanking as if the entire structure was caught in the throes of some great mechanical heartbeat. The room itself was a marvel¡ªan intricate display of brass and iron fashioned into a giant cuckoo clock, its grand arches adorned with rotating cogs and massive pendulums swinging in perfect rhythm. Pipes ran along the ceiling, hissing bursts of steam that reflected the flickering flames of gas-fed chandeliers, giving the hall an almost living quality¡ªan ancient beast unwilling to surrender to time. This was Quadrant Zero, the unmoving center of New Dwarden. But the banquet hall itself defied that rule. Like the city it governed, it moved¡ªa marvel of engineering straddling the border between Quadrants One and Two, allowing both districts to revel in the grand festivities. Enormous rotating platforms shifted seamlessly, entire sections of the hall twisting and reconfiguring so the people of New Dwarden could witness the ceremony from the city streets below. The banners of all thirteen Quadrants hung proudly from the steel rafters¡ªvibrant, defiant, and representing every faction of the ever-turning city. The air hummed with energy, thick with the scent of charred meats and aged whiskey. Outside, the city exploded in cheers. Fireworks burst in the sky, the booming voices of Quadrant One¡¯s industrial workers clashing with the haunting chorus of Quadrant Two¡¯s entertainment district. Above it all, the wind howled through the towering buildings, sending a deep, resonant hum across the Quadrants. The Seraphim¡¯s Chime. The city¡¯s flute-shaped skyscrapers were no mere ornamentation¡ªthey were instruments, built so that when the winds of the heavens passed through, they would sing. And tonight, they sang for him. It was a night of triumph. A night of legacy. It was his night. Michael adjusted his gloves, the weight of his formal attire feeling unbearably stiff. The gold-trimmed coat of House Woltwork sat heavy on his shoulders¡ªa symbol of victory, yet it felt more like shackles than honor. One month had passed since the Greisha Ceremony. One month since he had won. One month since he had lost. He exhaled. The meeting still lingered in his mind. Deep beneath the city, something stirred. Creatures were emerging from the sewers, their attacks growing bolder, deadlier. Some claimed they came from the depths of Yerro, the colossus that slept beneath New Dwarden. Others whispered they were born of excess malice from the soul, or perhaps¡­from the city itself. The Primarian Arc, New Dwarden¡¯s elite military, had lost entire squadrons to the monsters. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. No one wanted to name the dead. Yet they were honored indirectly every day¡ªthrough song, spontaneous vigils, shrines, and prayer. The weight of it all pressed down on him. The expectations. The pressure. And then, as if sensing his unease, a familiar voice cut through the tension. ¡°You look like you just crawled out of a gutter.¡± A firm hand caught his arm, pulling him back into place. Chiselle. Her sharp brown eyes scanned him critically, her lips curling into a smirk as she brushed away the wrinkles in his sleeves with practiced efficiency. Michael grinned. ¡°Would that be so bad?¡± Chiselle scoffed, yanking at the collar of his coat. ¡°Bad? No. Disrespectful? Incredibly. This is your ceremony, Michael. You should at least pretend to care.¡± ¡°I do care,¡± he countered, though even he wasn¡¯t convinced. His fingers found the cool metal of his locket, brushing against it absently. Chiselle¡¯s gaze softened for a fraction of a second, but she quickly masked it, stepping back with a sigh. ¡°By the goblet and green, then stop making it so difficult for those of us who care about you.¡± Michael hesitated. He wanted to say something¡ªsomething reassuring¡ªbut his tongue betrayed him. Instead, he leaned forward and tried to steal a kiss. Chiselle caught him easily, her eyes widening in disbelief. ¡°You¡¯re the King,¡± she chided, amused yet firm, pushing his lips away with two fingers before settling for a kiss on his cheek. ¡°Start actin¡¯ like one.¡± She nodded toward the banquet hall. ¡°Besides,¡± she added, her voice laced with amusement, ¡°I¡¯m just a soldier. She¡¯s your Queen.¡± Michael turned his gaze, following the direction of her gesture. There, seated at the table nearest his father, was his betrothed¡ªthe Queen of Veranos, the City in the Sky. She was young, barely eighteen, dressed in robes as deep and vast as the night sky, embroidered with silver constellations that shimmered like real stars. A thin cross tattoo stretched along the bridge of her pale, delicate nose, its dark ink a stark contrast against her flawless skin. Her eyes, nearly pupil-less, reflected the light like two full moons. She blushed, her lips curling into a quiet smile. A group of similarly dressed figures surrounded her¡ªthe people of Veranos, a legendary floating city atop a sky whale, from which all sky whales were said to hail. Michael swallowed. This was his future. As Michael ascended the short yet seemingly drawn steps, his father¡¯s booming voice filled the hall. ¡°You carry Yerro¡¯s will well, my son.¡± The crowd erupted in cheers. ¡°The Greisha Ceremony is no small feat. The sacrifice it demands is a testament to our family¡¯s loyalty to New Dwarden. And to Yerro.¡± Michael¡¯s jaw tightened. Sacrifice. He knew who his father meant. Amelia and Bolton. His locket pulsed with blue light, and Chiselle murmured from beside him. ¡°Try to breathe before someone notices.¡± King Woltwork continued, but this time his tone darkened¡ªmore critical, but almost exasperated. "And yet, despite it all, you remain a Gearpunk at heart, Michael. Reckless. Defiant. A stubborn cog that refuses to turn in sync with the machine." A pause. "Yet sometimes... it''s the broken gears that force progress." The great mechanical beast of the Primarian Royale waited, its gears already turning, its king ready to deliver his decree. Hand over a crown. And Michael? Michael was expected to accept it. Chapter 1: Devil Dogs Dice (Part 1) Amelia Amelia¡¯s footsteps echoed through the grand halls of the Primarian Arc, the polished stone floors shimmering faintly under the soft glow of oil-fed lanterns. Government buildings in Quadrant Zero clung stubbornly to tradition, powered by fire and oil, with electricity reserved for high-security vaults and essential mechanisms. The air hung heavy with the scent of burning oil and the faint metallic tang of old copper, mingling with the rhythmic hum of gears hidden behind the walls. Above her, intricate contraptions worked tirelessly: gears turned to lift lanterns higher, clockwork chandeliers adjusted to cast light into every shadow, and vents hissed, exhaling bursts of warm, stale air. Everything in the Arc moved with purpose, every mechanism connected to another, a chain of actions that felt almost alive. Quadrant Zero¡¯s brilliance was undeniable, but it was a relic of a world Amelia no longer belonged to¡ªa world of contracts, duty, and unwavering absolutes. The weight of the locket hidden in her boot pressed against her ankle, a constant reminder of what she carried. It was more than a keepsake; it was a tether to her past and a pointed tip to the future that refused to loosen its hold. A memory stirred, vivid and unwelcome, rising like dust caught in a sunbeam. The black-and-white family portrait hung in her mind: Bolton, his warm grin infectious, stood beside their mother, his joy a constant, unwavering glow. Beside him, Michael was a stark contrast¡ªstiff, composed, his sharp eyes brimming with calculation. Even then, he carried himself like royalty, as if the crown already rested upon his brow. ¡°His head¡¯s too big for a crown,¡± she thought. ¡°Michael was always getting into trouble with Bolton, yet he¡¯d somehow end up walking free. How does he keep besting us?¡± Her steps faltered as the memory deepened, dragging her back to the day of the Greisha Ceremony. The final challenge had been a spectacle, a day of celebration and unity for the people of New Dwarden. Quadrant Zero had become the beating heart of the city that day, transformed into a grand arena. The thirteen surrounding Quadrants had emptied as citizens flooded into the center, their spirits high, their voices ringing with cheers and song. The smell of roasted meats and spiced ales had filled the air, mingling with the faint hum of the stage¡¯s machinery as it rose into place¡ªa marvel of engineering crafted to honor the ceremony. She remembered standing under the blinding lights of that stage, her boots planted on the polished metal platform that glimmered like gold. Above her, banners of every color fluttered in the breeze, each bearing the sigil of a Quadrant. The crowd roared with excitement, their faces glowing with anticipation as they waited for the final act: the duel. Scattered throughout the grand arena, the city''s thirteen Quadrant Leaders sat among their people, each surrounded by the colors and symbols of their respective Quadrant. Their presence was both awe-inspiring and oppressive, a reminder of the weight each leader carried¡ªand the stakes of what was to come. The clash of fists, the roar of the crowd, the metallic ring of the stage¡ªall blurred in her mind like smoke curling into the sky. Everything felt like a haze, except for the voice of the announcer, sharp and cutting through the chaos: ¡°Exile! By the barrel and down the metal! The match has been decided! Bolton has yielded, and Amelia is no longer able to fight! By the ritual of the ancient Greisha, New Dwarden¡¯s King is Michael Woltwork! New Dwarden, please welcome Yerro¡¯s new vessel! Bless our Green.¡± The words echoed in her mind as the polished metal beneath her turned cold and unyielding. The cheers of the crowd dissolved, morphing into the mechanical clatter of clinking gears and the relentless hum of clanking pipes. A low vibration resonated through her body, like a second heartbeat¡ªa reminder of everything she¡¯d lost. The memory began to unravel, slipping away as reality crashed back in. Her voice echoed in her mind, tethering her consciousness to a disorienting pull: ¡°I remember a splitting headache then¡­nothing. Isn¡¯t death supposed to be a rush of memories? Perhaps even fun.¡± She couldn¡¯t move. Darkness coiled around her like mist, tight and unrelenting. Echoes of distant clinks grew louder, resembling the sound of a broken-down carriage. Her body felt heavy, paralyzed. ¡°Wake up!¡± ¡°She¡¯s twitchin¡¯! Wake her!¡± a voice bellowed, sharp and urgent, cutting through the fog. Amelia¡¯s mind jolted. A peculiar light pierced the dark void, soft and warm, enveloping her. The voices became clearer: one gruff and familiar, the other metallic and jarring, as if filtered through static. Her senses returned in fragmented pieces¡ªthe faint scent of oil, the rhythmic hum of machinery, the rough sensation of cold metal beneath her. Her vision slowly cleared, and she saw them¡ªa towering man with a thick mustache and a smaller, metallic figure beside him. She blinked hard to make sense of it. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. ¡°I can confirm Amelia Woltwork is not deceased!¡± said the metallic figure, its glowing flickering eyes fixed on her. The name¡ªWoltwork¡ªfelt heavy, a title she had long since tried to shed. She sat up slowly, her limbs feeling like lead. ¡°Just Amelia,¡± she muttered. Rick smirked. "Right, ¡®just Amelia.¡¯ Well, you¡¯re lucky to be alive, so let¡¯s skip the formalities and all the pretty words like ¡®how are you¡¯ or¡ª" ¡°Nice to meet you!¡± Roy chimed in, his tone bright. ¡°Yes, that too,¡± Rick agreed with a shrug. As Amelia struggled to regain her senses, fragmented memories surged through her mind: the weight of expectation, the blinding lights of the Greisha Ceremony, and the bitter taste of exile. The past clung to her like rusted iron chains, heavy and unyielding. Instinctively, her hand drifted toward her boot, tapping the spot where her locket had been hidden. But it wasn¡¯t there. Her fingers brushed her neck instead, finding the chain and the locket resting against her skin. The glowing blue gem pulsed faintly, as if echoing the rhythm of her racing heart. For a moment, she froze, caught between memory and reality, before the warmth of the locket anchored her in the present. "Confused? Like a playful wolf among stray dogs, eh?" Rick grunted, his voice gruff yet not unkind. He knelt before her, pulling out a small piece of bread from a pouch and handing it to her. "Eat. It''ll help settle your come-to nerves." She hesitated but took the bread, biting into it. The familiar crunch and savory flavor brought back memories of meals in the royal kitchens of the Primarian Arc. She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. ¡°Who are you?¡± "Name¡¯s Rick. Used to bake all sorts of breads for the royal charade. A secret chef," he said, scratching his head. "All back when I had all my blasted limbs. More pressing matters¡ªyou¡¯re now aboard an airship known as the Pappy Long Legs,¡± he continued, his voice softening. "We picked you up after some monster nearly made ya¡¯ dinner. A Crowny dinner, at that." The words sent a chill through her, and the memory of the beast surfaced unbidden¡ªits curled fangs, its throbbing muscular body, the overwhelming terror. Her stomach twisted as her mind replayed its relentless charge. She shuddered, her gaze drifting downward as if seeking reassurance. But instead of flesh and bone, her eyes landed on the intricate, spider-like metal appendages where his legs should have been. The gleam of polished steel caught her off guard, and her breath hitched. She followed the line of his limbs, realizing his arms were equally mechanical, glinting faintly in the dim light. Her confusion deepened as she swallowed the last bit of bread, trying to piece together what he¡¯d said. ¡°A monster? Like in the mines?¡± Her voice was quiet but laced with unease. ¡°What happened?¡± The ship hummed beneath her, the low, steady thrum of its engines a constant reminder that she was no longer on solid ground. Amelia¡¯s gaze drifted to the porthole¡ªclouds stretched out as far as she could see, and the world below felt impossibly distant. Her thoughts turned inward¡ªBolton and Michael. What kind of people had they become? Were creatures like that hunting them, even in their homes? The memory of the beast clawed its way back into her mind¡ªits smoke-blackened mouth, its glowing blue eyes¡ªrelentless and monstrous as it tore through Quadrant Seven¡¯s taverns and homes, leaving chaos in its wake before finally reaching her. She swallowed hard. It wasn¡¯t just a creature; it was a warning. She could only call it one thing: the Devil Dog. Rick¡¯s mechanical limbs whirred as he moved toward the control panel. "We¡¯re headed for Veranus. It¡¯s a rough place, but it¡¯ll give you time to figure out your next move." She nodded absently, though her mind was miles away. She gripped the locket tighter, the faint glow from the blue gem inside pulsing faintly. ¡°Count your questions on one hand,¡± Rick said, glancing back at her. ¡°No rush in solvin¡¯ world hunger and peace at the same damn time. Gives us ol¡¯ timers nothin¡¯ to do.¡± His voice softened, trailing off as he watched Amelia¡¯s body slump. Her exhaustion finally overtook her, the overwhelming grogginess pulling her under despite her efforts to stay awake. As they turned Amelia¡¯s limp form, Roy¡¯s sharp gaze fixed on a faint blue glow pulsing around her neck. The locket dangled there, its chain catching the dim light as it shifted with her shallow breaths. Rick followed Roy¡¯s gaze, his expression darkening as recognition flickered in his eyes. Their movements grew deliberate, and cautious, as if the small object held more weight than its size suggested. ¡°Rick. Humans... they generally do not glow, correct? They do not typically possess cores like you,¡± Roy noted with a hint of wonder. ¡°So why does SHE?¡± ¡°Hmmm,¡± Rick grumbled. ¡°Tired of you remindin¡¯ me I don¡¯t have a heart. But for the record¡ª¡®my core,¡¯¡± he added, raising his voice as if to make a point, ¡°is a hot, relentless, steam-powered drum.¡± His tone shifted, cautious now as if revealing too much might be dangerous. ¡°It glows bright, sure. But not like this. This isn¡¯t attached to her, Roy.¡± ¡°A SOUL,¡± Roy interjected with eerie certainty, his mechanical gaze unblinking. ¡°Somethin¡¯ like that, sure,¡± Rick nodded, his expression growing solemn. ¡°But let¡¯s not get lost in the mystics of those who breathe and those who don¡¯t! Check for the Gigarock in that glowing locket. The King was adamant about keeping that thing safe. Unless she¡¯s got a thing for glowin¡¯ rocks, that¡¯s gotta be it.¡± ¡°It¡¯s gold, as the letter described. HIGHLY probable we are correct,¡± Roy concurred. ¡°Keep fidgeting with the locket, Roy! I¡¯ll check if her soul ain¡¯t planning to vacate her body anytime soon,¡± Rick instructed. Following Rick¡¯s command, Roy carefully examined the source of the ghostly blue glow. Meanwhile, Rick gently opened Amelia¡¯s eyes, his penlight ticking softly as it scanned for signs of brain trauma. His examination paused, however, when something unusual caught his attention¡ªa frog-shaped tattoo just above her right breast. The intricate designs extended toward her neck, its metallic green hue glinting in the light. Intrigued, Rick leaned in closer, his eyes alight with curiosity as he studied the rune-like patterns woven into the ink. Chapter 1: Devil Dogs Dice (Part 2) ¡°By the dirt under my feet, I¡¯d only heard of this mark,¡± Rick remarked, his voice tinged with astonishment. ¡°Marks are commonplace among machines. Is Amelia a MACHINE?¡± Roy asked, poking curiously at the side of Amelia¡¯s neck. ¡°When the royal triplet babes are born, they¡¯re given this bugaboo tattoo with ancient writin¡¯,¡± Rick explained, leaning in to closely examine the intricate swirls, sharp curves, and the subtly pulsating glow of the tattoo. ¡°This mark¡ªit¡¯s more like an oath. Supposed to eat yer body whole by age four, like a parasite grown from a deal with Yerro,¡± he continued, his gaze narrowing. ¡°A condition for power.¡± ¡°Rick?¡± Roy asked, his finger inching toward Rick¡¯s throat. ¡°What¡¯s that finger hurtlin¡¯ toward me for?¡± Rick shot back. ¡°You have no mark. No tattoo. It¡¯s not the same. WE are not part of her deal?¡± Roy asked innocently. ¡°If Yerro did not grant me your soul, I must ask again¡ªwho did?¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. They¡¯re gone,¡± Rick replied, his voice trailing off. ¡°What¡¯s goin¡¯ on with us¡­ it¡¯s different. I¡¯ve gone and made a one-sided deal. Lucky it¡¯s the side that matters,¡± he muttered, gently pushing Roy¡¯s finger away. ¡°This tattoo¡­ best believe it lives and breathes with Amelia¡ªor so the Quadrants say. If it¡¯s here, she¡¯s fine.¡± Amelia could feel the distant thuds and thumps as Rick and Roy paced around her, their voices growing muffled as her focus wavered. No matter how far she drifted in her mind, a strange warmth around her feet kept her anchored. ¡°¡­ What¡¯s the extent of that mark, Amelia? Can¡¯t just be for liftin¡¯ heavy boulders,¡± Rick wondered aloud, though his voice seemed to drift further away. ¡°Yerro: A Colossus or Great Spirit responsible for creating the City of New Dwarden upon its death¡ª¡± Roy began, only to be interrupted. ¡°Break that crank, Roy! Don¡¯t need that kind of information right now,¡± Rick scolded. ¡°Focus on the girl.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t need it?¡± Roy asked, his head tilting slightly, the light in his eyes dimming to a soft white. Rick sighed, shaking his head. ¡°Best understand somethin¡¯, Roy. You¡¯re not just some hodgepodge conveyor belt. You¡¯ve got blood, thoughts¡ªhell, maybe more emotions than me. Don¡¯t act like a block of metal. Now, gander at the damn locket¡ª¡± ¡°LOCKET,¡± Roy corrected. ¡°The locket contains a picture of the royal family, an embedded Gigarock¡ªits flesh intact¡ªand a crinkled piece of paper.¡± His eyes returned to their usual yellow glow, flickering with a hint of pride. Rick glanced at Roy, his expression softening, like a father approving a son¡¯s first steps. ¡°The Gigarock, Roy. What¡¯s the rock about?¡± The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. "Unlike the common veins found beneath New Dwarden, the royal variant of Gigarock is an extremely rare fragment of Yerro¡¯s heart," Roy explained. "A piece of very exclusive pie, as you¡¯d say. It ranks the highest among all known types¡ªS-class." Rick nodded, his gaze flicking between the mark on Amelia¡¯s neck and the pulsating pink flesh encased in the Gigarock. The light within the gem seemed alive, its rhythm mirroring the faint glow of Amelia¡¯s tattoo. ¡°That¡¯s not just rare. That¡¯s priceless,¡± Rick muttered, handing the locket carefully back to Roy. Roy delicately maneuvered the locket, tracing the inscriptions, the tiny cogs framing the faded Woltwork family picture, and the Gigarock¡¯s shining metal core, wrapped in writhing, glowing vines. Satisfied, he started to tuck it away¡ªonly for Rick¡¯s hand to shoot out, stopping him. ¡°Best not handle that longer than you have to, Roy,¡± Rick cautioned, his voice edged with solemnity. ¡°That thing¡¯s precious¡ªto them, at least. Crownies¡­ they¡¯re different beasts. Amelia¡¯s said to be the nicest of the three, but don¡¯t mistake that for weakness. It¡¯s important¡ªto her and to us now. If she dies or wakes up two clicks from a working clock, we take it. Got it?¡± ¡°Shall I continue my DIRECTIVE?¡± Roy inquired, his metallic voice resonating. ¡°Well now that we know that death ain¡¯t hollerin¡¯ her name, we can finish scannin¡¯ her,¡± Rick ordered. ¡°I¡¯ll wake her the way my momma used to¡ªwith an iron grip.¡± ¡°Command recognized: scan Amelia Woltwork,¡± Roy responded, refocusing on the task at hand. ¡°Amelia Woltwork!¡± Rick cheered theatrically. ¡°Younger sister of King Michael and older sister to Bolton. Seconds apart, our royal trio! It is now your turn to feed the hand of the Iron Grip!¡± Amelia could feel the heat radiating from the man crouched over her. The scent of oil and freshly baked goods drifted into her nostrils, playful yet stinging. Slowly, she began to stir, feeling the world around her come back to life with faint sensations¡ªgentle pinches, soft prods, and the distant hum of machinery¡ªall working to draw her back into consciousness. ¡°You forced my hand, Crowny,¡± Rick taunted, his voice hovering ominously above her. Before Amelia could utter a sound, she sensed the man drawing closer. Through a narrow slit of her vision, she caught a blurred image of Rick¡¯s fingers inching toward her nose with mischievous intent. ¡°The trick to a good dream,¡± Rick proclaimed, ¡°is that it must be a story worth telling. And a good story always begins with¡­ a dream and a TWIST!¡± He emphasized his point with a purposeful flick and twist of his wrist. ¡°Assault!¡± yelped Amelia, jolting awake. ¡°Mugger! Thief! I¡ªI¡­ monster?¡± Amelia suddenly sprang to her feet, wobbling as she propelled herself upward, only to immediately fall back into a sitting position. ¡°Where¡¯s the monster? That thing? Why was it trying to eat me?¡± Amelia blurted, her voice smooth and angelic compared to Rick¡¯s gruff tone. ¡°It was just here¡­¡± she panicked, scanning her surroundings before her voice trailed off into exhaustion. ¡°Calm down, Crowny! We saved ya! No creatures here,¡± Rick assured her. ¡°We¡¯re the closest thing to a doctor you have right now, and I got my certification at a junkyard.¡± ¡°What¡­¡± Amelia muttered, her head spinning from the rush of sensations. Rick¡¯s ¡°IRON CLAW¡± grip remained as painful as ever, and Amelia groaned loudly as she fully regained consciousness, the sensation of pain flooding back. Slowly, she blinked her eyes open, the world appearing dim and hazy as she struggled to comprehend her surroundings. ¡°Tell me, Crowny. Did ya¡¯ always wear a birthmark on your right cheek? How about the green eyes? A tiny bend in the nose? A distinct yet modest jawline?¡± Rick examined her closely, moving at an uncomfortable speed. ¡°Do ya¡¯ prefer the clothing of a Yardrat? Or have you spent your royalties¡­ elsewhere? Moreso, was it necessary to work in those mines all those years? AAAAAAND what happened after your eighteenth birthday? The Greisha Crown Ceremony. Go on, I¡¯ll wait.¡± Chapter 1: Devil Dogs Dice (Part 3) ¡°I¡ª¡± Amelia tried to respond, but her head drooped closer to the ground, her thoughts scattering like loose gears. ¡°And that¡¯s how you¡¯ll sound if I let ya. Questions! Questions! Questions! Let¡¯s try and look at this conundrum one screw at a time,¡± Rick interjected, his tone both commanding and oddly comforting. ¡°Initiating wellness analysis,¡± Roy¡¯s metallic voice chimed, precise and clinical. ¡°Gender: Female. Heart rate: elevated. Potential concussion detected. Height: approximately 1.88 meters. Weight: approximately 75 kilograms. Confirmed identity: Amelia Woltwork. Status: alive and healthy.¡± Rick smirked, shaking his head. ¡°Roy, you¡¯re about as comforting as a leaky steam valve. Gotta say, your bedside manner¡¯s got a lotta room for improvement.¡± ¡°Add pissed to that,¡± Amelia grumbled, her voice muffled as her eyes fluttered shut. ¡°You didn¡¯t have to squeeze my nose, you know. Back in the Conkle Mines, pranks like that got you killed¡ªor worse.¡± ¡°Little Crowny, you¡¯re still royalty¡ªnot just some Quadrant Seven Yardrat. I had to check if you were awake or even capable of wakin¡¯ up,¡± Rick replied, irritation creeping into his voice. ¡°Understand this, the jaw we pried you from was one of no return. Ain¡¯t never seen a beast like that.¡± Amelia¡¯s brow furrowed as her thoughts sharpened. ¡°I heard everything you and¡­ whatever that is next to you were saying! You¡ª¡± ¡°No, ya¡¯ didn¡¯t! Because if ya¡¯ did, ya¡¯ wouldn¡¯t have yelled ¡®Assault,¡¯ ¡®Thief,¡¯ and ¡®Mugger¡¯ like you were filing a complaint with the cosmos,¡± Rick retorted. ¡°Got a kick and ¡®arrest me¡¯ sign somewhere in your overalls?¡± ¡°No, but I got a knife if I can¡¯t figure your goals in the next ten seconds!¡± Amelia snapped, her voice trembling as she struggled to stand. ¡°I don¡¯t know what¡¯s happening or who you are¡ªor if I¡¯m even alive or will live for the next five minutes! All I remember is falling¡­ being eaten¡­ and now my head hurts.¡± ¡°Oi! Girl, listen. Tiptoe now, we¡¯ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I would¡¯ve gladly thrown you off my airship two seconds ago if I wanted you dead, but now¡ª¡± ¡°Not advised,¡± Roy interrupted innocently. ¡°But now,¡± Rick continued, brushing off Roy¡¯s interruption, ¡°here¡¯s the mercy: just focus on gettin¡¯ better. I promise I¡¯ll explain everything.¡± Amelia¡¯s glare softened slightly, though her breathing remained uneven. ¡°Where am I?¡± ¡°That¡¯s a better question. Welcome aboard the Pappy Long Legs!¡± Rick declared proudly, his words cutting through her daze like a sharp blade. ¡°She¡¯s my own design¡ªbuilt to outclass those dull New Dwarden Akiyoma ships. This beauty can fly circles around ¡¯em! Roy here can give you the grand tour¡ªif you¡¯re up for it.¡± Amelia shook her head, wincing as the motion aggravated her headache. ¡°Not necessary.¡± Rick¡¯s expression fell. ¡°Too bad. Roy would¡¯ve loved to show you around.¡± ¡°This is my primary purpose,¡± Roy chimed in eagerly. ¡°I aim to LEARN and, to quote Rick, ¡®have a good time.¡¯ My secondary function is to protect you.¡± ¡°I can handle that myself,¡± Amelia muttered, her gaze drifting to the intricate machinery surrounding her. ¡°Are¡­ are we still in Quadrant Seven?¡± ¡°Yes, just outside your little mineshaft in Little Creek,¡± Rick replied. ¡°Been hoverin¡¯ here since your¡­ incident. Which we¡¯ll clarify once you stop reachin¡¯ for that knife.¡± After a tense pause, Amelia sighed and let her knife clatter to the floor. She leaned back against the metallic railing, the faint scent of bread pulling her toward an uneasy calm. ¡°Ah yes, the front pocket of your uniform. Them Yardrats still wear overalls? Changin¡¯ as slow as stone weathers, those miners,¡± Rick chuckled, his tone teasing yet warm. Before Amelia could respond, Rick¡¯s voice boomed again, cutting through the air like a crack of a whip. ¡°Roy! Get the girl some bread!¡± he barked, the command laced with a gruff urgency that left no room for hesitation. ¡°Yes, Captain Rick,¡± Roy responded, moving with mechanical precision. Rick knelt beside Amelia, his tone softening. ¡°Calm your mind. Focus on breathin¡¯. We¡¯ve got time to sort this out.¡± ¡°You get eaten, almost killed, then kidnapped! Then tell me to calm down!¡± Amelia raged, her chest heaving as panic set in. ¡°Until a couple of seconds ago, I couldn¡¯t even see my hands!¡± Her voice wavered with the onset of tears. ¡°The name¡¯s Rick. I¡¯m a damn good baker, an engineer, and now an airship pilot! Not just any airship pilot, but the pilot of the Pappy Long Legs! That combination¡¯s uniquely mine. As for Roy, well¡­ better you see him than hear me try to explain,¡± Rick said with a wry grin. ¡°You might find it surprising, but according to Rick, ¡®I am not HUMAN, but uniquely human,¡¯¡± Roy remarked, his tone almost contemplative. ¡°You¡¯ll see what he means once you¡¯re more awake.¡± ¡°Right you are, man from metal,¡± Rick chimed in with playful agreement. ¡°Anyway, I used to cook for you and your brothers when you were young Crownies. Things looked a bit different back then¡ªno mustache, fewer metal limbs, and¡­ well¡­ no blasted affliction.¡± Rick paused, his voice tinged with nostalgia. ¡°As Roy said, you¡¯ll understand once your sight clears up.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­ but I don¡¯t know a Rick,¡± Amelia confessed softly. ¡°Or a Roy. Never did.¡± ¡°Then you damn well know Tammersmith,¡± Rick replied, his voice carrying a note of certainty. Amelia¡¯s eyes flew open as if waking from a deep slumber, the realization hitting her like a lightning bolt. To Rick¡¯s surprise, she leaped up from the ground with a burst of energy, landing in a shaky crouch. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ You¡¯re Tammersmith!? From the Primarian Royale! The capital! But¡­ how¡­?¡± Amelia stammered in disbelief. ¡°You¡¯re not supposed to be here! You¡¯re not supposed to be talking to me, looking at me, caring for me! You¡­ you¡¯re¡­ changed?¡± Her emotions swirled in a maelstrom. ¡°What affliction!?¡± ¡°Could ya¡¯ have picked a better word?¡± Rick teased. ¡°Disabled is one of ¡¯em that goes around.¡± ¡°I¡­ I¡­¡± Amelia faltered, at a loss for words. ¡°Wha¡ªwhat happened?¡± ¡°They call it Soul Rot,¡± Rick began, his voice heavy with resignation. ¡°A gamble with desperate dice. Makin¡¯ deals with spirits is as foolish as bein¡¯ the canary coaxed to the coal mine. Worse, if you ain¡¯t careful, they¡¯re as unforgiving as the Clinkers clankin¡¯ around the inner quadrants.¡± This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°You¡¯ve lost me,¡± Amelia muttered, disbelief thick in her voice. Rick chuckled darkly, his smile laced with bitterness. ¡°Soul Rot ain¡¯t instant death, despite what most New Dwardian knuckleheads think. Wish it were. It¡¯s slower, crueler.¡± He paused, running a hand over the jagged edges of his metallic limbs. ¡°Rick¡ªthat¡¯s the name I took after this wretched rot left me lookin¡¯ like a melted sack o¡¯ flesh. Ain¡¯t no one gonna believe I¡¯m a Tammersmith now, not with a face like chewed gum left out in the sun. People don¡¯t need to know what used to be¡­¡± His voice softened as he added, ¡°Since I last saw ya¡¯, it¡¯s gotten to my arms and legs. Already gone, Crowny.¡± Amelia tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at him. ¡°You move with metal limbs?¡± she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and faint disbelief. ¡°Seems the inner cities have grown away from wooden pegs.¡± Rick barked a short laugh, the sound dry and tinged with irony. ¡°Unless you¡¯ve got more coin than hair, you¡¯re stuck lookin¡¯ like a Quadrant Seven scarecrow,¡± he replied, motioning to his mismatched parts. ¡°I improvised. Pappy Science.¡± ¡°Pappy Science?¡± Amelia echoed, her disbelief plain as she glanced toward Rick. ¡°Innovation!¡± Rick declared with a crooked grin, tapping a metallic finger against his temple. ¡°Best seen, not explained.¡± He gestured toward the horizon. ¡°Now sit back, rub those tired eyes, and take a good gander at what¡¯s ahead. You¡¯ll have to get used to a heap of change soon,¡± he added, his tone softening. ¡°Your brother, the King, made sure of that. But me? Don¡¯t waste a worry on ol¡¯ Rick¡ªI¡¯ve got Roy to keep me upright.¡± Amelia took a moment to collect herself, the absurdity of her situation weighing heavily on her. Summoning her resolve, she clenched her fists and slowly rose to her feet. Despite the lingering sense of unease, her curiosity won out. Gradually, her surroundings began to sharpen from their blurred state, revealing a massive, jagged circular platform. It was covered in an array of intricate knobs, levers weathered from use, and coiled rails twisting like metal serpents. Around her, consoles of all sizes blinked and hummed, offering a glimpse into the mysteries of the strange vessel she had awakened on. ¡°So¡­ airships aren¡¯t too different from waterships, huh?¡± Amelia remarked, a hint of excitement in her voice. ¡°I-I¡¯ve never been on an airship before!¡± she added, her eyes lighting up with sudden wonder. ¡°You mean a boat?¡± Rick chuckled. ¡°And yes! Since your time away from the capital, New Dwarden¡¯s perfected the airship¡ªAkiyoma style, but I have to argue and will continue to argue that mine¡¯s a step above. Each of the thirteen quadrants have their own version of what they consider ¡®perfect¡¯, and well¡­ from what I can see those airships just don¡¯t explode as much anymore. Oh, and they have bigger cannons,¡± he boasted, the wind gusting into the cockpit as he stood tall. ¡°See! If ya¡¯ had stabbed me, ya¡¯ wouldn¡¯t have seen any of this!¡± Before Amelia could respond, Rick shoved a piece of his famous Morsha bread into her mouth. The sudden yet familiar crunch was enough to bring her back to years long past, filling her with crunchy, flaky, nostalgia. She devoured the bread eagerly, savoring the memories it evoked and the delicious flavor that danced on her tongue. For a brief moment, she forgot about the danger and strangeness of her situation, lost in the warmth of something warm and familiar. ¡°What do you think, Amelia? Just like ya¡¯ remember?¡± Rick asked with a large grin. Amelia raised her eyes to meet his for the first time in what felt like decades. Standing before her was a stout man with four metallic limbs¡ªspider-like, yet fluid and precise. His cartoonishly large mustache sat above a crinkly red nose, and his wide brown eyes peered out from behind round spectacles perched precariously on his face. The scent of machine oil and freshly baked goods clung to his overalls, a curious mix that somehow suited him. Despite the heavy wrinkles lining his face, Amelia wasn¡¯t fazed. To her, Rick was just another person who¡¯d had a hard lot in life¡ªmuch like the Yardrats she¡¯d worked with in the Conkle Mines. ¡°I¡¯m calling you Tammersmith... I don¡¯t like Rick,¡± Amelia chuckled. ¡°Seems silly to deny yourself a history.¡± ¡°Could say the same to you,¡± Rick teased. ¡°But respect¡ª¡± ¡°Look,¡± Amelia sighed, a fresh piece of Morsha bread hanging from her lip, ¡°I¡¯ll call you Rick,¡± she conceded between bites, ¡°but I don¡¯t like it. You¡¯re no uglier than the Yardrats down at the mines.¡± ¡°And you¡ªstart chewin¡¯ with your mouth closed, and you¡¯ll be half as ugly! Plus, ya¡¯ won¡¯t choke,¡± Rick shot back, accepting her remark with a grin. ¡°My great auntie choked on a piece of Cerulean silk meat after too much mead. Wasn¡¯t a pretty sight.¡± ¡°It¡¯s true! Meat-based organisms have LIMITED storage in their orifices¡­ err¡­ holes,¡± Roy chimed in from across the platform, his voice echoing awkwardly in the metallic expanse. ¡°Ah, yes¡­ something better left unsaid, Roy,¡± Rick remarked with a sudden frown. Amelia couldn¡¯t help but laugh, a grimace crossing her face as the memories continued to flood back. She felt an odd mixture of raw emotion, the bread stirring something deep within her. ¡°The Greisha Ceremony¡­ I¡¯m not supposed to make contact with anyone from the capital. I¡ª¡± Amelia began, her voice growing distant as the words faded. ¡°Silly rule.¡± ¡°Best not dwell on it,¡± Rick said, his tone cautious. ¡°There are things in this world we can¡¯t even begin to understand.¡± ¡°You sound just like those inner Quadrant elitists,¡± Amelia muttered, her mouth still full of bread. ¡°And you? Who or what d¡¯ya sound like, Crowny?¡± Rick asked, raising a brow, his tone tinged with curiosity. ¡°Does it matter anymore?¡± Amelia sighed, frustration creeping into her voice. ¡°I was attacked by some monster. Taken aboard this airship. Now I¡¯m sure the capital wants to hang me for breaking some stupid rule I didn¡¯t even know existed¡ªand you¡¯re my polite executioner.¡± ¡°You¡¯re quick to line the axe to your neck, Crowny,¡± Rick replied, moving closer to her. His metallic limbs clicked and whirred as they navigated the wires and consoles with uncanny precision. ¡°Here¡¯s the secret to good bread,¡± he added with a chuckle. ¡°It gets you to shut up long enough to listen. So do that, and I promise everything else will become clear.¡± ¡°Gracefully said, Rick,¡± Amelia quipped, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ¡°So why am I here? How¡¯d I survive?¡± ¡°We¡¯re on a mission ¡®ordained by your older brother,¡¯ King Woltwork,¡± Rick explained, his expression turning grave. ¡°Something unknown tried to bury ya¡¯. It ain¡¯t public knowledge yet, but I believe your brother foresaw this monster comin¡¯ for you¡ªat least to some extent. The ¡®why¡¯ isn¡¯t our concern right now. The ¡®when¡¯ is the real question. And that monster? It will come back, make no mistake. As for how¡ª¡± Amelia¡¯s steps were slow but deliberate as she approached Rick. Her hand dipped into her boot, retrieving the locket she¡¯d kept hidden there. She opened it, revealing a black-and-white family portrait. Her eyes lingered on the image, a mixture of frustration and sadness etched into her face. She turned the locket toward Rick, her finger pointing accusingly. ¡°You¡¯re telling me the same brother who pushed for us to be exiled from the capital¡ªQuadrant Zero¡ªis now looking out for us? The same man who showed no mercy during the Greisha Ceremony?¡± Amelia¡¯s voice rose, thick with doubt. ¡°The one who sent Bolton to fend for himself?¡± ¡°Games ain¡¯t fair, but your family plays by different rules, Amelia,¡± Rick replied, his voice softening as he met her gaze. ¡°Invisible strings guide those with power. You¡¯ll figure it out soon enough. Your brother knows about your time in the Conkle Mines. He knows how they¡¯ve been treatin¡¯ ya¡¯.¡± ¡°Like family?¡± Amelia shot back bitterly. ¡°Like family,¡± Rick agreed, his tone even. He gently guided her hand, urging her to close the locket and return it to her pocket. ¡°But that don¡¯t mean he¡¯s given up on ya¡¯. Not entirely.¡± As their conversation continued, a faint whirring sound drew Amelia¡¯s attention. Roy approached, cradling a mechanical flower crafted from scraps of metal and wire. The automaton extended the flower toward her, its glowing eyes flickering with an almost childlike innocence. ¡°When we rescued you. From your death,¡± Roy began his voice even but tinged with something softer. ¡°I came upon a CHILD. She gave me a flower. She said, ¡®peace.¡¯ That I wasn¡¯t to hurt her family if she gave me something precious.¡± Amelia blinked, her brow furrowing as she processed Roy¡¯s words. Her hand instinctively darted toward her knife, her posture tense as she eyed Roy warily. ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡± she asked, her voice cautious. Rick stepped forward, his tone light but firm. ¡°It means people will learn to understand Roy,¡± he said, gesturing toward Amelia. ¡°Now, how ¡¯bout you stop reachin¡¯ for your blade and let him be.¡± For a moment, Amelia hesitated, her fingers brushing the hilt of her knife before she slowly relaxed her grip. Her gaze flicked between Rick and Roy, her suspicion softening into curiosity. Roy¡¯s outstretched hand remained steady, the flower gleaming faintly in the dim light. Rick smirked, nodding toward the automaton. ¡°Told ya¡¯ Roy¡¯s got more heart than he lets on. Go on, take the damn flower.¡± Amelia¡¯s hand finally reached out, her movements slow and deliberate. She took the flower from Roy, holding it delicately as if it might crumble under her touch. The edges of her lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile. ¡°Guess I¡¯ll add it to the list of things I never thought I¡¯d see,¡± she muttered, lifting the intricate creation to examine it more closely. Chapter 1: Devil Dogs Dice (Part 4) Amelia shifted uneasily, her eyes darting between Roy and Rick. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you are¡­¡± she muttered, stepping back defensively, her hand brushing the hilt of her knife. ¡°Then allow me,¡± Rick interjected, his tone gruff but steady. He plucked the metallic flower from Roy¡¯s grasp and tucked it into Amelia¡¯s front pocket with surprising gentleness. ¡°He¡¯s the reason you¡¯re alive.¡± ¡°He¡¯s a weapon?¡± she asked, suspicion lacing her voice. Rick¡¯s jaw tightened, his brows knitting together. ¡°He¡¯s my¡­ son. Now take a good look.¡± Amelia hesitated, her skepticism giving way to curiosity. Slowly, she released the knife, letting it slip back into her pocket, and studied Roy more closely. Her sharp gaze traveled over his squared, makeshift body, his head fashioned from repurposed headlights, and the way his mouth moved without lips yet somehow conveyed expression. Roy¡¯s tall frame was rigid yet oddly human, his exaggerated movements accompanied by the metallic jingles and creaks reminiscent of mining bots in the Conkle Mines. ¡°I have many questions,¡± Amelia admitted, a note of disbelief in her voice. ¡°Yerro¡¯s grace¡­ What have you done, Rick?¡± Before Rick could answer, Roy stepped forward, his movements deliberate yet protective. He raised a hand, pointing toward the vast sky behind her. ¡°Our mission now is to meet with Bolton and his guardian soon. All will be explained,¡± he stated with mechanical calm. Rick rested a hand on Roy¡¯s shoulder, glancing at him with a mix of pride and concern. He turned back to Amelia, his voice softening. ¡°Listen to Roy. For now, the story is that you were some monster¡¯s expensive snack. Locals thought you brought that creature to the county of Little Creek, as it¡­ allegedly whispered your name¡ª¡®Amelia¡¯¡ªwhile wreaking havoc. Best lean into the lie and let ¡®em assume you were eaten.¡± Amelia¡¯s brow furrowed, her skepticism returning. ¡°What kind of creature whispers names? Worse, my name? Local hogwash.¡± ¡°I verified it myself,¡± Rick replied, tapping a metallic finger to his temple. ¡°The locals were furious. Their shops, farms, lives¡­ all destroyed. If Roy and I hadn¡¯t found you collapsed, they¡¯d have hanged you on the spot. To make matters worse, the creature vanished without a trace, leaving them with only you to blame.¡± ¡°So your solution was to knock me out?¡± Amelia challenged, her voice sharp. ¡°Roy put on a convincing show,¡± Rick admitted, scratching the back of his head. ¡°We needed ¡®em to think we were arresting you. A few well-placed weapon demonstrations helped¡­ diffuse their anger.¡± ¡°According to Rick, you needed MARBLES,¡± Roy added innocently. Amelia snorted, despite herself. ¡°Ah, yes. That explains this searing headache,¡± she muttered, rubbing her temple. Her hand lingered near her knife, though she refrained from drawing it again. ¡°What¡¯s this mission, then?¡± ¡°Crowny, we did what we had to,¡± Rick said with a nervous chuckle, trying to steer the conversation. ¡°Now, let¡¯s move on. It¡¯s in the past.¡± ¡°It¡¯s in the past,¡± Amelia mimicked, exaggerating his southern drawl. ¡°Attempted murder can¡¯t just be ¡®in the past¡¯! This has to be connected to some royal dogwater.¡± ¡°Bullshit,¡± Roy chimed in, his tone matter-of-fact. Amelia burst into laughter, winking at Roy. ¡°Exactly. Bullshit!¡± She turned back to Rick, her expression sobering. ¡°And now what? You¡¯ve come to save me? With your son the robot? On an airship more expensive than a whole Quadrant? Did New Dwarden fund this?¡± Rick¡¯s metallic limbs hissed as he moved closer, his eyes narrowing. ¡°Not quite. A-¡± ¡°Not quite?¡± Amelia snapped back. ¡°More mysteries?¡± ¡°Listen Crowny. This Pappy Long Leg¡¯s mine, built with my hands, my scraps, and my damn ingenuity. You¡¯re alive because we made choices. Hard ones. Now, you wanna question ¡®em, fine. But don¡¯t you dare belittle what¡¯s keepin¡¯ you breathing.¡± Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. ¡°You know, you¡¯re suspiciously sounding like someone who¡¯d kidnap an ex-royal,¡± Amelia snapped, her words sharp and biting. Rick¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line. ¡°Maybe I am. But let¡¯s consider the save your life part? Ah? You don¡¯t have to like it, but you¡¯re here now.¡± ¡°No, no, no! Wait. What¡¯s the plan? Send a monster, save me?¡± Her voice rose with indignation as she gestured toward Roy. ¡°Then whisk me away with an automaton you call your son¡ªmade from some illegal spirit deal? And now what? A grand adventure? Do you realize how wicked you sound?¡± Rick¡¯s expression hardened, his metallic limbs creaking as he crossed his arms. ¡°I gain nothin¡¯ from killin¡¯ someone who can¡¯t even be Queen, Crowny,¡± he replied coolly. ¡°That tattoo on your neck has your fate written all over it¡ªa signature from the wanderin¡¯ past.¡± Amelia¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°The only reason I¡¯m even listening to you is because your bread tastes familiar.¡± ¡°Best believe choices are gettin¡¯ harder for both of us,¡± Rick replied, his voice steady but laced with frustration. Roy shifted slightly, his glowing eyes flickering as he stepped forward. ¡°There is much I don¡¯t understand either, Amelia Woltwork,¡± he said, his tone surprisingly calm. ¡°My body operates with a human heart. I carry human abilities. I¡¯ve heard Rick use the word ¡®atrocity¡¯ before.¡± ¡°By the green, how?¡± Rick asked, his voice barely above a whisper. ¡°When I was¡­ conceived,¡± Roy replied, hesitating. ¡°Or birthed. Created.¡± it¡¯s voice faltered, but he pushed on. ¡°Outside of your desire to place me in this metallic vessel, I somehow heard you say it.¡± Rick¡¯s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the floor. ¡°How¡ªhow did you know that?¡± Amelia asked, her voice softer now, tinged with disbelief. ¡°Description: Rick shed tears,¡± Roy said simply. ¡°Water. Like a human. While he no longer possesses his heart¡ªbecause he has given it to me¡ªhe shed water. Prognosis: This does not sound ¡®wicked,¡¯ correct?¡± Amelia exhaled heavily, the weight of Roy¡¯s words pressing on her. ¡°Roy,¡± she said, her voice filled with an ache she couldn¡¯t hide. ¡°Do you even know what you are?¡± ¡°No,¡± Roy replied, his tone steady. ¡°But I feel a strong belonging with Rick. He does not feel like the creature that attacked you. Not like any animal. My objective: protect you. Maybe you could trust me.¡± Amelia¡¯s gaze locked with Roy¡¯s, the tension between them palpable. Her defiance flickered for a moment before the weight of his sincerity settled over her. She looked down, her hands brushing the tattered fabric of her shirt and the scorched edges of her boots.What kind of man willingly ties his soul to a machine? What kind of desperation drives someone to that point? The thought was as unsettling as it was sad. ¡°Fine,¡± she muttered. ¡°But the knife stays ready.¡± Rick let out a long sigh, the tension in the air easing just slightly. ¡°Trust comes later,¡± he said. ¡°Survival comes first.¡± Roy stepped forward again, his glowing eyes flickering. ¡°Rick is my father. Our souls are tied to one another. Rick said, without one, the other cannot exist.¡± Amelia¡¯s eyes widened, the implications sinking in. ¡°Who allowed such a condition? Contracts with spirits are strictly regulated and are almost impossible to fulfill¡­¡± She paused, her voice softening. ¡°Rat''s ass on who allowed it,¡± Rick replied, waving her apology away. ¡°What matters is we¡¯re here.¡± Amelia frowned but said nothing, her mind spinning with questions she wasn¡¯t ready to voice. She turned to Roy. ¡°Log a reminder to finish this conversation later.¡± ¡°CONVERSATION logged,¡± Roy responded dutifully. Rick let out a dry laugh. ¡°Learning to be human from two very social and palpable ones, I see.¡± Amelia smirked, the tension finally beginning to dissipate. She reached for another piece of Morsha bread, the familiar flavor grounding her. Memories of her father¡¯s tales about the Primarian Hammers surfaced unbidden, filling the silence as she chewed. ¡°This is complicated. However, there''s something I do remember,¡± she said finally. ¡°You repair Yerro''s heart. Top secret, right?¡± Rick¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°I¡¯m one of the few left.¡± ¡°Where are the others?¡± Amelia asked, her voice quiet. Rick hesitated, his gaze drifting. ¡°Seeing to an emergency. If¡­ they¡¯re still alive.¡± ¡°What emergency?¡± she pressed. ¡°We¡¯re not sure yet,¡± Roy interjected. ¡°But the creature that attacked you might just be the beginning.¡± Amelia¡¯s grip tightened on the bread. ¡°In the mines, we saw monsters. Big ones. Some were ghost-like; others were just¡­ bigger, nastier versions of what we¡¯d seen before. But nothing like that thing.¡± Rick nodded grimly. ¡°That thing wasn¡¯t just a monster. It was a message. Something so ugly with so much purpose.¡± Amelia¡¯s gaze shifted to the horizon, the clouds stretching endlessly before them. A message from whom? Or worse, for whom? She didn¡¯t ask. The answer would come soon enough. Chapter 1: Devil Dogs Dice (Part 5) ¡°Gotta admit, you Woltworks have a mindless appetite for chaos,¡± Rick chuckled, his gaze lifting toward Amelia as if he had just stumbled upon a warm memory. ¡°No wonder you took to chewin¡¯ on Quadrant Seven¡¯s minin¡¯ life. Outta¡¯ all the rockwork, Conkle¡¯s the worst there is. There¡¯s a reason you Yardrats are local heroes and not just another batch of black-lunged workers.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t know Bolton or Michael the way I do. I¡¯m the best of the three!¡± Amelia declared, a smile tugging at her lips as her voice echoed through the chamber with a hint of incredulity. ¡°I don¡¯t have a throne to sit on, but¡­ I fend for myself. Despite the creatures¡ªmonsters, whatever¡ªthe Yardrats take care of each other. I might not be the strongest, but I make up for it by being crafty. If Bolton had gotten lucky after the Greisha Ceremony, maybe he¡¯d be one too.¡± Her gaze wandered into the distance, lost in contemplation. ¡°That stupid ceremony¡­ the stupid Greisha Ceremony,¡± she murmured, her words heavy with frustration. ¡°Shoves us out of the capital at eighteen, only to float by while one of us gets to be King and the others get hunted by monsters for the rest of their lives. Should¡¯ve read the fine print that never existed.¡± ¡°Or Queen,¡± Rick interjected, his tone gentle and reassuring. Amelia¡¯s eyes gleamed with introspection as she continued, ¡°Because of some spirit-binding contract, all royalty is born with a twin. Sometimes a triplet. Doesn¡¯t matter, though. People don¡¯t tend to remember anyone without a crown.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t need a crown to be remembered. I hear Yardrats are notoriously rude. Considerin¡¯ their job, they¡¯ve got more grit and spirit than most,¡± Rick remarked with an affectionate grin. ¡°Notoriety can¡¯t be ignored. Ask the other Hammers.¡± Amelia laughed, the sound bubbling up from deep within. ¡°And you? You¡¯ve been responsible for almost every large-scale incident¡ªand I quote ¡®incident¡¯¡ªwe¡¯ve had at the capital,¡± she retorted, barely suppressing her laughter. ¡°I can remember that detail even from when I was eight years old!¡± ¡°Crowny, I¡¯m an inventor! There are steps to the inevitability of success! Very doughy, snappy, golden, meticulous steps,¡± Rick explained with a chuckle. ¡°Old man, are we still talking about inventing?¡± Amelia teased. ¡°NO,¡± interjected Roy from afar, his voice cutting through their banter. A strange wedge of silence settled between them, broken only by the wind whistling through the massive swirling fans that kept the airship aloft. Amelia¡¯s smile faded into a more thoughtful expression as memories of her life in New Dwarden¡¯s capital flooded back. Rick noticed her eyes glistening with unshed tears, lost in thought. He leaned against a waist-high metallic barricade beside her, ready to offer comfort. ¡°Tammer¡ªah, Rick¡­¡± Amelia sighed, her voice tinged with weariness. ¡°I appreciate the bread.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know what else to do,¡± Rick replied with a sympathetic smirk. ¡°I think life¡¯s gonna change for both of us soon. Whether we suck the spoon or spill it.¡± Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. ¡°Seems serious enough,¡± Amelia said, slipping another piece of bread into her overall pocket. ¡°Tradition, contracts, houses¡­ all just rules with different names.¡± ¡°Rules are usually there because some bloke took the time to smell the air and didn¡¯t want to shit in it,¡± Rick mused as he wandered deeper into the mechanical heart of the cockpit. ¡°But truth be told, they¡¯re broken for the same reason too!¡± ¡°Are you suggesting I break the rules?¡± Amelia teased, her tone lightening. ¡°What was that!?¡± Rick shouted, his attention abruptly snapping to the control panels. ¡°Nothing!¡± Amelia replied, leaning on the same barricade Rick had just vacated, the wind tousling her hair. ¡°Hmm¡­¡± Rick muttered dismissively as he brushed off Amelia¡¯s smug smile. ¡°Keep your fat noggin¡¯ busy! I need to set our course. Go look around! Take a breath of that borrowed time you and I¡¯ve come to be so lucky to have.¡± ¡°And where might this next destination be, royal kidnapper?¡± Amelia asked, approaching the cockpit with a hint of curiosity. ¡°To Veranos! A miracle city in the sky, just outside of New Dwarden,¡± Rick proclaimed, his voice carrying through the air. ¡°Whether you choose to come with us or stay in those blackened mines, we¡¯re likely to meet more of those creatures gunnin¡¯ for a royal snack! Doesn¡¯t take much imagination to figure that situation out. I suggest you at least give this new nomadic life a try,¡± he shouted from deep within the lantern-lit cockpit. His voice softened as he added, ¡°Oh, and do take a moment to look around. Ya might have to cozy up a bit.¡± Amelia paused, taking a moment to absorb her surroundings. She frowned, Rick¡¯s casual mention of telling the Yardrats she was ¡°under arrest¡± gnawing at her. ¡°Rick¡­ you told them what?¡± ¡°Best settle down, Crowny. Far as they know, I¡¯m buried knee-deep in Primarian turf. You¡¯re in my custody for now. While we figure out why that monster had a taste for royalty, your job¡¯s on hold¡ªlegally waitin¡¯ for your return, should you decide to go back to chewin¡¯ rocks. So buckle up!¡± Rick¡¯s voice carried across the deck, punctuated by the rhythmic clinks and creaks of levers and contraptions. ¡°And remember, the mess that creature left behind won¡¯t be forgotten anytime soon.¡± Amelia exhaled deeply, the tension easing from her shoulders as she stepped out onto the open deck. For a moment, she stood still, her gaze sweeping over the ship¡¯s expansive design, caught between awe and the sheer magnitude of the vessel''s grandeur. Her spirit stirred with anticipation as she surveyed the Pappy Long Legs. Multiple masts reached toward the heavens, colorful flags fluttering in the wind. Giant fans, moist from clouds, hummed rhythmically. Wood and metal intertwined in a symphony of craftsmanship, each component contributing to the ship¡¯s formidable presence. It was a marvel of engineering, its design reminiscent of familiar machines and tools yet transformed into something entirely new. As Amelia marveled at its intricacies, the weight of her worries momentarily lifted, replaced by a sense of awe and excitement for the adventure ahead aboard this extraordinary vessel. She moved swiftly across the deck, her eyes darting to every corner of the ship. She first glanced at the giant rotating cogs that lined the ship¡¯s exterior, their rhythmic movements hypnotic and precise. Then she tilted her head toward the numerous plump pipes bursting with hot steam, blasting into the air like a giant organ. ¡°Spent too much time underground¡­¡± Amelia mused aloud, excitement bubbling up within her. She paused, taking a deep breath to steady herself as she shuffled toward the thick metallic railing encircling the airship. With a hopeful glance downward, she leaned over the railing, her gaze fixed on the world stretching below. And for a timeless moment, she was lost in the vast expanse of the horizon, the weight of her worries forgotten amidst the awe-inspiring panorama. Chapter 1: Devil Dogs Dice (Part 6) Amelia gazed down at the airship''s lower decks, marveling at the intricate machinery on each level. Rick hadn¡¯t just built a ship¡ªhe¡¯d crafted a mechanical wonder, a living organism of gears and cogs humming with life. Each piece seemed to serve a purpose, yet the entire structure felt as enigmatic as it was efficient. The first platform, situated on the airship''s lowermost level, appeared dedicated to navigation. Levers, knobs, buttons, and peculiar makeshift pulleys adorned its surface like the chaotic notes of an inventor¡¯s symphony. The second level, in stark contrast, resembled a blend of luxury and utility. Gleaming golden pipes snaked through hand-carved wooden furniture, while a glint of polished metal revealed what could only be a luxurious hot tub tucked among the machinery. "Rick! You have a hot bath?! In the air!?" Amelia¡¯s voice broke through the mechanical hum, brimming with disbelief and reluctant amusement. "Unheard of!" She leaned over another barricade, squinting toward the Pappy Long Legs¡¯ bow, where the swirling machinery suggested the engine compartment¡ªa mysterious clockwork heart hidden from view. The ship itself was a marvel, but its purpose and intricacies seemed as layered as its enigmatic creator. Minutes stretched into an hour as the airship soared higher, casting a vast shadow over the fields below. Amelia¡¯s gaze wandered to the endless green stretches of farmland, dotted with stone houses and the occasional windmill, a landscape so different from the stifling confines of the Conkle Mines. This was a world she had almost forgotten, reintroduced now through the Pappy Long Legs¡¯ expansive view. Lost in thought, she didn¡¯t notice Rick approaching until his gruff voice cut through the quiet. ¡°Watch yourself, Crowny. Dangle that noggin¡¯ any further, and gravity¡¯ll snatch ya quicker than you can say ¡®Morsha bread.¡¯¡± Amelia grinned, glancing sideways at him. ¡°Ah yes, gravity and I are old acquaintances. Like you and bread, I suppose.¡± Rick chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped beside her. His spider-like legs moved with a mechanical grace, the faint hiss of steam accompanying each step. ¡°Best we start talkin¡¯, don¡¯t you think?¡± He gestured toward a nearby table cluttered with tools and scraps of metal. ¡°Sit down. Take a breath. We¡¯ve got a moment before we blast through the clouds again.¡± Amelia hesitated before nodding. The idea of sitting, of pausing in the whirlwind of chaos, felt almost foreign. She darted past the catwalk with determined strides and settled onto a stool bolted to the deck. Rick followed, retrieving a blocky remote from his coat pocket. With a flick of a switch, his mechanical limbs retracted, and he lowered himself into a seat opposite her. From a small compartment beneath the table, he pulled out a bowl of warm bread and two stone cups of tea, placing them between them with practiced ease. Lighting a lantern, he pushed half a loaf toward her. ¡°Still hungry?¡± he asked with a smirk. ¡°This one¡¯s got shredded Gochican Fish in it. Quadrant five¡¯s best!¡± Amelia raised an eyebrow but didn¡¯t resist. ¡°Always.¡± She tore into the bread, the familiar crunch and savory warmth stirring memories she hadn¡¯t revisited in years. As she ate, Rick watched her with an expression that was both knowing and solemn. ¡°Oi! Enough starin¡¯, girl. I know I¡¯m a walkin¡¯ memory to you, but let¡¯s not dwell on the past, eh?¡± Amelia¡¯s smile softened. ¡°You¡¯re not just a memory, Tammersmith,¡± she murmured, her voice almost too quiet to hear over the hum of the ship. ¡°Not anymore.¡± Rick¡¯s scowl twitched, almost transforming into a smile before he turned away. ¡°Roy! How long ¡®til the fuel¡¯s ready?¡± he barked toward the far end of the ship, his voice echoing through the mechanical symphony. Roy¡¯s glowing eyes flickered in the distance. ¡°Approximately five minutes, Rick.¡± Rick nodded absently, his attention returning to the table. ¡°Crowny,¡± he began, his tone unusually gentle, ¡°the path we¡¯re on is foggy even to me. I don¡¯t have all the answers, but I know one thing¡ªyou¡¯re not in this alone.¡± Amelia swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on the flickering lantern between them. ¡°An ex-royal and an old man,¡± she muttered. ¡°What a pair.¡± Rick chuckled. ¡°Who else would ya want?¡± Before she could respond, he reached into his coat, producing a violet letter embroidered with gold. The wax seal bore the initials W.W. ¡°Take it,¡± Rick said, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic weight. ¡°It¡¯s from your brother.¡± Amelia¡¯s stomach tightened as she stared at the letter. ¡°Michael? King seat-splitter himself?¡± she spat, the bitterness in her voice unmistakable. ¡°Probably didn¡¯t even write it himself.¡± Rick didn¡¯t argue. ¡°Read it or don¡¯t. But I reckon it¡¯s worth opening.¡± After a long pause, Amelia snatched the letter from his hand. Years of anger and resentment simmered just beneath the surface, but curiosity proved stronger. Slowly, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter, the flickering lantern casting its light over the elegant script. Dear Tammersmith, As you know, Yerro has awoken. Creatures flood the capital, more are taken, and worse yet, our leaders are beginning to fall under his influence. Yerro¡¯s will grows stronger, binding us all to his awakening. I cannot continue to resist him, and as such, I must entrust you with a task of the utmost importance. Forgive me, I cannot disclose all details here for fear of interception. Amelia and Bolton must recover the 13 of what is considering rogue pieces of S-Class Gigarock scattered across each Quadrant of our kingdom. I trust you understand what that means. These pieces are not just fragments; they are critical to our strategy against Yerro. Without them, New Dwarden teeters on the brink of irreversible disaster. Unconventional measures are necessary for our salvation. I must also confess that my condition is deteriorating. Fatigue weighs heavily upon me, and time grows short. To aid in this mission, I have dispatched a trusted member of the Primarian Hammer, skilled in the old ways, to locate Bolton and bring him to the Primarian Royale. Despite the rules of the Greisha Ceremony, the fate of New Dwarden takes precedence over tradition or consequence. If the Primarian Hammer is successful, Bolton will meet you in Veranos. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Bolton carries all the knowledge we have regarding this predicament. Time is of the essence. Find Amelia swiftly and show her this letter if she doubts you. I know communicating with her is a risk, but you and I share a deeper understanding of those consequences. Amelia, if you are reading this, you may not yet understand everything. But know this: years ago, I ate your ham sandwich. Forgive me, and smile. Our survival depends on your resolve, Tammersmith. Trust no one outside this circle. With urgency and resolve, King Michael Woltwork Rick eased away from the table, his mechanical legs extending with a graceful hum as he took a contemplative stance. His gaze lingered on Amelia, seemingly captivated by the swift passage of time reflected in her eyes. In response, Amelia carefully returned the letter to Rick, her demeanor shifting to one of quiet introspection, her head bowed in thought. "I-I... why?" Amelia sighed heavily, her voice laden with a mixture of emotions. "I should hate him, but I don¡¯t," she admitted, her gaze unwavering as she looked directly at Rick, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "He¡¯s got Soul Rot, doesn¡¯t he?" ¡°Eh, you don¡¯t know that,¡± Rick replied nonchalantly, though a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. ¡°Besides, it¡¯s about as predictable as a Veranian storm cloud.¡± He paused, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his red circular glasses. With a deliberate slowness, he placed them on the bridge of his nose, the lenses catching the flickering light of the ship¡¯s lanterns. The action seemed more like a shield than necessity, his eyes hidden behind the reflective surface. Amelia raised her gaze from her lap to the man sitting before her. Rick, once legendarily strong and chiseled, now appeared fragile. His lips were dry, his eyes exhausted and detached behind his red glasses, and his head hung low, as if trying to stave off sleep. ¡°Do we know how long?¡± Amelia blurted out, shaking her head back and forth. ¡°Not relevant information,¡± Rick replied sternly, his distant stare silencing her. ¡°Not relevant!? Rick! Soul Rot¡¯s no jest, no joke! You don¡¯t just die from it! You ask for death!¡± Amelia¡¯s voice trembled with dread and concern. ¡°You damn well said it yourself!¡± ¡°Moments ago, you called your brother a brown-nosing seat-splitter, and now we¡¯re supposed to ignore Yerro? How its so-called benevolence has twisted into our curse?¡± Rick¡¯s voice cut through the air, heavy with frustration. ¡°I don¡¯t know all the details,¡± he admitted, his tone softening slightly. ¡°But if Yerro fully awakens, the City of New Dwarden is finished. Our entire infrastructure¡ªeverything¡ªbalances on the glass pinky of a giant. Its veins are our sewers, its head is our government... you get the idea,¡± Rick explained, gesturing vaguely, as though the fragility of it all didn¡¯t need further elaboration. Amelia locked eyes with Rick, her gaze unyielding despite the heaviness in the air. Rising from her stool, she began pacing the room, her steps uneven, betraying her inner turmoil. Finally, she stopped, leaning onto the table, her arm trembling under her weight. ¡°You know more,¡± she accused, her voice sharp and unwavering. Rick didn¡¯t flinch. ¡°I do,¡± he admitted, his tone low but steady. ¡°Then say it,¡± she demanded, the edge in her voice cutting through the tension. ¡°Nothing relevant to you,¡± Rick replied, his words measured, his expression unreadable. Amelia scoffed, the bitterness in her laugh unmistakable. ¡°And I¡¯m supposed to just trust you?¡± she snapped, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t,¡± Rick said simply, nodding slowly. For a brief moment, his eyes seemed distant, as if the room had darkened under the weight of an unspoken truth. Her gaze bore into him, her voice softening as it cracked under the weight of her next words. ¡°Is there a cure?¡± she murmured, the question barely escaping her throat. ¡°No. There ain¡¯t no ancient ale, super ore, or wandering doctor that¡¯ll heal me¡­or your brother,¡± Rick muttered, picking up another piece of Morsha bread, his eyes hiding behind the soft reflection of his red circular glasses. ¡°I got an expiration date like soggin¡¯ milk now. And that¡¯s all there is to it.¡± ¡°Okay, so you¡¯re just another person I care about, ready to leave! Giving up!¡± Amelia blurted, her green eyes vulnerable with pain. ¡°You just met me! I¡¯m old! I was going to die anyway! My mistake! My¡ª¡± Rick yelled, his mechanical legs raising him high over the table, causing a bowl of bread to tumble forward. ¡°Tammersm¡ª¡± Amelia tried to speak. ¡°Responsibility. My responsibility. And my name¡¯s Rick!¡± Rick shouted, cutting her off. The ship fell into a void of silence. ¡°I go by Rick now,¡± he said softly, his voice quieting from the outburst. ¡°WHY¡¯D YOU DO IT!? WHY DID HE DO IT!?" Amelia cried, her voice trembling as she wiped her eyes and refocused. "You don¡¯t have a child. You don¡¯t know," Rick replied earnestly, his tone heavy with gravity. "No! DOES MY BROTHER KNOW!?" Amelia demanded, slamming her arms on the table. "What happened to you, Tammersmith!? What¡¯s going to happen?" ¡°Crowny, don¡¯t talk to me like I don¡¯t know what it feels like to have your heart ripped out! Stomped on, Amelia!¡± Rick blurted out, his mechanical arms flailing in an emotional flurry before settling down. ¡°These are hard choices, child! There is no right or wrong! There are more important things than living a long time¡­¡± ¡°Like what?¡± Amelia whispered, a lump forming in her throat as her stance softened, retreating upon seeing Rick¡¯s rage. ¡°Roy, Amelia,¡± Rick replied sternly, his voice trembling as the sound of ticking gears grew louder from the center of his chest. ¡°The King loves you more than any citizen in this city. New Dwarden be damned if my son is dying,¡± Rick shouted, his voice quivering with silent anger. ¡°I don¡¯t know what he did, but the King¡¯s a better man than me.¡± Amelia stood up from her stool, her balance wavering as she walked toward Rick, whose head was now bowed in rage. She gently placed her hand on his shoulder. ¡°...he¡¯s your son. Roy¡¯s your son,¡± she said, her voice swelling with sadness, as if understanding, for a moment, that things were not as they appeared. Rick looked at Amelia, his clouded brown eyes softening at her pouting face. ¡°Eh, you¡¯re young. There are many ways to tweak a cog anew. I¡¯m old; I prefer one.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Rick,¡± Amelia said softly, adjusting her overalls. ¡°The creature that attacked me¡ªit scares me. Rattles me. And if my brother knows, well¡­ he must be in danger too,¡± she continued distantly. ¡°Guess we all have to consider ¡®unconventional measures¡¯ now, huh?¡± Amelia glanced toward Roy, who was diligently working in the cockpit of the Pappy Long Legs, his focus unwavering. Despite the gravity of their conversation, she felt a warmth toward him. With a small smile, she waved to Roy. He looked up, returned the gesture with a friendly nod, and then went back to his tasks, seemingly without a care in the world. ¡°Not too long ago, Roy fell victim to a bond with a nefarious spirit. The wicked kind. The kind that lures your darkness into sinister spaces. My son... wasn¡¯t perfect. Hell, he couldn''t drown a fly in the rain, let alone use a hammer and chisel, but desperation caught him at his lowest. And like me, he made a terrible deal. Just know, Amelia, the King¡¯s likely got his rear hung on a similarly swirled horn,¡± Rick recalled, his eyes reflecting the sadness that weighed heavily upon him. ¡°What kind of deal?¡± Amelia asked, her voice faltering as she sought answers. Chapter 1: Devil Dogs Dice (Part 7) Amelia¡¯s hand lingered on the table, her knuckles pale as she steadied herself. The words of her brother¡¯s letter still swirled in her mind like an unwelcome storm. ¡°Doesn¡¯t feel real,¡± she muttered, breaking the silence. Rick, who had been quietly adjusting a few knobs on the wall panel, glanced over his shoulder. ¡°Nothing feels real after somethin¡¯ like that. Trust me, Crowny. Ain¡¯t the first time the world¡¯s cracked open under my boots.¡± ¡°But Soul Rot? And this¡ªthis quest for Gigarock? My brother sending letters like he¡¯s already a ghost¡­¡± She trailed off, her voice wavering. Rick adjusted his red glasses, masking whatever emotion flickered across his face. ¡°The King¡¯s got his reasons, just like we¡¯ve got ours. Ain¡¯t no use in fixating on what¡¯s already written. What matters now is the ink we¡¯re about to spill.¡± Amelia gave a bitter laugh, shaking her head. ¡°Is that supposed to be comforting? Because I¡¯ve been holding this pen for years, and the page just keeps getting messier.¡± Rick chuckled, low and gravelly. ¡°Messy pages tell the best stories. Neat ones usually don¡¯t get read.¡± Before she could respond, Rick cleared the table in a few swift motions, his mechanical arms moving with a precision that seemed at odds with the randomness of the task. As the clinking plates and shuffling tools settled, Rick began tapping out a rhythm on the metallic surface. Amelia¡¯s gaze lingered on the table, her fingers tracing the grooves in the worn surface. The weight of her brother¡¯s words loomed heavy over her. She broke the silence, her voice quiet but resolute. ¡°Is Roy really your son? Does Soul Rot have a cure?¡± Rick paused, his mechanical arms stilling mid-motion as if the question had struck a hidden nerve. He adjusted his red circular glasses, the flickering lantern light reflecting off the lenses and obscuring his eyes. ¡°Crowny, you¡¯re chasin¡¯ shadows with questions like that.¡± His voice softened, but the edges of his tone carried something unspoken, something raw. Amelia pressed on, her voice trembling. ¡°You¡¯re asking me to trust you, to believe in this... this impossible mission. But how am I supposed to trust anything when everything feels like it¡¯s falling apart? When even my brother¡ª¡± She stopped herself, her breath hitching. Rick turned to face her fully, leaning on the table with his mechanical arms, the faint hum of his limbs filling the silence. ¡°Stop. No more about my son. Just look at him.¡± He gestured toward Roy, who was busy at the controls, his movements fluid and purposeful. ¡°He¡¯s alive. I¡¯m alive. Your brother is alive. And so are you. Gamblin¡¯ don¡¯t give ya¡¯ better odds.¡± His voice was firm, but there was a tenderness beneath the gruff exterior, a vulnerability that he rarely let slip through. He straightened, his gaze locking with hers. ¡°You think I don¡¯t feel it too? The weight of all this? The choices I¡¯ve made? But Roy¡¯s proof. Proof that even in the worst damn circumstances, we can still take a swing at the impossible.¡± Amelia¡¯s shoulders sagged, her hand gripping the edge of the table as if trying to anchor herself. ¡°And what happens if we swing and miss?¡± Rick¡¯s lips twitched into a faint smile. ¡°Then we try again. Or someone else does. But either way, Crowny, we don¡¯t stop swingin¡¯.¡± An awkward pause hung in the air, broken only by the steady tapping of Rick¡¯s fingers. Then, without warning, a whistle escaped his lips, soft and lilting, intertwining with the rhythm. ¡°Listen for now,¡± Rick urged, his eyes softening as he glanced at Amelia. The melody caught Roy¡¯s attention across the platform. The mechanical boy paused his work and, almost instinctively, began to hum and whistle along. The sounds of the Pappy Long Legs¡ªits whirring gears and hissing steam¡ªseemed to shift in response. The cacophony softened, transforming into a harmonious backdrop. The clatter of its mechanics fell in time with the beat, creating the illusion that the ship itself was joining the song. Amelia tilted her head, her frown easing. ¡°Is it just me, or is this ship... humming?¡± Rick grinned, his whistling pausing for just a moment. ¡°That¡¯s the old girl for you. She¡¯s alive in her own way. Been waiting for a tune to remind her.¡± Amelia blinked, watching the way the gears turned in time with the beat, the hissing steam releasing in soft, measured bursts that mimicked a sigh of relief. The ship seemed to exhale with them, the weight of their worries momentarily lifted. For the first time since stepping aboard, she felt the Pappy Long Legs wasn¡¯t just carrying them¡ªit was guiding them. She turned back to Rick, her voice quieter now, tinged with nostalgia. "My mother used to say something before every lullaby, every song. It was her way of showing gratitude, like she believed even sleep deserved respect." Rick adjusted his glasses, his expression softening. "The Queen was wise. Nothing silly about that at all," he nodded, his voice steady as he firmly shook Amelia¡¯s hand. "Nothing at all," Amelia agreed, her voice soft yet resolute. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. With a quiet breath, she closed her eyes, letting the memory wash over her. ¡°Went like this,¡± she recited, her tone shifting to one of gentle reverence: Dear Amelia: Deep in the night, you twist and you turn Hush now and sleep, for peace will return Work through the night, rest through the day In dreams, find comfort, lead worries astray For gears and cogs, cost fingers a day Awake forever, I¡¯m here to stay "I always hum the tune before every song, prance, or dance," Amelia admitted, her voice soft with nostalgia. A chuckle escaped her, though it was tinged with a quiet melancholy. ¡°Unconventional indeed, Crowny!¡± Rick cheered, his tone brightening as if her admission had lifted some of the tension in the air. "And with that, everything will magically fall into place, I assume?" Amelia quipped, arching an eyebrow at Rick. Rick let out a hearty laugh. ¡°Smell the flowers that come after the storm! We simply must embrace all of the signs given to us. Each and every scent! Whether it¡¯s bitter like Quadrant Three¡¯s Barley Beer or sweet as Whistletop¡¯s Candy! That¡¯s the philosophy this New Dwarden has given us,¡± he explained earnestly, his gaze thoughtful yet oddly optimistic. Amelia smirked, shaking her head. "Alright! I¡¯ll bite. Best show you this Yardrat¡¯s secret skill," she remarked, her voice infused with determination as she stood, ready to match their energy. Her movements, hesitant at first, became more fluid as the rhythm of the Pappy Long Legs filled the room, almost daring her to join in. Of gears o'' brass and steam we dwell, Where toil and hustle our feet never fell, A world of wonders, shinin¡¯ and bright, But change creeps in wi'' each comin'' night. (Chorus) Oooooooh, winds of change, they¡¯ve blown so strong, In this steam world below all the fog, Wi'' every cog n¡¯ every gear, Our future''s path been never so clear. Ooooo airships glide o''er skies o'' gold, Tales o'' change are often told, For progress marches to ever-unfold, Through the clockwork mist, our destinies mold. (Chorus) Oooooooh, winds of change, they¡¯ve blown so strong, In this steam world below all the fog, Wi'' every cog n¡¯ every gear, Our future''s path been never so clear. "No need to rush a spark into the rain!" Rick called out, his voice tinged with urgency and playful energy as he glanced at Amelia. "Pappy''s already scraping the clouds! We¡¯ll hit top speeds soon enough." Amelia stepped closer, redirecting the tea cup Rick had just lifted. "Before we go, and everything gets worse, there¡¯s something you need to hear," she said firmly. Rick arched an eyebrow, surprised at her boldness. "And what might that be, Crowny?" "My day started normal," Amelia began, her voice sharpening. "I didn¡¯t just stumble into that sewer like a blind mouse chasing scraps. There was this... blinding blue light from my locket. It grew, then shrank, and before I could make sense of it, the Little Creek badges showed up, cuffing me on the spot! They were terrified¡ªcalling me a demon. Scared me too. So, I ran." Rick¡¯s expression darkened, his gaze steady but troubled. "And then?" "They chased me into the sewer under the Loshlit Tavern," she continued, her tone faltering. "I thought they had me cornered, but then¡­ this thing appeared. It wasn¡¯t natural¡ªlike an animal and machine fused together. Rage poured off it, Rick, like it lived just to destroy. I¡¯ve never seen anything like it. I don¡¯t want to see it again." Rick nodded slowly, his mechanical arms lowering slightly. "Don¡¯t dwell on it, Amelia. Let¡¯s get far away from here before that beast has another chance to sniff ya out." Amelia hesitated, gripping the edge of the table. "How far is this city?" "Far enough," Rick replied as he approached the helm. The gear-shaped steering wheel gleamed in the rising sunlight, perched on a podium of polished wood and golden pipes. His mechanical limbs moved in harmony, pulling levers, twisting knobs, and spinning the wheel with practiced precision. Amelia smirked, crossing her arms. "About time I see the world from above." Rick grinned, calling over his shoulder. "Like a fish finally getting a look at the land he¡¯s been livin¡¯ under! Now grab a rail or find Roy for a room downstairs¡ªdon¡¯t much care which!" She chuckled softly, the crisp air carrying the scent of steam and oil, mingling with the faint sweetness of the sky¡¯s untouched altitude. She leaned against the railing, gazing at the vibrant hues of dawn spreading across the horizon. The warmth of the sun felt closer than ever, its light brushing her face as the wind rushed past. "Roy!" Rick bellowed, his voice cutting through the hum of the ship¡¯s engines. "Man the controls! We¡¯re heading out! Away from these thirteen bygone quadrants and toward Veranus across the Longhill Plains! Beyond the lands of New Dwarden¡ªtoward machines and mischief!" The Pappy Long Legs thrummed beneath her feet, its steady vibration resonating like a pulse through the deck. Below, fields and scattered towns stretched endlessly, their shadows elongating as the ship climbed higher. Amelia touched her locket, its dim blue glow pulsing faintly in time with the engines. Rick turned from the controls, his tone softening. "Veranus ain¡¯t the safest city, but it¡¯s where we¡¯ll get some answers. And your Crowny brother requested it." Amelia nodded, but her gaze remained fixed on the horizon. Her thoughts wandered to her brothers¡ªBolton and Michael. Were they safe, or had New Dwarden¡¯s politics consumed them both? The ship groaned softly, a creak of its wood and a hiss of its steam blending into the hum of its engines. The Pappy Long Legs felt alive¡ªits rhythmic song shifting as though it were responding to their burdens. Rick¡¯s voice interrupted her thoughts. "Amelia, you¡¯ve got a choice. Stand here worryin¡¯, or grab hold of this adventure we¡¯ve been tossed into. Your brothers would want you to keep swingin¡¯, no matter what¡¯s out there." Amelia clenched her fists, then released them, exhaling slowly. The ship climbed higher into the clouds, the wind whipping around her. The orange-hued dawn painted the horizon in brilliant shades of hope and uncertainty. The locket pulsed again against her chest, the rhythm faint but steady. With one last glance toward the rising sun, Amelia smiled faintly, her resolve hardening as the Pappy Long Legs carried her into the unknown. Chapter 2: Braverys Whistle (Part 1) Bolton Woltwork Approximately 24 hours earlier] Deep in the heart of New Dwarden, nestled between Quadrants One and Two, lay Whistletop Alley¡ªa vibrant hub where distinctions of status, sex, and species dissolved into the chaos of thickening crowds. By day, the alley buzzed with activity as vendors from across the quadrants peddled exotic goods and street performers entertained families and travelers alike. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, Whistletop Alley transformed into a realm of vice and wonder, unburdened by the exposing rays of daylight. As dusk settled, grills ignited, entertainers donned elaborate costumes, and musicians tuned their instruments to perfection. The tantalizing scent of grilled and spiced meats danced through the air, mingling with the rhythmic hum of melodic performances and the clatter of coins changing hands. Under the amber glow of lanterns, the alley became a labyrinth of temptation and spectacle, earning its local moniker: the ¡°Blown Whistle District.¡± Whistletop Alley¡¯s charm extended beyond its lively atmosphere. Its quaint architecture¡ªorange brick facades, cobblestone streets, and winding alleys¡ªexuded an irresistible allure. Tall rooftops and gaping sewer grates whispered tales of hidden treasures and secrets, beckoning adventurous souls to uncover the mysteries tucked into every nook and cranny. Tonight, however, Whistletop Alley held an even greater allure. Amidst the fire-lit festivities of a warm summer night, a commotion shattered the revelry. Heads turned upward toward the rooftops, where a lithe figure moved with uncanny grace. ¡°By the dog neath¡¯ its tail! It¡¯s that damn¡­ bleedin¡¯¡­¡± a vendor stammered, his voice trailing off in shock. Another onlooker gasped, and the name passed through the crowd like wildfire: the infamous Whistletop Burglar. The crowd erupted in a mixture of awe and fear. Some cheered and raised their mugs in amusement, while others muttered prayers or cursed the silhouette dancing above them. Regardless of their reaction, every gaze was fixed on the young man moving effortlessly among the winding pipes and oscillating cogs that formed the canopy above. Bolton Woltwork, mischief twinkling in his emerald-green eyes, moved as if the chaos below were his stage. Each step echoed like a well-rehearsed note in an erratic symphony. Hot white steam hissed from his boots, trailing behind him like a ghostly plume. ¡°Vermolly! Would ya'' wiggle out of my hat for a moment? Whistletop¡¯s even better than Danny said! Quadrant Nine¡¯s got nothin¡¯ like this!¡± Bolton adjusted his hat, waiting. ¡°Vermolly?¡± he asked, concern creeping into his voice. A tug at his hair answered, and he sighed. ¡°Right. Still babysitting the frogs,¡± he muttered with a grin, scanning the crowd. ¡°This bumpkin¡¯s stealing the spotlight already? I haven¡¯t even done a flip yet!¡± he shouted, his voice carrying over the din. ¡°Guess I¡¯ll name this air contraption later,¡± he added, adjusting his bowler hat theatrically before pausing atop a red tent to plot his next move. ¡°Impure thief! Freak of a half-breed!¡± shouted a group of men from below. Bolton tilted his head in mock confusion, the moonlight reflecting off his goggles. Dressed in a brown bowler hat, dark overcoat, golden suspenders, white shirt, and scuffed brown boots, he resembled the tradesmen of old. Yet his presence stirred unease. Cries of ¡°Demon!¡± and ¡°Burglar!¡± rose from the crowd. Unfazed, Bolton raised his arms in a theatrical gesture. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, I¡¯m back! It¡¯s been too long, hasn¡¯t it? Now, can any of you fine folk direct me to the original Akiyoma Airship?¡± His voice was light and playful, but the crowd¡¯s jeers drowned him out. ¡°Prison¡¯s where you¡¯ll find your directions, thief!¡± a toothless old man bellowed. ¡°Wrong person!? I¡¯m not from here!¡± snapped Bolton, losing balance on the red tent he perched upon. ¡°Wrong person! Tell the Clinkers that! Monster boy!¡± added another from below. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. ¡°What¡¯s this, then? Did that thief swipe your teeth along with your sense of humor?¡± Bolton quipped. His smile faltered as the crowd¡¯s frustration swelled, and he wiped a chunk of food from his shoulder, hurled from below. With a sigh, Bolton vanished into a puff of steam, leaving the crowd to redirect their attention to a passing parade float: a giant frog puffing on an oversized pipe. Almost offended by how quickly they dismissed him, Bolton¡¯s gaze lingered on the float. Memories of his family surfaced, unbidden. He daydreamed of a time when laughter and connection were his daily reality. A rustling sound drew Bolton¡¯s attention back to the crowd. Among the revelers, he noticed a woman with short black hair, elegantly dressed in a black skirt and top. Her subtle red nose and large, expressive eyes framed by dark makeup drew his focus. She laughed with her friends, their bond evident in every shared glance and gesture. Bolton¡¯s chest tightened as he watched her disappear into the throng. Reaching into his front jacket pocket, Bolton retrieved a small, tarnished pocket watch that held more than just time. Flipping it open, he traced the engraving inside: ¡°Strength for today, hope for tomorrow.¡± Opposite the engraving was a small picture of his family, the same one nestled in Amelia''s locket. The faces stared back at him with a bittersweet familiarity. His eyes lingered on Amelia, her freckled face alight with mischief even in the still image. He chuckled softly, remembering her words: ¡°Stay away from those kinds of girls, Bolton.¡± The memory tugged at his lips, forming a faint smile. Snapping the watch shut, he tucked it away, the weight of it grounding him as his resolve hardened. Far below, the crowd¡¯s attention shifted as towering Clinkers emerged from the shadows. These mechanical beings, their angular faces and rotating cogs casting eerie shadows, stalked the alley like scarecrows. Colorful smoke billowed from their gaping mouths, and their yellow, crosshatched eyes scanned the crowd with an unsettling intensity. Most Clinkers moved with an almost lazy efficiency, but one stood out. Littered with confetti and splashes of random paint, it tilted its head in an oddly human gesture before lifting itself high on metallic stilts. Its eyes flashed red as it focused on Bolton, its movements deliberate and unnerving. ¡°New programming I imagine? My brother¡¯s been busy,¡± Bolton muttered, his voice low. With a sharp burst of steam, Bolton launched himself to another rooftop, his air shoes hissing beneath him. The crowd¡¯s murmurs became a distant hum as he soared above the maze of lantern-lit streets. The whirring contraption strapped beneath his jacket groaned faintly, its cogs and pistons straining with every calculated jump. Suddenly, a high-pitched whistle cut through the air, followed by a loud pop. Bolton¡¯s heart sank. ¡°Vermolly! It might be happening again¡­¡± he groaned, feeling the pressure falter in his left boot. The contraption¡¯s uneven thrust sent him careening off-course, his arms flailing as he slammed into a food stall below. Crates toppled. Skewers of sizzling meat flew in every direction, and a cascade of sticky sauces coated Bolton from head to toe. He hit the ground with a groan, clutching his hat tightly to protect Vermolly and her precious frog cargo. The crowd roared with laughter. ¡°Look at this flying buffoon! Flying high yet can''t afford to fall,¡± jeered a vendor, slapping his knee. Others weren¡¯t as amused. ¡°Laugh somewhere else! Look at this mess!¡± the vendor barked, waving a dripping ladle at Bolton. ¡°Call the Clinkers! He¡¯s ruined my stall!¡± a woman added, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon. Bolton scrambled to his feet, wiping sauce from his goggles. ¡°Relax, everyone! Free samples for all, courtesy of this fine establishment!¡± he announced with mock cheer, gesturing toward the ruined stall. The crowd¡¯s laughter swelled, and Bolton seized the distraction to adjust his contraption, his fingers fumbling over the array of brass valves and leather straps. His ¡°air contraption¡± was a marvel of crude ingenuity, a patchwork of brass tubing, polished copper gears, and stitched leather belts. The main apparatus rested snugly against his back, powered by a small steam engine that hissed and sputtered with every movement. Twin exhaust vents jutted from his shoulders, releasing bursts of pressurized steam that propelled him skyward. Meanwhile, his boots, reinforced with steel plates and outfitted with miniature thrusters, provided additional lift and balance. ¡°Nose up. Feet together. Easy now,¡± Bolton whispered, tightening a valve as the engine sputtered back to life. He adjusted his bowler hat with a smirk, his gaze darting toward the painted Clinker in the distance. It stood eerily still, its yellow eyes gleaming ominously through the chaos. Yet, despite its motionless legs, Bolton couldn¡¯t shake the unsettling feeling that it was somehow drawing closer. Bolton exhaled sharply, steeling himself. ¡°Right then. Onward and upward,¡± he muttered before disappearing once more into the night, leaving a trail of steam and bewildered onlookers in his wake. Chapter 2: Braverys Whistle (Part 2) Bolton landed on a low rooftop, the distant crackle of fireworks breaking the stillness around him. Wincing, he adjusted his stance as a sharp ache flared in his side. ¡°Now, before we willingly... Dammit! Relax¡­ risk everything by breaking the say-sanctity of the Greisha ceremony,¡± he muttered. A pained grin flickered across his face as he shifted his weight and tightened the straps of his air contraption, checking a loose valve. Before he could continue, a sharp mechanical whir from a distant Clinker pierced the air, cutting through the faint murmurs of the crowd below. Bolton froze, his emerald-green eyes darting toward the sound. In the corner of his vision, he spotted the familiar, eerie silhouette of the towering machine as it emerged from the shadowy edges of Akiyoma Square. Lantern light danced off its angular, metallic form, its yellow, crosshatched eyes scanning the bustling alley. A trail of exhaust hissed from its vents, and its head tilted with a disturbing semblance of curiosity. Bolton tensed, instinctively stepping back into the shadows of the rooftop. The Clinker paused, its movements deliberate and unsettling. Then, with a soft whirr and a burst of steam, it turned and disappeared into the swirling haze near the square¡¯s edge. Bolton exhaled, his breath slow and controlled as he reached up to adjust his brown bowler hat. From beneath the brim, a croaky voice emerged. ¡°You can stand to be more patient! And by the powers of earth and sea,¡± Vermolly gasped, ¡°may Yerro bless me with a touch of cool air. Unlike a frog, I cannot endure this warmth for long.¡± Amidst the firework-lit haze, a small webbed green hand emerged from under the hat, lifting it slightly to reveal eight pairs of luminous yellow eyes blinking in rapid succession. Each eye shimmered with colorful slit irises encircled by mesmerizing rotating patterns. Bolton couldn¡¯t help but grin as the faint smell of cooked meats and festival smoke drifted through the air, mingling with muffled laughter and the distant clinking of mugs. The vibrant hum of Whistletop Alley swelled below, accented by the lively notes of an accordion weaving through the commotion. His gaze shifted beyond the alley, toward the imposing outline of the Akiyoma, towering proudly in the square¡¯s center. The airship¡¯s gleaming hull caught the reflection of the fireworks, and its intricate carvings glinted in the lantern light. Despite the distractions around him, Bolton¡¯s focus sharpened, and his grip tightened on the strap of his air contraption. ¡°Best stay clear of those Clinkers tonight,¡± Vermolly muttered as she crawled out from under the hat, dangling in front of Bolton¡¯s face. Her glowing nearly iridescent eyes narrowed as if she shared his unease. Bolton gave a faint nod, his voice low. ¡°Clinkers got an upgrade. Even among the crowds, they might be onto us.¡± With another glance toward Akiyoma Square, his lips twitched into a smirk. ¡°Still, can¡¯t let a little thing like that keep us grounded. Sides, these Gale Frogs have to fly.¡± Among the nine creatures nestled within Bolton¡¯s hat, Vermolly, a pocket-sized Alchemian, crawled out and dangled proudly in front of him. Her webbed fingers gripped the hat¡¯s rim with practiced ease, her glowing yellow eyes gleaming with mischievous intelligence. ¡°I¡¯m afraid the Greisha ceremony is something you are compelled to respect,¡± Vermolly said, her smirk widening. ¡°You can¡¯t just break it because you feel like it.¡± Bolton frowned, fiddling with a buckle on his contraption. ¡°Okay, I get that. But how do you know so much about it?¡± ¡°Collective memory,¡± Vermolly replied with a flick of her tiny hand, her tone dripping with pride. ¡°Ah, right,¡± Bolton muttered, his voice laced with mock understanding. ¡°Memories you can pick and choose from¡ªnothing like humans. You¡¯re the furthest thing from us.¡± Her smirk deepened. ¡°Going back thousands of years, Bolton. How far do your memories go?¡± ¡°Twenty-three,¡± he quipped, flashing a grin before his voice softened. ¡°What happens if I break the Greisha ceremony?¡± The question hung in the air, heavier than he intended. ¡°Soul Rot, to start,¡± Vermolly answered, her voice steady and calm. ¡°Unless Yerro deems the breach to serve a deal of greater value or importance.¡± The faint hiss of a Clinker¡¯s exhaust sounded somewhere below, drawing Bolton¡¯s eyes briefly to the flickering lanterns swaying above the crowded alley. He tugged at a leather strap on his contraption, tightening it. ¡°Or¡­ if someone already broke it.¡± Vermolly tilted her head, her fingers tapping the brim of his hat. ¡°Possibly,¡± she said, curiosity lacing her tone. ¡°But regardless, we Alchemians abide by less divisive customs. Maybe you humans could learn a thing or two.¡± Bolton chuckled dryly, though the tension in his shoulders remained. ¡°Yeah, yeah. Wisdom from a species that spits acid when annoyed.¡± ¡°Wisdom and practical defenses,¡± Vermolly corrected with a sly grin. Her gaze sharpened as she perched on his shoulder. The faint rumble of a festival drum floated up, punctuating the vibrant chaos below. ¡°Let¡¯s hear it, Bolton. Did the black-haired girl remind you of her?¡± Caught off guard, Bolton blinked. ¡°Who?¡± Vermolly smirked. ¡°I don¡¯t need to tap into the Alchemian collective to see that she did,¡± she teased, tapping his nose until he crinkled it. Bolton twitched, ready to sneeze, before gently swatting her sticky hand away. ¡°It wasn¡¯t going to work out,¡± Bolton muttered, his voice heavy with defeat. ¡°What¡¯s not?¡± Vermolly asked, her eyes narrowing as if the city below ceased to exist. Bolton¡¯s hands swept outward toward the sprawling cityscape. ¡°I¡¯m¡­so¡­ SO OUT HERE,¡± he exclaimed dramatically. ¡°And she¡¯s so in there,¡± he continued, pointing to his heart. ¡°It¡¯s stupid, but that¡¯s all I got. It¡¯s like a wolf trying to kiss a hare.¡± ¡°Why limit yourself to just two schools of thought?¡± Vermolly asked with mock seriousness. ¡°...and I take it you¡¯re the tough wolf?¡± ¡°Sure ain¡¯t the hare,¡± Bolton replied with forced confidence. ¡°She¡¯s scared of the world. I¡¯m not. I want to whisk her away. She doesn¡¯t want to go,¡± he murmured, his voice trailing off. ¡°When we¡¯re together, it¡¯s like our eyes burn bright together. But adventure seems to only call for me¡­¡± The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°Maybe she isn¡¯t ready. Matters of the soul are like seeds,¡± Vermolly said gently. ¡°If we focus on growth, who knows what you both might become? Friends, best friends, lovers¡ªit doesn¡¯t matter when the future is unknown. The best thing we can do is love all the same. Pursue your ambitions and let growth come to you. If it¡¯s her path, she¡¯ll follow. Otherwise, look forward, like humans usually do.¡± Bolton sighed deeply, letting her words sink in. ¡°I almost stayed at the shop today. I didn¡¯t want to risk it all over a fancy letter,¡± he admitted. ¡°How did that ol¡¯ guy even know where I was?¡± ¡°Sounds like you regret snatching the letter from his satchel,¡± Vermolly accused, her tone laced with playful reproach. Bolton shook his head, smirking faintly. ¡°Another royal ready to rope me into rituals or rules? No thanks. I recognized the badge, saw the seal on his hand. That¡¯s all I needed.¡± ¡°Needed for what?¡± Vermolly pressed. ¡°To know he means business,¡± Bolton replied, his grin fading. ¡°In the eyes of the public, Bolton Woltwork is dead. All that¡¯s left is the shop name.¡± Vermolly tilted her head, her webbed fingers tapping on his collar. ¡°Never liked that name.¡± ¡°What? Paxton?¡± Bolton glanced at her, feigning offense. ¡°It¡¯s an inner Quadrant name. Inspired by the Giants who helped build this city. Sophisticated,¡± he added with a wry smile. ¡°Sophisticated,¡± Vermolly echoed with mock solemnity. ¡°Sure, if you¡¯re trying to impress some stuffy Quadrant Four banker.¡± ¡°Hey, best know that names turned heads!¡± Bolton chuckled, adjusting a loose strap on his contraption. ¡°Paxton is a name people trust. A name people think about.¡± ¡°Trust to tinker with their trash,¡± Vermolly quipped, earning a soft laugh from Bolton. Bolton smirked faintly, though his unease lingered. Vermolly positioned herself in front of him, her large eyes meeting his. ¡°The letter. The king is ¡®risking it all¡¯ just meeting with you. Soul Rot is what waits beyond breaching the Greisha Ceremony,¡± she said. ¡°At least, one would hope it¡¯s worth it.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t trust royalty. Unless it¡¯s my brother himself, I¡¯m not dealin¡¯ with them. Everything feels wrong. My brother and I aren¡¯t ever to communicate again¡ªthat¡¯s the condition of that stupid ceremony. As far as I know, the letter still counts,¡± Bolton said, his voice tight with worry. ¡°And your older sister?¡± Vermolly asked softly. ¡°Think she got a letter too?¡± Bolton hesitated. ¡°Amelia? Last I heard, she walked toward Quadrant Seven. Five years ago.¡± He pointed absently behind him. ¡°She and I were close.¡± ¡°Were?¡± Vermolly pressed. Bolton¡¯s shoulders sagged. ¡°I got nothin¡¯ against her. She just disappeared, ya know? Straight into the crowd, and¡­that¡¯s the last I saw her.¡± He glanced toward the pocket watch hanging from his jacket. ¡°She was good to me.¡± With a satisfying click, Bolton opened the golden pocket watch, revealing a softly glowing Gigarock embedded within. On the opposite side, a small black-and-white photograph captured three children standing with the former King and Queen Woltwork. The faces stared back, frozen in a moment of bittersweet simplicity. Vermolly leaned closer, her luminous yellow eyes narrowing in curiosity as they lingered on the photo¡¯s details. ¡°Every time you open that, I¡¯m reminded of how strange your customs are. Carrying something so much like a beating heart in a pocket watch¡ªit¡¯s unnervingly poetic.¡± Bolton smirked faintly. ¡°I thought you¡¯d take another jab at my goofy picture. Amelia¡¯s buck teeth? My expert ability to look anywhere but the camera?¡± She chuckled, her gaze softening as it swept over the image. ¡°Tempting, but not today.¡± Bolton traced the edge of the watch with his thumb. ¡°Good. I¡¯m not in the mood for heckling anyway.¡± Vermolly¡¯s voice dropped to a murmur, her fond smile curling slightly. ¡°So much changes, yet so little does.¡± Bolton¡¯s gaze lingered on the photo, his thumb brushing over the faint, timeworn scratches on the glass. ¡°If a royal summons you, it¡¯s law to oblige,¡± he said, his voice tinged with resignation. ¡°Break it, and¡­ well, maybe Soul Rot ain¡¯t so bad after all.¡± His words hung in the air, heavy with bitterness as his eyes drifted back to the photo, searching for something long lost. ¡°The letter said, ¡®blah blah blah, of grave importance. The King summons you,¡¯¡± Bolton muttered, his tone dripping with mockery. His thumb idly traced the edges of the photograph. ¡°I don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on with my brother, but if I¡¯m breaking this Greisha ceremony, it¡¯s gonna be on my terms.¡± Amelia smiled with missing teeth, flashing a peace sign as she cuddled next to their mother. Michael¡ªthe current king¡ªstood rigid and unsmiling beside their father, his posture already betraying the weight of his future role. Bolton, meanwhile, had lifted his shirt to proudly display a toy airplane beneath, his carefree grin stark against the prim formality of his siblings. The stain on his shirt¡ªa remnant of some long-forgotten meal¡ªseemed to perfectly encapsulate who he was, even then. ¡°You don¡¯t change, do you?¡± Vermolly observed with a soft laugh. Bolton chuckled, snapping the watch shut. ¡°Neither does my brother. He¡¯s never been one to take risks. I can¡¯t help but be curious about what this is about,¡± he said, perching his chin on his hand as he dangled his feet over the crow¡¯s nest. ¡°So, let¡¯s meet this sewer boy mentioned in that other letter and get back to our humble garage?¡± Vermolly suggested. ¡°We are to wait for a signal near a manhole correct?¡± Bolton grinned. ¡°Yup. It was more like a note on a crumpled napkin, but yeah, let¡¯s not waste time. The signal¡¯s likely to show up any moment now.¡± His eyes shone with determination as he surveyed the ship. Bolton stood, his gaze lifting to the sky as he adjusted his suspenders with a practiced motion. Gently, he scooped Vermolly onto his palm, her tiny fingers gripping his thumb for balance, before tucking her snugly back under his cap. The pocket watch in his jacket vibrated suddenly, and the embedded Gigarock emitted a faint, ethereal glow. ¡°The thing¡¯s mysterious by nature,¡± Bolton muttered, his voice low. ¡°It¡¯s got me nervous¡ªbut the shop won¡¯t run itself, and I can¡¯t shake the feeling my brother¡¯s behind it.¡± He shook off the unease, his steps gaining purpose as he moved toward Akiyoma Square. Excitement mingled with tension, his heart pounding in rhythm with the hum of the festival ahead. As he descended from his perch, the lively hum of the festival grew louder, the streets beneath alive with revelers. Bolton¡¯s sharp gaze darted back to where he last saw the Clinker. For a moment, its silhouette lingered on the edge of the festivities¡ªa rigid, mechanical outline barely veiled by swirling smoke and the kaleidoscope of lantern light. Then, with unnerving ease, it melded into the crowd, its hulking frame moving with a deliberate, almost human fluidity. ¡°This thing¡¯s different from when I was here. Clever bastard,¡± Bolton muttered, his knuckles brushing the cool metal of his contraption. He felt Vermolly shift slightly under his hat, her presence grounding him. The faint notes of accordion music reached his ears, masking the Clinker¡¯s faint mechanical whir as it disappeared deeper into the celebration. Bolton quickened his pace, his boots clicking against the cobblestone as he weaved through the crowd. Akiyoma Square loomed ahead, its expanse bathed in the warm glow of stringed lights and the shadow of the legendary airship. The square pulsed with life¡ªvendors hawked shimmering trinkets and airship memorabilia, while children darted between stalls waving miniature kites designed to look like Gale Whales. Reaching the Akiyoma¡¯s intricately carved helm, Bolton paused to take it all in. The detailed images of Alchemians surfing stars and Gale Whales soaring through clouds stirred something deep within him. His fingers brushed against the etched wood as he read the bold motto carved into its base: ¡°First to brave distant horizons unscathed.¡± With a small smirk tugging at his lips, Bolton whispered to himself, ¡°One day, we¡¯ll see if I can do better. A pilot. A prodigy of society! A real Gearpunk.¡± Chapter 2: Braverys Whistle (Part 3) Bolton tightened the straps of his air contraption, his eyes locked on the massive airship hovering above the heart of Akiyoma Square. The Akiyoma¡ªa meticulously crafted, fully functional replica of the legendary vessel¡ªtowered over the bustling festivities below, tethered by thick cables that gleamed in the lantern-lit night. Its larger-than-life proportions magnified its grandeur without compromising the intricate details: the curved hull, glimmering rotors, and etched symbols of New Dwarden¡¯s rich history. It was a monument to the skies and a reminder of the kingdom¡¯s ingenuity. Crouched low on the rooftop, Bolton surveyed the square. Gale Whale kites drifted lazily above clusters of revelers, their glowing frames flickering in rhythm with the fireworks overhead. Vendors barked out offers for roasted meats and chilled ciders while children zigzagged between carts, sparklers in hand. Yet amidst the lively chaos, Bolton¡¯s gaze kept returning to the Akiyoma. A piece of history, a symbol of hope, and¡ªtonight¡ªhis only way forward. The sharp mechanical whir of a Clinker snapped Bolton¡¯s attention downward. The stilt-legged automaton marched through the crowd, its polished bronze exterior glinting under the warm glow of festival lanterns. Its swiveling head scanned the square, mechanical eyes narrowing as it stopped briefly near a vendor¡¯s stall. Bolton¡¯s pulse quickened as the Clinker lingered, its exhaust venting with a soft hiss. For a moment, he feared it might sense his presence. Then, with a faint mechanical groan, it moved on, blending seamlessly into the festivities below. ¡°That was close,¡± Vermolly croaked from beneath his cap. ¡°Closer than you think. Maybe wait for the Clinker to take a swig of oil? Loosen it¡¯s gears a bit.¡± Bolton smirked, adjusting his hat. ¡°You¡¯re assuming Clinkers stop. These ones seem different¡ªespecially that painted one. Feels like it¡¯s watching, even when it¡¯s standing still.¡± His voice dropped slightly, a flicker of unease breaking through his usual bravado. ¡°Pretty sure they¡¯re not here for ciders and meat skewers, though. If they were, the crowd wouldn¡¯t still be cheering.¡± Bolton trailed off, his stomach rumbling faintly. His gaze drifted toward the crowd, their laughter and cheers rising over the festival hum. ¡°Still¡­ a good ol¡¯ Inner Quadrant feast doesn¡¯t sound half bad,¡± he murmured, his voice laced with faint humor. His thumbs twitched, idly twirling as his tone lingered on the edge of tension. ¡°Everything¡¯s always in excess here.¡± As the words left his mouth, his emerald-green eyes snapped back to the painted Clinker. It stood eerily still, its glowing eyes burning through the haze of smoke and lantern light. Bolton¡¯s smirk faded slightly, the unease tightening his jaw. ¡°And yet, that one¡­ doesn¡¯t look like it¡¯s here to celebrate.¡± ¡°They¡¯re big on spotting fools in the sky,¡± Vermolly shot back. ¡°And if you¡¯re the one it catches, I¡¯m claiming your hat as a parachute.¡± ¡°Noted,¡± Bolton muttered. With a sharp exhale, he rose to his feet, gauging the trajectory toward the Akiyoma¡¯s deck. His contraption hissed softly as he engaged its mechanisms, steam venting in controlled bursts. The crowd below continued their revelry, oblivious to his presence. Bolton launched himself into the air, the contraption roaring to life. A burst of wind rushed past his face as the device propelled him upward in short, powerful intervals. Lanterns swayed in the draft as festival-goers paused briefly, mistaking him for part of the evening¡¯s entertainment. As the ship¡¯s massive helm loomed closer, the noise of the crowd melted away, replaced by the rhythmic hum of his air contraption. He landed with a controlled thud on the deck, his boots clicking against the polished steel. The air up here was cooler, the faint smell of oil and metal mixing with the distant aroma of roasted meats. Bolton took a moment to steady himself, his gaze sweeping over the intricately carved railing. Alchemian figures surfing stars and Gale Whales leaping through clouds adorned the ship¡¯s edges, their metallic forms catching the faint light. The ship¡¯s motto, ¡°First to brave distant horizons unscathed,¡± gleamed proudly above the helm, echoing in his thoughts as he adjusted his hat. ¡°Well, here we are,¡± Vermolly said, poking her head out from under his cap. ¡°You¡¯d think a giant floating relic would feel less¡­floaty.¡± ¡°History¡¯s alive,¡± Bolton replied, his voice tinged with awe. ¡°And tonight, we¡¯re making some of our own.¡± As he stepped further onto the deck, the faint creak of weathered steel under his boots stirred memories of childhood tales. The Akiyoma was no ordinary display; it was a living monument to the daring exploits and tragedies that shaped New Dwarden. Bolton¡¯s fingers brushed against a nearby plaque, its polished surface etched with the name Akiyoma IV. His mind wandered to stories of the ship¡¯s legendary predecessor and the sky battles that defined its legacy. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. The corridor stretched ahead, a labyrinth of innovation and history. Every plaque and trophy along the walls told a story: the triumphs of engineers, the bravery of crews, and the dangers of the skies. Bolton¡¯s thoughts drifted to his family¡ªhis siblings and the tales their parents used to weave at bedtime. They had all dreamed of the skies once. But only he still did. ¡°Lost in thought again?¡± Vermolly¡¯s voice broke through. She perched on his shoulder, her webbed fingers tapping lightly against his collar. ¡°Focus, Bolton. Your brother¡¯s waiting, remember?¡± He nodded, forcing himself back to the present. ¡°Right. Time to move.¡± Bolton descended a candle-lit stairwell, its arched walls lined with intricately carved wood and gleaming brass. The warmth of the festival above gave way to the cool, mechanical hum of the ship¡¯s heart. As he entered the massive engine room, his breath caught. Gears, tubes, and levers filled the space, their metallic surfaces gleaming in the dim light. The wings of the Akiyoma stretched outward, their intricate mechanisms a marvel of engineering. But one detail held his gaze¡ªa massive, jagged hole in the ship¡¯s hull, surrounded by scorch marks and twisted metal. The plaque beside it told a grim tale: The Whistlin¡¯ Death pirates struck here, capturing the vessel below with a screeching claw that echoed through the clouds. This ship survived. Praise be to New Dwarden¡¯s superior engineering. Bolton traced the edge of the damaged metal, a pang of both awe and unease settling in his chest. This ship had endured, just as he intended to. ¡°We¡¯re not at the shop. Kick up the pace,¡± Vermolly urged, her voice steady but insistent. ¡°The clock¡¯s winding away.¡± Bolton glanced back at the plaque one last time before pressing on. His boots echoed softly against the floor as he made his way toward the exit, the faint hum of the ship¡¯s systems a quiet reminder of its resilience. Tonight, the Akiyoma was more than a relic; it was a symbol of the journey ahead. As he stepped into the cool night air, the vibrant glow of Akiyoma Square greeted him once more. The grand airship loomed above, its silhouette dominating the skyline. Tethered by thick cables and bathed in festival lights, the Akiyoma replica hovered just off its dock, a silent guardian over the celebrations below. The square had quieted, the earlier revelry fading into scattered murmurs and the occasional crackle of fireworks. Bolton adjusted the straps of his air contraption, the name Vaporjet Harness fresh in his mind. He¡¯d borrowed the term from a bronze plaque on the Akiyoma¡¯s mast, which extolled the revolutionary vaporjet technology that allowed the airship to soar at high speeds. The name felt fitting, a small nod to the innovation that fueled both the ship and his ambitions. His gaze drifted to the manhole beneath the ship¡¯s massive hull. Its location was unmistakable¡ªmarked by a single bronze plaque on the nearby wall, engraved with the Akiyoma''s proud motto: "First to brave distant horizons unscathed." The words lingered in his thoughts, a quiet challenge against the risks ahead. From beneath his hat, Vermolly¡¯s voice broke the silence. ¡°You¡¯re awfully quiet. Second thoughts?¡± ¡°Just thinking,¡± Bolton replied, his tone distant as he studied the square. He couldn¡¯t help but recall how, earlier that evening, he¡¯d plucked the Gale Frogs from a simmering stew pot in a food stall, their fate narrowly avoided thanks to his quick interference. Now, the frogs had long vanished into the winds, their pouches inflated like vibrant sails as they twirled gracefully through the air, catching the gales that whip through New Dwarden like natural-born aviators. The last firework¡¯s glow lingered faintly in the sky, and shadows stretched across the cobblestones, broken only by the beams of light from a patrolling Clinker. ¡°Better think faster,¡± Vermolly said, her croaky tone laced with urgency. ¡°The night¡¯s slipping away, and that letter isn¡¯t growing any less important.¡± Bolton smirked faintly, adjusting his hat. ¡°Neither is that crumpled note. No clue what kind of sewer rats we¡¯ve got waiting on us, but I doubt they¡¯re the patient type.¡± He crouched low, eyes scanning the square as the Clinker drew closer. Its mechanical joints hissed softly, its lantern-like eyes casting slow arcs of light across the cobblestones. Bolton held his breath, waiting as its beam passed over the monument, momentarily illuminating the towering bronze bust of a hammer-wielding giant. The Clinker paused, its head swiveling as if sensing movement, before it clattered away toward the edge of the square. Bolton exhaled, his hand brushing against the crumpled note in his coat pocket. ¡°Midnight. Purple firework, then green, then the star. Don¡¯t get caught.¡± He straightened, his gaze fixed on the manhole beneath the Akiyoma. ¡°Let¡¯s hope this guy¡¯s as helpful as Selton promised,¡± Bolton muttered, stepping out from the shadows. His gaze lingered on the manhole for a moment. ¡°A straight shot into Quadrant Zero. How¡¯d I miss this while goofing around the Primarian Royale? Maybe it¡¯s for the best¡ªMichael and I probably would¡¯ve handed Amelia the crown back then. Who am I kidding? I was the only one getting caught.¡± Chapter 2: Braverys Whistle (Part 4) Bolton tightened the straps of his air contraption, his pulse quickening as the humanoid figure advanced. The festive hum of Akiyoma Square turned sinister, replaced by the metallic cacophony of Clinkers flooding the area. Their angular forms emerged from the shadows, blocking every exit with a synchronized clatter of grinding gears and glowing yellow eyes. The vibrant glow of festival lanterns gave way to the cold, eerie sheen of machinery. A hiss of colorful gas erupted from one of the Clinkers¡¯ gaping mouths, accompanied by a bone-chilling sound like a rusted metal door grating open. The noise scraped through the air, sending shivers down Bolton¡¯s spine as the gas spilled into the crowd like a creeping fog. A couple of bystanders froze mid-step, their outlines quickly engulfed in the swirling cloud. Before Bolton could react, their silhouetted forms were yanked backward into the chaos, vanishing into the dense haze as muffled cries faded into the festival¡¯s dying hum. The crowd churned uneasily, murmurs of fear spreading like wildfire. Near the edge of the square, a group of drunken revelers staggered toward him, sloshing cider from their mugs. ¡°Oy, lad!¡± one of them shouted, his voice slurred but tinged with urgency. ¡°Primarian party crashers, mate! They¡¯ll gut ya faster than a pig on market day!¡± Another swayed dangerously close, pointing a trembling finger at the advancing Clinkers. ¡°You¡¯d better run, boy, or they¡¯ll have ya shining their gears!¡± Bolton¡¯s chest tightened as he scanned the square for an escape route. Among the horde, one Clinker stood out: its confetti-streaked exterior unmistakable. His stomach dropped as realization struck¡ªthis was the same Clinker that had been trailing him all night, its presence always lingering at the edge of the festivities. It tilted its head unnervingly, its glowing eyes locking onto him with predatory focus before turning deliberately toward the towering figure behind it. The painted Clinker lingered for a moment, as if savoring Bolton¡¯s unease, its mechanical joints hissing in time with the crowd¡¯s growing panic. ¡°Bolton, move!¡± Vermolly¡¯s frantic croak jolted him back to reality. From beneath his hat, a burst of greenish gas hissed into the air, the result of Vermolly¡¯s quick-thinking and expert Alchemian chemistry. Her makeshift emergency concoction spread rapidly, filling the square with a thick, acrid haze designed to confuse and obscure. The green fog clung to the air, causing the Clinkers to falter momentarily, their glowing eyes flickering as their sensors struggled to penetrate the cloud. Without thinking, Bolton twisted a valve on his Vaporjet Harness, releasing a pressurized burst of air that whipped the gas into a circular plume around him. The motion shaped Vermolly¡¯s green haze into a swirling smoke ring, further obscuring the enemies¡¯ vision. The Clinkers faltered within the distorted cloud, their grinding gears clashing as they collided in confusion. Their glowing eyes flickered erratically, struggling to recalibrate. But the hulking humanoid remained eerily unaffected, stepping through the mist with deliberate precision, its glowing red eyes cutting through the swirling smog like embers in the dark. Bolton¡¯s gaze darted through the chaos, landing on two sewer grates in the cobblestone square. One bore the industrial emblem of a roaring bear¡ªthe unmistakable mark of Quadrant Leader Two. The other, gleaming faintly under the moonlight, matched the description from the letter. With the Clinkers¡¯ cacophony closing in, Bolton twisted another valve on his harness. The contraption sputtered to life, hissing and groaning as it kicked into gear. With a sharp exhale, he launched himself toward the second grate, his heart pounding as he tore through the lingering smoke. The air cracked with the sound of mechanical limbs slicing through the haze. Bolton barely had time to process the shadow hurtling toward him before a crushing grip clamped around his ankle. He hit the ground hard, the force rattling his teeth and sending his hat flying. Pain flared through his side as he looked up to meet the source of the grip. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Two massive, glowing red eyes bore down on him like smoldering embers, their intensity piercing through the thick haze. The humanoid figure, its metallic skin slick with oil that gleamed under the dim light, leaned closer with an unsettling precision. Its voice rumbled, low and deliberate, like grinding steel: ¡°I am Quadrant Leader Two, Enton, The Boar. You will leave New Dwarden. This is your only warning.¡± Bolton¡¯s breath hitched as the weight of the words sank in. ¡°Enton¡­?¡± he stammered, his voice laced with disbelief and mounting fear. His fists clenched instinctively. ¡°Why me? Why waste your time on someone like me? Are there no Giants, no monsters, no real threats left in the world?¡± The tremor in his voice betrayed his bravado, but his defiance flared briefly, a flicker against the overwhelming presence before him. Enton¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t waver. ¡°A heart will not be taken. Mine will not. Nor will my brethren¡¯s. You, Amelia, and your King must understand this. I do not warn twice.¡± Bolton¡¯s mind spun. Yerro¡¯s will? The Greisha Ceremony? His brother¡¯s ominous message? None of it made sense, and yet the truth stood before him, metallic and monstrous. ¡°I can¡¯t leave,¡± Bolton rasped, his fury bubbling beneath the surface. ¡°I won¡¯t.¡± Enton¡¯s response was a cold, emotionless void. ¡°Understood.¡± The sound of a whirring mechanism exploded from Enton¡¯s arm. Bolton flinched, his instincts screaming to protect Vermolly. But the movement came too fast. A powerful metal hand slammed into his chest, sending him sprawling across the square. His air contraption groaned under the force, a few valves snapping loose as he struggled to breathe. The Clinkers surrounded him now, their glowing eyes fixed and unyielding. Bolton¡¯s gaze snapped to his hat, crumpled under Enton¡¯s massive foot. His breath caught in his throat. ¡°No¡ªno!¡± he choked out, scrambling forward with desperate hands. Vermolly¡¯s small, limp body protruded from the wreckage, her once vibrant yellow eyes now dim and lifeless. Time seemed to grind to a halt. Vermolly, his constant companion and anchor in the chaos, was gone. A wave of rage surged through Bolton, obliterating his pain and fear. His fists clenched, his body trembling with raw emotion. ¡°You traitorous bastard!¡± he bellowed, his voice breaking as he pointed at Enton. ¡°What did she ever do to deserve this?! Huh?! She was innocent! You think this is justice?!¡± Tears blurred his vision as his voice cracked into a roar. ¡°You want to kill me?! Do it! You¡¯re nothing but a coward! My brother would never do this! In front of everyone!¡± Enton¡¯s expression remained eerily unchanged, cold, and detached. ¡°This is justice,¡± he intoned, his voice devoid of any emotion. ¡°An Alchemian aligned with pirates¡ªher fate was inevitable.¡± He bent down, gripping Bolton by the collar as if he weighed nothing, and lifted him effortlessly into the air. ¡°Do not forget this lesson. It is the only mercy you will receive.¡± Before Bolton could respond, a thunderous crack split the air, reverberating through the square. Enton staggered, a fresh burn mark seared across his gleaming metallic cheek. Bolton blinked, disoriented, as his gaze darted toward the source of the attack. A shadowy figure leaped from the Akiyoma¡¯s anchor, their silhouette cutting through the moonlight with practiced ease. Clad in a flowing cloak trimmed with fur, the newcomer brandished a hand cannon that still smoked from the shot. Their wide grin shone beneath reflective orange goggles, which caught the glow of the lanterns like fire. With a dramatic flourish, they landed atop the sewer grate with such force it spun wildly, wobbling like a tossed coin. ¡°Who¡¯s your favorite cousin?!¡± the figure bellowed, their voice brimming with playful bravado as they struck a triumphant pose. Before Bolton could fully process the surreal turn of events, the sewer grate beneath him exploded open with a metallic clang. A monstrous tongue lashed out from the shadows, slick and muscular, coiling around his waist with alarming speed. Bolton barely had time to cry out as he was yanked into the dark abyss below. The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him was the figure¡¯s daring leap into the open sewer after him. Their laughter, tinged with mischief, echoed behind them as Enton¡¯s enraged roar shattered the uneasy silence of Akiyoma Square. Chapter 3: Whispers Of An Airship (Part 1) Amelia As the Pappy Long Legs ascended into the tranquil evening skies of Quadrant Seven, Amelia pressed her face against the grand circular window at the end of a dimly lit corridor. The window, like a domed pier reaching into the heavens, offered vistas only an airship could provide. Below it, the metallic platform shimmered with a bronze sheen, while sleek wooden rails provided just enough height for Amelia to peer over the edge. Stretching her arms toward the sky, she marveled at the breathtaking panorama. No wind, no scent of flowers, and no dust in the air as there had been in the Conkle mines. Yet, the warm golden glow of the evening sunlight made her feel as if she were flying. For a moment, the weight of her recent fears seemed as light as the clouds wisping around the airship, carried away by the boundless horizon. But the horizon always brought echoes. Her fingers tightened on the railing as memories of the Greisha ceremony surged unbidden¡ªflashes of firelit arenas, spinning platforms, and the judgmental gaze of the thirteen Quadrant Leaders. The images came sharp and vivid, like blades drawn across her mind. The ceremony had been a masterpiece of clockwork and danger. Platforms turned like a giant puzzle, flames flared with each strike or dodge, and above, the Quadrant Leaders loomed in their thrones, each marked by the animal they represented. She could only see three from her vantage point. Enton the Boar, Leader of Quadrant Two, bellowed, ¡°Overwhelming force succeeds where the mind fails!¡± as Bolton¡¯s air nodes launched him across the arena like a human missile. Glassford the Owl, Leader of Quadrant Eight, perched in eerie silence on his swooping throne. ¡°The night is where wisdom shines,¡± he murmured, his deep-blue seat pulsing faintly. And the Badger, Leader of Quadrant One, drew the loudest cheers. His hybridized ladle-weapon clanged against his throne¡ªan ornate cauldron held aloft by metal badgers. ¡°Resourcefulness makes the meal!¡± he declared, laughing at every clever move. Above them all sat her father, motionless, his throne silhouetted against the cosmos. His silent judgment weighed heavier than the crowd¡¯s roars, a reminder of what was at stake. Though obscured from her view, the remaining leaders radiated their own weight of power, like their reputation, their presence undeniable. Amelia¡¯s brothers had fought relentlessly. Bolton, a force of nature, launched himself at her with spinning bo staff arcs. Michael, tactical and sharp, wielded his whip like a thunderclap, forcing her to leap from platform to platform. Her electric gloves crackled with energy, but their limited charge made every use a gamble. The memory played out as if alive. Bolton misjudged his momentum, slamming into Michael with bone-crushing force. Seizing the moment, Amelia stunned him with her gloves and snatched an air node from his pocket. The crowd roared as she propelled herself forward, headbutting Bolton off the platform. ¡°A real gearpunk!¡± the Badger had howled. ¡°Resourceful as every New Dwardian should be!¡± But celebration was fleeting. Michael¡¯s whip lashed across her chest, leaving her breathless. Dazed and gasping, she barely registered his clean right hook before it sent her spiraling toward the farthest platform. Stars blurred above as the announcer¡¯s voice cut through the chaos: ¡°Enough! In the rare fight between triplets, only one can be named a true royal. Only one can be Yerro¡¯s vessel!¡± The words reverberated until a sudden thumping sound tore her back to the present. Her breath hitched as the sound grew louder, insistent. It wasn¡¯t coming from outside¡ªit was coming from her locket. The Gigarock inside pulsed harder than ever before, its rhythm steady and urgent. Amelia¡¯s vision cleared, and she found herself cradling the locket against her chest, instinctively seeking comfort in its weight. Her reflection shimmered in the Gigarock¡¯s surface as she slowly opened the locket. Inside, the faint glow of the Gigarock pulsed in perfect rhythm with the fleshy heart encased within. Her fingers tightened around its edges, her breath uneven. ¡°It¡¯s alive¡­¡± she whispered, barely recognizing her own voice. The locket¡¯s secrets stirred memories of the Greisha platforms¡ªher pounding heart, the mix of fear and determination. The Gigarock¡¯s erratic thumping felt connected, its energy syncing with the echoes of her past. Her unease grew. What was it responding to? Proximity? The airship? Or something else entirely¡ªsomething waiting ahead? Before she could untangle her thoughts, a strange voice broke the silence. ¡°Amelia!¡± it called, faint at first but growing louder, threaded with urgency that sent a shiver down her spine. ¡°Amelia!¡± the voice called again, resonating deeper this time, as if it came not from the locket but from within her very chest. Her fingers tightened around the cool metal, and the hum of the Gigarock inside seemed to amplify, its pulse quickening to match the voice''s rhythm. She whispered to herself, her words almost lost to the wind slipping through the narrow corridor. ¡°Who¡ªor what¡ªare you?¡± Her voice cracked, a mix of frustration and unease. She had faced strange occurrences since leaving the confines of Quadrant Seven, but this was something else entirely. ¡°Talking Gigarock? Every Yardrat on Earth is about to lose their minds,¡± she muttered, trying to steady her nerves. She raised the locket toward the dimming horizon, its golden hues casting a soft glow over her trembling fingers. The locket¡¯s secrets had always been a heavy burden, but now they felt unbearable. With desperation tinged in her voice, she gave the locket a small shake. ¡°If you¡¯re going to talk, talk clearly!¡± she hissed, her movements edged with mounting frustration. The locket¡¯s secrets had always been a heavy burden, but now they felt unbearable. With desperation tinged in her voice, she gave the locket a small shake. ¡°If you¡¯re going to talk, talk clearly!¡± she hissed, her movements edged with mounting frustration. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. Suddenly, the ethereal voice burst forth again, this time with a startling clarity. ¡°Amelia, calm down!¡± it commanded, a slight tremor of irritation breaking through the calmness. Amelia nearly dropped the locket. ¡°By the green! You¡ªyou¡¯re talking!¡± she stammered, holding the locket closer as though it might somehow confirm what she was hearing. ¡°I¡ªI don¡¯t even¡ªwait, are you alive? Is this Yerro?¡± The voice sighed, its ethereal resonance carrying a strange weight. ¡°What? No!¡± it snapped, then softened. ¡°I mean¡­ yes. In a way. I¡¯m Cameron. I¡¯m your brother¡¯s¡ªThe King¡¯s¡ªKeeper.¡± Amelia froze, the title pulling her focus into sharp clarity. ¡°Cameron?¡± she whispered, the name stirring faint memories. ¡°At Quadrant Zero?¡± Her mind raced, conjuring images of the Primarian Royale¡ªthe sprawling center of New Dwarden, teeming with ceaseless clockwork and towering constructs. Amidst the grandeur, she remembered a small girl who worked tirelessly atop a massive giant. Cameron, smeared in grease and dust, her dark dress perpetually dirtied by machinery. The girl¡¯s dark eyeshadow gave her the eerie appearance of a living puppet, but her cheerful demeanor was anything but. She had always seemed content, handing oversized tools to the towering giant she accompanied, her movements impossibly nimble. Amelia had only seen her in passing, their encounters fleeting. The girl¡¯s constant presence on the giant¡¯s shoulder¡ªapplying grease, balancing effortlessly as the massive figure moved¡ªhad left an impression. The giant itself, two stories tall, dwarfed even the grandest New Dwardian homes. Its muscular frame and dirtied train conductor¡¯s uniform were both a spectacle and a symbol of industry in the Royale. But despite her curiosity, Amelia had never spoken to the girl. There had never been time. ¡°Is this the same Cameron?¡± Amelia murmured, her heart racing as the memories settled uneasily. She tightened her grip on the locket, staring at the faintly glowing Gigarock within. ¡°I got his letter! And where¡¯s my brother? Where¡¯s the King?¡± she demanded, her voice edged with growing worry. ¡°The letter made its way?¡± Cameron¡¯s voice mumbled, relieved. ¡°Good! Means you¡¯re with that stiffler Rick. Aand not to worry. The King¡¯s here. Most of him¡­¡± The way the words trailed off made Amelia¡¯s stomach twist with unease. ¡°Most of him?¡± she echoed, her voice sharpening. ¡°Yes. But on my honor, he¡¯s alive,¡± Cameron replied, though her voice wavered as if caught in some strange interference. Before Amelia could press further, the locket began to hum. The chain tugged at her neck as the pendant levitated, spinning faster and faster. A brilliant blue light erupted from it, bathing the room in an otherworldly glow. Amelia¡¯s breath caught. This wasn¡¯t like the faint glimmers she¡¯d seen before. This light felt alive, calm yet charged with purpose. The necklace spun so fast she feared it might break, but it hovered just above her hand, defying gravity. ¡°This isn¡¯t the time for idle chatter!¡± Another voice broke through¡ªrough, deep, and commanding. ¡°Let me in¡­ l-et me...¡± The voices clashed, and Cameron¡¯s softer tone nearly drowned out as the rougher voice took control. ¡°Hear me, Crowny! I¡¯m Ehmir, a member of the Primarian Hammer. I¡¯ve got Cameron of the Primarian Arc, your fool of a brother Bolton, and the mud puddle of a King holed up in a sewer under the Royale.¡± Amelia blinked, trying to process the rush of words. ¡°Put ¡¯em on the crystal!¡± she shouted, frustration edging into desperation. ¡°It¡¯s not that easy, missy,¡± Ehmir grumbled, his voice rough but tinged with grim humor. ¡°Pass the crystal, no?¡± she snapped, clenching her fists. ¡°Listen, royal. Do you know how to grab a floating crystal? Or ring someone with a bloody rock? Likely not. Well, Dolly, you see the predicament. We¡¯re all playing baseball with two sticks and no ball.¡± Amelia sighed, glancing at the walls of the Pappy Long Legs. If Rick was listening, she could use his help. ¡°Next lesson, Crowny. Your brother Bolton, bless his thick skull, got here in one piece. We just didn¡¯t expect him to show up wedged between a giant lizard and a caveman.¡± ¡°A caveman?¡± Amelia blurted. ¡°In a sewer?¡± ¡°Why not? In a world of giants, monsters, and spirits, let¡¯s add a caveman for fun,¡± she muttered sarcastically. Ehmir¡¯s voice was rough, carrying a hint of urgency. ¡°Focus, girly. Your brother¡¯s got a message for you. It¡¯s about that gem around your neck¡ªthe Gigarock.¡± Before he could continue, Cameron¡¯s soft laughter spilled through the locket, light and teasing. ¡°Listen, Amelia, this is serious! But Ehmir speaks as if drama were a dust storm,¡± she quipped. ¡°Cameron!¡± Ehmir growled, clearly unimpressed. ¡°This isn¡¯t a comedy, Amelia. Pay attention!¡± Their voices were interrupted by a loud metallic clang and a muffled curse. ¡°For Yerro¡¯s gears, Bolton! Get your watch under control!¡± Ehmir barked. ¡°Amelia,¡± Cameron chimed in breathlessly between bouts of laughter, ¡°you won¡¯t believe this, but your brother¡¯s pocket watch is¡­ well¡­ flying.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not flying, it¡¯s¡ªargh¡ªescaping!¡± Ehmir snarled, his voice trailing off as more clattering echoed in the background. ¡°Damn thing has a mind of its own!¡± Amelia blinked at the locket in disbelief, torn between worry and amusement. ¡°You¡¯re telling me my brother¡¯s watch is alive?¡± she asked incredulously. ¡°Not alive, just... overly energetic,¡± Cameron replied, her tone dancing on the edge of another laugh. ¡°Ehmir¡¯s climbing over furniture trying to catch it.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not climbing! I¡¯m strategically maneuvering,¡± Ehmir shot back, his irritation palpable. ¡°Amelia, focus! Keep the fleshy circle safe, crush the blue shell if you must¡ªbut not the core. And for the love of gears, watch your back. Yerro isn¡¯t what you think.¡± Another crash echoed through the locket, followed by Ehmir¡¯s grumbling. ¡°This family and their cursed inventions¡­¡± Amelia tried to seize the moment, her voice cutting in quickly. ¡°Wait! What about my brother¡ªthe King? Is he¡ª¡± Ehmir interrupted before she could finish, his tone sharp and insistent. ¡°Both your brothers are safe for now! Get to Veranus! Cameron may be a goof, but she¡¯s an excellent iron medic.¡± ¡°Learned from the best,¡± Cameron chirped proudly in the background, her voice dripping with playful flattery. Ehmir ignored her entirely, his tone shifting to a gruff urgency. ¡°The light¡¯s beginning to fade, and I can only assume this means our connection will falter. What the Gigarock can do is still a mystery, but trust me¡ªkeep it safe!¡± Amelia tightened her grip on the locket, her knuckles white. ¡°But what do I¡ª?¡± ¡°No time for more questions, Dolly,¡± Ehmir cut her off. ¡°Ya, never know who¡¯s listening. You¡¯ll get your answers soon enough. Veranus. Stay sharp.¡± The glow from the locket began to dim, casting flickering shadows across the walls of the Pappy Long Legs. ¡°We¡¯ll meet again, Amelia,¡± Cameron¡¯s voice softened, the light from the Gigarock now a faint shimmer. ¡°And tell Rick¡­ he still owes me for that recipe.¡± ¡°Enough, Cameron!¡± Ehmir barked, though a hint of warmth crept into his tone. ¡°Amelia, stay sharp. Protect the Gigarock. We¡¯ll find you soon.¡± The locket dimmed completely, leaving Amelia in silence save for the hum of the airship. She stared down at the locket, its weight feeling heavier than ever in her hand. Amelia tightened her grip on the locket, its weight grounding her as she turned her gaze to the horizon. The shimmering lights of Veranus flickered faintly in the distance, a deceptive beacon of hope. For all the warmth of the approaching city, a chill coursed through her veins. Something awaited her there, something bigger than herself, her brothers, or the glowing Gigarock thumping steadily in her palm. ¡°Whatever this fight is,¡± she whispered, staring down at the locket, ¡°it¡¯s far from over.¡± Chapter 3: Whispers Of An Airship (Part 2) Amelia leaned over the railing, deep in thought. ¡°Take in the bloody sights,¡± he said. How can I do that now? she wondered. A story that begins with an attack from a creature should¡¯ve ended just as fast. Am I really just lucky? The vast wilderness below stretched endlessly, a living tapestry of greens and golds, whisping beneath the airship like the world¡¯s grandest canvas. It was a sight meant to inspire awe, yet Amelia¡¯s mind clung stubbornly to darker memories¡ªthe moment the "Devil Dog" had crashed into her life, setting her on this harrowing journey. The beauty of the landscape couldn¡¯t wash away the lingering terror. New Dwarden¡¯s dangers weren¡¯t just confined to the shadows or the mines; they thrived in the open wilds, where creatures as fierce as Kalpin monsters guarded their territories, and spirits roamed with purposes beyond human comprehension. Quadrant Seven was no different. From her vantage point on the Pappy Long Legs, Amelia caught glimpses of the Quadrant¡¯s infamous inhabitants¡ªsome grotesque and imposing, others so small they seemed like mere specks from her height. But none of these beings held the same grip on her thoughts as the Devil Dog. That monstrous entity was more than just some monster; it was a shadow that refused to be banished, a constant reminder of the fragility of life but more importantly of the mystery her life may hold. The terror it instilled had carved a permanent scar in her memory, a scar she couldn''t ignore no matter how stunning the view. She shook her head, forcing herself to focus on the present. The horizon was painted in hues of red and gold as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the landscape. Suddenly, a flock of Ignorpa¡ªcreatures resembling oversized lizards with feathered wings¡ªsoared alongside the airship. Their appearance offered a brief but welcome distraction from her dark thoughts. "I guess¡­ some animals don¡¯t want a fresh slab of you," she muttered, a wry smile tugging at her lips. ¡°Though I wouldn¡¯t mind if things were a bit smaller. And fewer teeth would be nice too¡­¡± The rhythmic flapping of the Ignorpas'' wings cut through the wind, a steady beat that was strangely calming. Amelia¡¯s hand instinctively reached for a weapon that wasn¡¯t there, a reflex born from the countless dangers she¡¯d faced. But there was no need for it now. The Ignorpas, graceful in their flight, were uninterested in her or the ship. She watched them, captivated by their effortless glide through the air, the sunlight catching on their pale wings. A faint, mechanical whirring reached her ears, barely audible above the breeze. Amelia straightened, her attention shifting to the dimly lit corridor behind her. The sound grew louder, interspersed with clicks and faint echoes, as though the ship itself were exhaling. ¡°Am¡­elia?¡± a voice called out from the distance, distorted and faint. Amelia stiffened, her hand dropping from the railing. She scanned the dimly lit interior of the airship, eyes narrowing as she tried to make out the source of the voice. ¡°Bolton!? Ehmir!? Rick?¡± she called out, her voice echoing off the metallic walls. The playful tone she¡¯d used moments ago faded quickly as unease crept in. "See, this is why I¡¯m not sold on the whole ''I¡¯m not being kidnapped'' concept," she muttered to herself, adding more quietly, "...Roy?" But no response came, just the soft sway of the triangular lanterns lining the hallway. The airship¡¯s steady hum seemed louder in the absence of any other noise. She tried again, her voice more urgent this time, ¡°Roy. Roy! Which way¡¯s the hole I¡¯m stayin¡¯ in?¡± Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. Only silence answered. Amelia¡¯s gaze dropped to the blue gem embedded in her locket, her fingers brushing it as if seeking comfort. The quiet pressed in around her, thick and heavy, as she started down the hallway. Each step echoed ominously in the dark, her earlier curiosity now tinged with apprehension. The idea of exploring a city in the sky had once filled her with excitement, but now the ship¡¯s dimly lit corridors felt more like a labyrinth of looming dangers. The memory of the Devil Dog surfaced again, its dark form threatening to engulf her thoughts. Tears welled in her eyes as she muttered, ¡°Fear¡­doesn¡¯t¡­suite me.¡± ¡°In-qui-si-tive,¡± a robotic voice echoed, cutting through the stillness. Amelia¡¯s heart jumped, her eyes darting to the source. The lanterns flickered, casting long, eerie shadows that danced across the walls. The Devil Dog¡¯s ticking shadow receded, replaced by ghostly memories of her Yardrat family and other miners¡ªfigures from a past that urged her forward toward a goal she didn¡¯t yet understand. At the end of the corridor, shadows seemed to swirl and dart from corner to corner. Overlapping whispers filled the air, growing louder as she approached until a bright blue light shone from beneath a door just a few steps away. Cautiously, she moved closer, each step heavy with trepidation. ¡°Rick!¡± Amelia called, panic rising in her voice. ¡°Can you invent some better lights? And maybe a sign too.¡± ¡°INQUISITIVE?¡± the voice responded, now a ghostly wail, followed by another flash of blue light from under the door. ¡°Push a Yardrat!¡± she muttered, puffing up her chest as if to summon courage. ¡°You blast the mines!¡± Her steps were careful, her movements precise as she approached the door, her scowl deepening. The door was unlike any other on the Pappy Long Legs¡ªlarge, wooden, circular, with an orange iron handle and a metallic owl emerging from it. The owl¡¯s dark metal eyes seemed to follow her, its body poised as if ready to leap from the door at any moment. Above the owl, the number two was etched alongside the words, ¡°Perch by night. Stalk the day.¡± Another inscription, in a language foreign to her, added to the door¡¯s mysterious allure. She leaned in, her curiosity piqued by the door¡¯s design. The wood was glossy and inlaid with ornate gems, unlike anything she¡¯d seen before. The owl¡¯s eyes, made from an unfamiliar material, reflected the dim light in a way that made them seem almost alive. ¡°You are inquisitive¡­ like me,¡± a voice whispered from behind her. ¡°By the¡ª!¡± Amelia yelped, spinning around, her fist instinctively ready to strike. She found herself face-to-face with a small metallic being. Its square-shaped head was adorned with tiny rotating cogs and wheels, its eyes gleaming with an otherworldly light, and its mouth a simple round hole, like a mechanical walking jack-o-lantern. ¡°Down in the Conkle, I¡¯ve seen all sorts of automatons,¡± Amelia panted, trying to steady her breath. ¡°So what¡¯s your speed, little guy? Dancin¡¯ or smashin¡¯?¡± She lowered herself to the robot¡¯s eye level, torn between fear and fascination. ¡°I am¡­ Looking¡­ For¡­ Friend,¡± the robot replied, its eyes glowing with a hint of emotion. Amelia straightened, taking a cautious step back as the robot¡ªRoy¡ªopened its head to reveal a tiny gyrocopter. She watched, bewildered, as it began to hover before her, its metallic limbs hanging limp. ¡°Only moles make friends in the dark,¡± she teased, trying to mask her nerves. ¡°And¡­ Owls?¡± the robot pondered, its head tilting in a jerky motion toward the door beside Amelia. ¡°Owl¡­ Like¡­ Dark.¡± ¡°Maybe, little automaton¡­¡± Amelia sighed, relenting. ¡°Mind guiding me to my room? Or at least the hot tub?¡± The robot didn¡¯t answer immediately, its body twitching in what seemed like an idle dance. Something in its eyes¡ªlike the first Roy she¡¯d encountered¡ªlooked almost human, radiating a sense of innocence. ¡°Please¡­ Away from Owl¡­ To home,¡± the machine suddenly exclaimed, launching into another joyful dance, its arms spinning wildly. ¡°Orders. Orders. Orders.¡± ¡°Away from Owl?¡± Amelia repeated, her suspicion growing as she glanced toward the door beside her. ¡°Roy¡­ Life¡­ Inside¡­ We¡­ Roy¡­ Many¡­ Many,¡± the robot explained cryptically. ¡°You¡­ Can¡­ Be¡­ Roy.¡± Chapter 3: Whispers Of An Airship (Part 3) "See, when automatons talk like that...?" Amelia muttered, her confusion deepening as she tried to make sense of the strange interaction. "Just being me is the better option." She crouched again, meeting the little Roy at eye level as it descended to the ground. Something behind its eyes caught her attention¡ªa faint blue glow, eerily reminiscent of the one in her locket. It flickered deep within its hollow head, as though a tiny spark of life was trying to reach out to her. Before she could examine it further, the machine seemed to notice her gaze and quickly concealed the blue light behind its more prominent yellow glow, shielding a secret. ¡°Little Roy,¡± Amelia said softly, her voice a mix of curiosity and unease. "What did you mean by ¡®life inside¡¯?" Her eyes narrowed, searching for answers in the strange, shifting light behind its gaze. The little automaton didn¡¯t answer immediately. Instead, the walls of the Pappy Long Legs shuddered with a low, resonant rumble, like the groan of a waking giant. Amelia reached out instinctively, steadying herself against the nearest wall as the ship¡¯s innards seemed to shift around her. Panels slid open and closed in a rhythmic dance, as if the vessel were alive, rearranging itself in response to some unseen command. ¡°What now...?¡± she murmured, her heart pounding. The hallway¡¯s dim lighting took on an almost sinister tone, and the faint hum of the airship felt louder, more deliberate, as though the ship was watching her. ¡°Rick. Owl. Heart. More Hearts. One. Soul,¡± came Roy¡¯s response, its voice flat and mechanical, yet weighted with meaning. The light in its eyes dimmed further as it spoke, leaving it momentarily inert. ¡°One soul?¡± Amelia repeated under her breath, trying to piece together the cryptic words. Before she could dwell on it, the ship stirred again. Hidden crevices, vents, and darkened corners seemed to come alive as a swarm of other Roys emerged, their metallic forms clicking softly as they entered the dim light. Each carried the same makeshift appearance¡ªjack-o''-lantern-like heads with glowing eyes¡ªbut subtle differences set them apart. A faint blue glow flickered intermittently behind their collective yellow stares, as though each harbored a fragment of the same mysterious energy. Amelia froze, her unease mounting as the Roys formed a silent assembly. Their synchronized movements felt both mechanical and disturbingly deliberate, as if driven by a singular purpose. The weight of their collective gaze settled on her, making the air in the corridor feel heavier. "Okay¡­ friends? You¡¯re all Roys, right?" Amelia ventured, her voice trembling despite her attempt at humor. "Care to point me back to my quarters? Or maybe the way to a hot tub?" The Roys didn¡¯t respond with words. Instead, they stood eerily still, their collective presence exuding an oppressive silence. Then, as if triggered by some invisible cue, they spoke in unison, their voices reverberating through the corridor. ¡°Friend. FRIEND. Order. Order.¡± Amelia¡¯s heart raced. The word ¡°friend¡± felt less like an assurance and more like a decree. She tried to maintain her composure, glancing nervously at the owl-adorned door ahead. But before she could act, a smaller Roy stepped forward, its movements sharper and more deliberate than the others. Unlike the rest, its eyes lacked the faint blue glow, instead radiating a stale, lifeless yellow. This Roy¡¯s presence was unsettling. Its ticking gears were dissonant and irregular, like a clock wound too tightly. It flicked its wrist in a commanding gesture, shooing the other Roys back into the shadows. The swarm retreated obediently, their glowing eyes dimming as they disappeared into vents and crevices, leaving Amelia alone with the unsettling automaton. ¡°What do you want?¡± Amelia whispered, her voice cracking. The small Roy didn¡¯t answer. It simply raised an arm and pointed at the owl-adorned door, its movements slow and deliberate, like the tolling of a bell. Amelia took a cautious step back, her fingers brushing the locket around her neck for reassurance. ¡°Rick!¡± she called out, her voice echoing in the empty hallway. The small Roy¡¯s unyielding stare made her skin crawl. The silence broke with a sudden, piercing screech from the small Roy. Its gears clicked and whirred in chaotic rhythm, sending shivers down Amelia¡¯s spine. The noise acted like a signal, and the shadows around her stirred as the other Roys reemerged. Their synchronized movements resumed, forming a protective circle around the smaller automaton. "Whisky!" Amelia blurted, pointing at the small Roy in an impulsive attempt to assert control. "That¡¯s your name now. You¡¯re Whisky." The automaton paused, its dissonant ticking momentarily smoothing into a steadier rhythm. ¡°Wh-is-ky?¡± it repeated, as though testing the name. The other Roys shifted, their collective gaze now fixed on Whisky with what almost felt like deference. ¡°Yes. You¡¯re Whisky,¡± Amelia affirmed, forcing a smile. ¡°And I¡¯m Amelia. Not Roy, not Wrenchy. Amelia.¡± Whisky tilted its head, the faint blue glow returning to its gaze. ¡°You. Are. Heart. Rock,¡± it stated cryptically, gesturing toward her locket. Amelia¡¯s hand tightened around the locket instinctively. ¡°This was a gift,¡± she said softly. ¡°A piece of my family.¡± Her voice wavered, but she steadied herself, meeting Whisky¡¯s gaze with determination. ¡°Do you understand family?¡± Whisky didn¡¯t answer. Instead, it turned to the other Roys and let out a sharp mechanical chirp. The swarm retreated once more, vanishing into the ship¡¯s dark recesses like phantoms. Whisky lingered for a moment longer, its gaze lingering on Amelia¡¯s locket before it, too, disappeared into the shadows. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Amelia stood alone in the dim corridor, her heart racing. The silence of the Pappy Long Legs returned, but it no longer felt familiar¡ªit was heavy, ominous, and alive with unspoken secrets. She glanced at the owl door, her pulse quickening as she tried to shake off the strange encounter. ¡°Guilty for naming a robot¡­¡± she muttered, her voice laced with nervous humor. ¡°What the hell have I gotten into?¡± The hallway remained still, offering no answers. Amelia tightened her grip on the locket and turned toward the faint glimmer of light down the corridor. ¡°One step at a time,¡± she whispered, her resolve hardening as she moved forward into the unknown. Between the gentle flicker of the warm lanterns, a strange pull tugged at Amelia, drawing her toward the owl-shaped door at the end of the hallway. It hadn¡¯t been there before. Was it calling to her? She hesitated, the memory of the Roys lurking in the shadows still fresh. Too many unknowns. With a sigh, she turned away, deciding it was better to head back, her thoughts still reeling from the Devil Dog. As she ventured deeper into the ship¡¯s labyrinthine corridors, the boundary between life and machine blurred. Statues and busts of frog-like figures lined the halls, their glassy eyes tracking her every step like silent sentinels. The ship shifted around her with every turn, as though the Pappy Long Legs was alive and responding to her presence. Questions gnawed at her¡ªhow many sons did Rick have? What was happening to the Roys¡¯ pupils? Were they even machines, or something more, like the real Roy she had encountered upon waking? ¡°Whisky could¡¯ve at least stuck around to show me back,¡± Amelia muttered, her voice echoing off the cold, metallic walls. ¡°The belly of this ship roars louder than a minecart down a shaft... but at least there¡¯s no monster waiting at the end.¡± Her sense of adventure, once burning brightly, had begun to flicker and dim. The relentless ticking of gears and the hum of machinery filled her senses, each sound a reminder of the Devil Dog¡ªthat monstrous entity whose terrifying form still haunted her. A chill ran down her spine as the memory surfaced again, her heart growing heavier with unease. The deeper she went into the ship, the more the halls seemed to close in around her, suffocating like the weight of an underground cave. The corridors twisted and shifted, sealing up and opening at will. Every turn left her more disoriented. She tried retracing her steps, but familiar paths were gone, replaced by cold, unyielding metal walls. Am I going in circles? The thought of being trapped in this mechanical labyrinth gnawed at her. The lanterns began to dim, their flames shrinking into embers¡ªexcept for one at the far end of the corridor. Its warm glow flickered above a wooden door, cracked down the middle. A sudden weight settled on her chest, her breath growing shallow. Panic clawed at her, pulling her toward the door as if it were her only escape from the growing madness. The mechanical whir of the ship grew louder, drowning her thoughts in chaos. ¡°Can¡¯t turn on the lights there, dear Amelia? Does everything have to look like the ass-crack of a mine to ya?¡± Rick¡¯s voice cut through the noise, sharp yet familiar. With a flick of his wrist and a gruff command¡ª"Lights on"¡ªthe lanterns flared to life with a cool blue glow before settling into their usual warmth. The eerie shadows receded, and the corridor took on a fresh metallic sheen, dispelling the darkness that had threatened to consume her. The cacophony of sounds faded, and Amelia realized she had curled up against the cold metal wall, knees tucked to her chest. Disoriented, she blinked, finding Rick standing over her, his expression a mixture of amusement and concern. ¡°Am I... losing everything again?¡± Amelia whispered, her voice barely audible. Tears stung her eyes, but she fought to keep them from falling. Each breath felt heavier, as though the ship itself pressed down on her chest, forcing her to relive the losses she wasn¡¯t ready to face again. Rick¡¯s mechanical legs clattered as he settled beside her, his expression softening. ¡°It¡¯s a conversation, sure,¡± he said, his tone rough but kind. ¡°We¡¯ve got to learn to trust each other, Crowny. I¡ª¡± "I can''t, Rick! A former royal can¡¯t just dive into her dark pond and expect to swim back up. Eventually, she¡¯ll just drown, right?" Amelia¡¯s head sank deeper between her knees, her voice muffled. "How do I know you''re not like the others? Trying to take me from my home? Or worse, pushing me into someone else''s throne? What if you''re just another criminal wanting a royal head?" Her voice cracked, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. ¡°I mean... I won¡¯t. I can¡¯t lose another home. Not again.¡± Rick leaned back, his mechanical limbs creaking as he gazed into the shadows. ¡°Crowny, I don¡¯t trust ya¡¯ either. Ya smell like Conkle soot, hoard shiny things in your boots, and ya nearly got mauled by my security system¡ªI heard every damn step from down the hall. In fact, the Pappy Long Legs keeps ya here for some reason. Sadistic machine that it is,¡± he added with a dry chuckle. But there was something deeper behind it. ¡°Anyway, your brother¡¯s mess has me inches away from a Primarian Shock Rifle and a soul contract that¡¯s as good as a noose around my neck. Truth is... you¡¯ve made things real complicated for me.¡± Amelia blinked, stunned by Rick¡¯s bluntness. His usually mischievous eyes had softened, lost in thought. ¡°Lucky for me, I¡¯m damn near sawdust as it is,¡± Rick added with a wry grin. ¡°Ain¡¯t much left to ruin at this age. Just a few more creaks, a few more breakdowns.¡± His mechanical fingers clicked lightly as he adjusted his glasses. ¡°But that¡¯s life, Crowny¡ªfalling apart right before your eyes, whether you¡¯re made of flesh or metal.¡± He pulled up his long coat sleeves, revealing his polished mechanical limbs. Adjusting his circular red glasses, he revealed his eyes¡ªone normal, the other gleaming gold under the lantern light. ¡°Never seen someone so dead and alive at the same time, huh?¡± he smirked. Amelia tried to respond but found herself speechless, her thoughts spiraling. ¡°No-no-no. Get up, girl. Your brothers and I can¡¯t hear you from down there,¡± Rick muttered, hoisting himself higher with his mechanical legs. Amelia¡¯s cheeks flushed, a mixture of sadness and understanding washing over her. She stood up, brushing herself off before shooting him a wry smile. ¡°Could you let me finish a sentence?¡± ¡°Just did,¡± Rick grinned. ¡°Now, that Devil Dog didn¡¯t eat ya, sure. But it¡¯s still out there, hunting. But hey, we¡¯re out here breathin¡¯ too. Roy, your brothers, and me too.¡± His voice softened. ¡°Family¡¯s like soup¡ªit sucks when it boils, terrible when it¡¯s cold, but the best thing when it finally settles somewhere in the middle.¡± Amelia wiped her tears and nodded, though her voice remained distant. ¡°I barely remember what happened... just teeth, explosions, and darkness.¡± Rick nodded, his expression turning grim. ¡°It¡¯s a mystery. And monsters like that love to keep it that way. But don¡¯t worry. We¡¯ll get you ready, Yardrat.¡± Chapter 4: All Aboard The Whisky Sunday (Part 1) Bolton The first thing Bolton heard was the steady clinking of glass, the scrape of metal on wood, and a low hum vibrating deep in his bones. His eyes fluttered open to the dim glow of lanterns casting soft shadows across a rustic ceiling. Where am I? His body felt leaden, every movement resisted by a dull ache in his bruised ribs¡ªa cruel reminder of the assault beneath the sewers, just below the hull of the Akiyoma Airship. He tried to sit up, but a sharp, searing pain shot through his side, forcing a groan from his lips. Blinking hard, Bolton struggled to piece together his surroundings. This isn¡¯t the sewers. The air here was warmer, almost stifling, and carried the tang of puffed smoke, rich mead, and roasted meat. The subtle sway beneath him hinted at motion, though he couldn¡¯t quite place it. Lanterns flickered along the walls, their light dancing across thick wooden beams. Nets and ropes hung decoratively from the ceiling alongside barrels taller than any man, giving the space the charm of an old riverboat. The scene was a stark contrast to the dark, twisting corridors of Whistletop Alley. Not the Akiyoma replica. Not the sewers. Where in Yerro¡¯s name am I? Her name struck him like a thunderclap. Vermolly. Panic jolted through his body. ¡°Vermolly!¡± he rasped, trying to push himself upright. Pain erupted across his ribs, sending him crashing back onto the narrow cot. ¡°Vermolly¡­¡± he whispered, the weight of her absence crushing him. Her mangled body flashed in his mind¡ªa cruel specter he couldn¡¯t escape. His hand clutched the edge of the bed, his knuckles white as his heart warred with the grim truth. She¡¯s not here. She¡¯s gone. Bolton forced his gaze downward. Worn bandages were wrapped tightly around his torso and arms. His fingers brushed over the fabric, still faintly damp with blood and sweat. The rhythmic click of train tracks rumbled beneath him¡ªa faint but unmistakable sound. I¡¯m on a train? His pulse quickened, a knot of dread twisting in his stomach. How did I get here? Who saved me? Why am I still alive? Fragments of memory stirred¡ªa fight, a desperate struggle beneath the airship, and the crushing blows of the Quadrant Leader. Darkness had overtaken him then, dragging him under. Yet someone¡ªor something¡ªhad pulled him back. An otherworldly presence lingered in the edges of his thoughts, stinking of oil and sewage. But who? A creak nearby snapped Bolton out of his spiraling thoughts. He wasn¡¯t alone. Across the cart, a large, round-bellied man stormed toward the far end where a bar gleamed beneath a row of glowing lanterns. These weren¡¯t ordinary lanterns¡ªtheir glass casings resembled inverted waterfalls, with flames spiraling upward like liquid fire. Their surreal glow rippled across the wooden walls, hypnotic and unnerving. The man¡¯s boots clunked heavily against the floorboards, rattling the glasses hanging behind the bar. His voice boomed, loud and rough, echoing through the cart. ¡°Pistol! This is yer brilliant Midnight Train, and brilliant for certain!¡± he roared with laughter, his words rumbling through the room. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Bolton¡¯s heart thudded in his chest, panic rising. I can¡¯t be here. They¡¯ll see me. They¡¯ll know. He gritted his teeth, trying once more to sit up, but the pain flared, pinning him down. His fingers brushed the rough bandages over his side, memories of the fight flashing vividly before him. The Quadrant Leader¡¯s crushing strikes. The darkness. Then¡ªnothing. But someone had saved him. Who? Bolton leaned slightly over the edge of his cot, scanning the room. Was it the loud man? Could he have dragged me from that nightmare? The scrape of a stool against the floor pulled Bolton¡¯s attention to the bar. ¡°Just boarded and already makin¡¯ noise, Chief Hogswind,¡± muttered the bartender, a wiry man with weathered skin and hair streaked gray like smoke trails. The name struck Bolton like a hammer. Chief Hogswind. He¡¯d heard it before¡ªrumors of a miner turned legend, a roughneck who commanded respect in the Kenton Mines of Quadrant Nine. Hogswind¡¯s booming voice erupted again, raucous and full of wild energy. ¡°Oi, every young¡¯un and ol¡¯ beard here¡¯s heard the stories! Tales of an infinite train, filled with monsters, deadly spirits, and royal arseholes from across the world!¡± The crowd erupted into cheers, their voices thunderous. Bolton shifted uneasily, his heart pounding. He peered over the edge of his cot, his gaze darting to Hogswind. Does he know who I am? Did he save me? The laughter and shouting pressed against Bolton¡¯s frayed nerves. Hogswind¡¯s voice roared above the din, snapping his attention back. ¡°What do we see when we arrive? A fancin¡¯ five-cart train with a tavern, a bath cart rivalin¡¯ the Springs of Veranus, and a whorehouse to boot!¡± More laughter erupted, soot-covered faces breaking into wide grins. ¡°Yardrats! We¡¯ve earned this! Workin¡¯ the hardest mines in all the thirteen Quadrants! After two months of lip smackin¡¯ with our wives, we enjoy today¡¯s final venture ¡®fore we head back to Quadrant Nine to do it all over again!¡± Bolton¡¯s head throbbed as exhaustion and panic warred within him. He clung to consciousness, fighting the haze that threatened to drag him under. Stay awake. Focus. His hand brushed against something crinkled in his pocket. Fumbling, he pulled it out¡ªa small piece of paper, folded with care. As he unfolded it, a faint, citrusy scent drifted up, mingling with the salt-kissed air of ocean wind. Moonberry. The smell hit him with bittersweet clarity. The fruit grew high on the rooftops of Quadrant Four, where he¡¯d scavenged after his expulsion during the Greisha Ceremony. Those days were a blur of survival, the Moonberries a rare comfort before he finally settled in Quadrant Nine and built his shop. On the note, words were scrawled in uneven strokes: "You will be okay," followed by a heart and a smiley face. For a moment, his chest tightened. The small gesture grounded him against the chaos. Someone thought of me. With effort, he turned his attention to the bar. The bartender¡ªPistol¡ªglanced his way, his sharp eyes narrowing. ¡°Don¡¯t move,¡± Pistol¡¯s voice cut through the noise, low and commanding. ¡°All will be explained. Sit tight. You don¡¯t want to make this worse.¡± Bolton froze, his breath caught between defiance and compliance. Something in Pistol¡¯s tone left no room for argument, but the urge to run still clawed at him. Before he could act, a girl about his age strolled up next to him. She wore a barmaid uniform, stitched with mismatched patches and adorned with brass pins and tiny chains. Freckles framed her nose, and her orange hair, tipped with fiery red, shimmered in the swaying light of the lanterns. Large, curious eyes caught his, and when she smiled, her dimples seemed to turn the room on its axis. ¡°Did you¡­ write the letter?¡± Bolton blurted out. She paused, her mischievous smile growing as she gave him a slow, deliberate wink. Without a word, she continued toward Pistol, her stride as confident as ever. From the shadows, her voice called out, light but laced with amusement. ¡°We¡¯ve got a small problem to talk about after these guys leave. Also, where¡¯s this whorehouse you¡¯ve got? Can I join?¡± The woman¡¯s joke drew chuckles from the patrons, but Bolton barely noticed, his mind racing. Something feels wrong. I need to get off this train. Now. Then came a shout¡ªa gruff, primal call that echoed across the cart. ¡°Pistol!!! The royal is here! I smell em¡¯!¡± Bolton¡¯s blood ran cold as the heavy thud of boots drew closer. Chapter 4: All Aboard The Whisky Sunday (Part 2) The train fell into a sudden, heavy silence. Every pair of eyes locked onto Chief Hogswind, his large frame illuminated by the swaying, fiery lamp overhead. Shadows and moonlight brushed across him with each jolt of the train, lending his already imposing figure an almost mythic quality. Bolton¡¯s gaze followed Chief Hogswind as he approached with deliberate, measured steps. A growing unease settled in his chest, tightening as his eyes flicked toward the bar. Behind it stood Pistol, a figure just as formidable as the Chief. Barrel-chested and shirtless, his sweat-slicked skin gleamed under the dim light, barely contained by grease-streaked overalls. His bald head reflected the glow of the lamps, and his long, smoke-stained beard, tangled and streaked with white, hung down his chest like a wild emblem of his strength. He was a mountain of raw muscle, his presence as unyielding as iron¡ªa match for Chief Hogswind in every way. Standing just beneath Pistol¡¯s chin, Sarah moved fluidly around the bar. Her bright orange hair, tipped with fiery red, shimmered beneath the swaying oil lamp, and her large, expressive eyes seemed to catch every flicker of light, including the faint glow from Pistol¡¯s beard. Her uniform was striking, not for its standard design but for the way she¡¯d made it her own. The fitted vest was fastened with mismatched brass buttons, and a small chain dangled from one pocket, ending in a charm shaped like a clockwork key. A slight hitch in her skirt revealed worn leather leggings beneath, their scuffs telling stories of use and care. Around her waist, a utility belt swayed lightly, its pouches and tools suggesting she was prepared for more than just serving drinks. She moved with effortless grace, wisping trays over her head with a flick of her wrist and humming a soft tune that carried through the still air. Her very light skin seemed to glow faintly under the swaying lanterns, lending her an almost ethereal quality that was hard to place. Despite the spark of rebellion in her attire, there was a precision to her movements, an unspoken harmony with her surroundings that defied the chaos of the train. Bolton couldn¡¯t shake the sense that there was more to her than what met the eye, though the thought was fleeting as she glided past him, her hum carrying on like the steady rhythm of the train itself. As Chief Hogswind drew closer, Bolton¡¯s gaze wandered over the dimly lit train car. The miners, scattered in booths along both sides, looked different now. The train''s low hum reverberated through the metal frame, blending with the clink of glasses and the shuffle of boots on wood. Their uniforms caught Bolton¡¯s attention. No longer clad in the black-and-blue of the past, they now wore denim overalls with striped white shirts and flat caps. Though the attire had changed, the grime on their boots remained, clinging stubbornly¡ªa badge of their endless labor in the earth¡¯s veins. His attention shifted back to Chief Hogswind. The man¡¯s black-and-blue overalls were relics of another era, stained and worn from years underground. Dirt embedded itself in every crease, as though the mines refused to let go of him. Before Bolton could linger on the thought, Pistol¡¯s sharp voice broke through the uneasy quiet. ¡°Cut it out, will ya?¡± Pistol snapped, his fist tightening against the counter. ¡°Bolton¡¯s about as useful as a one-winged bird. His crown¡¯s on the ground next to your vacation, my pay, and¡ª¡± ¡°And my conductor¡¯s license?¡± Sarah chimed in, her voice light and teasing. She flashed a fleeting smile before turning back to her work, polishing gourd-shaped glasses and barrel mugs with practiced ease. ¡°I¡¯m in no rush to leave the Yardrat life! It¡¯s all I¡¯ve ever known!¡± Hogswind¡¯s booming voice reverberated through the train, shaking the walls. ¡°It¡¯s all we¡¯ve ever known. You escaped it, Pistol. Bravo! But how many carts does this Midnight Train, this Whisky Sunday, need before you realize it¡¯s just another shaft, another tunnel, another damn cave? You and I¡ªwe¡¯re Yardrats! Born to live in tubes, tunnels, and lamp-lit adventures!¡± Chief Hogswind¡¯s gaze bore into Pistol¡¯s, his cheeks flushed and his flask leaking liquor with every sway of the train. His brows furrowed, not with anger, but with something heavier¡ªa weight borne from years of digging and surviving. ¡°Nicholas?¡± Pistol exhaled, shaking his head. ¡°Life¡¯s just a series of endless tubes and tunnels, no matter how you cut it. You and I both know it¡¯s best to face a bucking horse from the front.¡± The Chief paused, his boots squeaking against a metal sheet laid over the wooden floor. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling like bellows. A single nod passed between the two men¡ªa truce forged in unspoken understanding. Then, Hogswind¡¯s gaze shifted to Bolton. Each step he took grew heavier, the vibrations traveling through the train and settling in Bolton¡¯s chest. His pulse quickened as Hogswind¡¯s massive frame loomed ever closer, the space around him shrinking. ¡°Whisky Cream, anyone?¡± Sarah¡¯s cheerful voice pierced the tension, holding up a bottle with exaggerated enthusiasm. The brightness of her offer clashed awkwardly with the thickening atmosphere. ¡°Bad time for a drink¡­¡± she mumbled, retreating to the bar. ¡°Right time! Always!¡± Hogswind roared with a disarming grin, his tone briefly breaking the tension. Bolton pressed himself further into the booth, his body stiff and aching. His eyes darted between Hogswind and Pistol, frantically searching for an escape. But it was hopeless¡ªhe felt cornered, like prey trapped between two predators. ¡°Best follow me, Prince!¡± Hogswind thundered, his voice cutting through the room with finality. ¡°A New Dwardian denizen would like a chat. A rare opportunity, I imagine.¡± Bolton¡¯s hands instinctively dove into his pockets, his mind racing for a weapon¡ªor anything¡ªto defend himself. His fingers closed around something familiar: his locket. Pulling it free, his breath hitched as something strange caught his eye. The locket trembled faintly in his hand, a vibration pulsing through his palm. Unease crept up his spine as he flipped it open. Inside, the black-and-white family photo stared back at him: Michael, sharp-eyed and composed; Amelia, smiling faintly, exuding quiet confidence; and himself, grinning with an optimism he could barely recall. The sight tugged at something deep in his chest. He could almost hear their voices: Michael¡¯s steady advice, Amelia¡¯s teasing laughter, and their mother¡¯s gentle reminders to stay close. For a fleeting moment, the ache in his ribs dulled, replaced by a pang of longing. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. But below the photo, the heart of the Gigarock pulsed violently, casting faint blue ripples of light that danced across the locket¡¯s interior. The glow shifted, almost alive, and Bolton¡¯s stomach twisted as the locket grew warm in his hand. The world around him blurred, the rhythmic clack of train tracks fading into the background. The locket¡¯s pulsing light dominated his senses, each beat syncing with his own heartbeat. ¡°What is this¡­?¡± he whispered, his voice trembling as he stared into the strange core. The light flickered erratically, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw something moving within the core¡ªa mechanical-fleshy construct, writhing as though alive. ¡°Why attack me¡­? Why kill Vermolly?¡± he thought, the questions hammering in his mind as his grip tightened on the locket. ¡°What¡¯s that in your hand?¡± Hogswind¡¯s booming voice jolted Bolton from his trance. The Chief¡¯s massive hand clamped down on his shoulder, dragging him back to reality. ¡°I¡¯m trying to inspire here, and you¡¯re fiddling with some freak watch?¡± Hogswind¡¯s sharp tone cut through the fog clouding Bolton¡¯s mind, leaving him wide-eyed and frozen as the train¡¯s swaying motion pressed forward. Hogswind leaned in, squinting at the pocket watch. His eyes lingered on the strange, pulsing core for a long moment, his brow furrowing deeply. Then, with a low grunt, he straightened up and turned away. ¡°Ahhh! Gigarock,¡± he muttered, his voice thick with reverence. ¡°We¡¯ve seen it all down in the mines¡­ But this¡­¡± He jabbed a finger toward the pocket watch, his tone lowering. ¡°This is S-class. Never seen one up close. Beautiful, ain¡¯t it?¡± His gaze grew distant, as if recalling some long-buried memory. ¡°They say S-class Gigarock can encase a soul,¡± he continued, his voice almost a whisper. ¡°Explains the flesh in its core, don¡¯t it? Question is¡­¡± His eyes flicked back to Bolton, sharp and searching. ¡°Whose soul is in there? ¡®Cause we ain¡¯t all chosen to be envoys of Yerro.¡± The weight of his words hung in the air, thick and heavy. Bolton¡¯s grip on the locket tightened, his knuckles whitening as he lowered his gaze to the photo within. The black-and-white portrait stared back at him, haunting in its familiarity. There was Michael, sharp-eyed and composed as always, exuding a confidence that bordered on unshakable. Amelia stood next to him, her faint smirk practically daring the viewer to underestimate her. And then there was Bolton¡ªgrinning with a boyish optimism that now felt distant, almost alien to him. The pulsing core below the photo drew his attention, its faint blue glow rippling like water. Each flicker cast shifting shadows across their faces, the light almost alive in the way it seemed to breathe. The rhythmic pulse synced with his heartbeat, loud and insistent, like a drumbeat he couldn¡¯t ignore. Michael. The name brought a sharp pang of memory, one that made his stomach twist. His mind slipped back to the second trial of the Greisha Ceremony, a race he had thought he would win. The Gearpress race was New Dwarden¡¯s pride¡ªits most celebrated sport. Sleek machines, powered by compressed air and outfitted with sails for gliding, raced through a massive sewer-inspired track. Half of the course had been cut away to give spectators a clear view of the action, turning the trial into a spectacle of skill, cunning, and pride. Bolton had started strong, dominating the early portion of the race. The first trial had already been his victory, and he was determined to secure another. His Gearpress responded like an extension of himself, gliding effortlessly through the tight turns and sharp corners. The roar of the crowd above only fueled his focus as he pushed for the golden ribbon at the finish line. Michael, as expected, had been relentless. He wielded his Gearpress like a weapon, using sharp gusts of compressed air from his sail to disrupt Bolton and Amelia. Bolton could still feel the force of those waves, each one a calculated move to push his siblings off course. But Bolton had countered with precision, weaving through the chaos and maintaining his lead. Amelia, though, was different. She didn¡¯t rely on brute force or clever maneuvers. She stayed close, matching his speed and rhythm with a quiet determination that unnerved him. When he sabotaged her sail with a well-placed kick, bending it just enough to hinder her glide, he had been sure the race was his. But Amelia always found a way. In the final stretch, Bolton¡¯s eyes locked on the ribbon fluttering ahead. He hyper-focused, every muscle taut with determination. And then, she struck. Amelia leapt from her damaged Gearpress onto his, her foot planting firmly on his chest. He remembered the shock, the disbelief as he lost his balance. The cold water below rushed up to meet him, stealing the air from his lungs as he plunged into the current beneath the track. When he resurfaced, sputtering and gasping, the crowd¡¯s cheers had already erupted. Amelia had crossed the ribbon. Her smirk of triumph as she stood on the podium haunted him to this day, but it was Michael¡¯s faint glance¡ªcool, unreadable¡ªthat lingered most. It wasn¡¯t disappointment, nor was it approval. It was something in between, as if Michael were silently asking him, Why weren¡¯t you better? Bolton¡¯s jaw tightened as the memory faded, his fingers curling around the locket. The rhythmic pulse of the Gigarock beat heavier now, almost as if mocking him. His chest ached, not from his injuries, but from the weight of the moment. ¡°Why attack me¡­? Why kill Vermolly?¡± The questions swirled in his mind, colliding with the memory of his failure. His gaze darted back to the Gigarock, its faint glow persistent, relentless, like an unspoken accusation. ¡°Why murder the only somebody who¡¯s been at my side when nobody else was?¡± Bolton¡¯s voice was barely a whisper, the words slipping out like a secret he hadn¡¯t meant to share. His grip on the locket tightened, his knuckles pale as he stared at the faint blue glow of the Gigarock. The pulsing light felt relentless, syncing with his heartbeat and mocking him with every beat. It dragged his failures and fears to the surface, and for a moment, the weight of it all threatened to crush him. Hogswind¡¯s sharp eyes narrowed as he caught the strained, haunted look on Bolton¡¯s face. Without a word, he reached into the pocket of his grease-streaked overalls and pulled out a small silver pocket watch. The surface gleamed faintly in the dim light, engraved with an elegant spiral, its edges worn smooth from years of use. ¡°Take mine,¡± Hogswind said, his tone gruff but not unkind. He held the watch out, and Bolton hesitated before slowly reaching out to take it. Bolton turned the watch over in his hand, its intricate rotating cog system ticking softly. It was cool to the touch, light and functional. Practical. ¡°This one¡¯s better,¡± Hogswind continued, his voice steady. ¡°Got less weight to it¡ªand it actually tells time.¡± Bolton¡¯s gaze shifted back to the locket in his other hand, its pulsing glow faintly visible through his curled fingers. The warmth of the Gigarock radiated upward, heavier than the silver watch. It wasn¡¯t just weight, he thought. It was something else entirely. ¡°Now,¡± Hogswind said, clapping Bolton firmly on the shoulder, ¡°look forward. I¡¯m tryin¡¯ to inspire here. Can¡¯t do that if the only Royal in the car is fiddlin¡¯ with some freak watch.¡± Hogswind¡¯s voice was loud, almost playful, as he turned back to the rest of the train car. His booming presence filled the space, his words carrying an air of command as he addressed the miners. But Bolton barely heard him. He stared down at the silver watch in one hand and the locket in the other. The soft clicking of the gears within Hogswind¡¯s watch was precise, measured, as if it belonged in a world of order. Yet the locket¡¯s pulsing light seemed alive, chaotic, and unrelenting. For a moment, he wasn¡¯t sure which one felt heavier. The rhythm of the Gigarock echoed in his chest, persistent as ever. Bolton tucked the silver watch into his pocket, its weight barely noticeable. His grip tightened around the locket, the warmth of its glow refusing to let him go. Chapter 4: All Aboard The Whisky Sunday (Part 3) Hogswind¡¯s sharp eyes bore into Bolton, the faint flicker of lantern light casting long shadows across his face. His voice rumbled low, carrying the weight of judgment. ¡°Boy, if you were a Yardrat, I¡¯d have ya right behind our canary. Someone with so much to give, waddlin¡¯ down to their knees, givin¡¯ it all up.¡± Bolton¡¯s chest heaved, the words hitting him like a lash. His grip tightened around the larger pocket watch, its glow faint but persistent in his hand. His heart hammered as anger boiled over, surging past grief and self-doubt. ¡°This thing¡¯s got Quadrant Leaders seeing red for it!¡± he shouted, shoving himself to his feet. The sudden movement was jarring, and pain flared in his ribs, but he ignored it. He stood tall¡ªor as tall as he could, staring directly into Hogswind¡¯s imposing frame. Bolton stepped forward, almost chest-to-chest with the Chief, their size comparison laughably different but his defiance unwavering. ¡°Sick of seeing people go! What¡¯s a rock picker like you got anything to do with me!? See what I¡¯ve seen! Do¡ª¡± Before he could finish, Hogswind¡¯s massive hand shot out, grabbing Bolton by the bandages wrapped tightly around his abdomen. With a single motion, Hogswind hauled him forward, and his other fist connected squarely with Bolton¡¯s face. The force sent Bolton spiraling backward, crashing into Pistol¡¯s bar. The impact shattered the tall wooden stools and sent splinters scattering across the floor. Bolton slumped to the ground, dazed, as both of his watches tumbled free from his pockets. The faint metallic clang echoed in the sudden silence. The larger pocket watch lay on the left, its faint blue glow pulsing weakly, while Hogswind¡¯s silver pocket watch rested on the right, its intricate cogs clicking softly. ¡°Pistol!¡± Sarah¡¯s voice rang out, sharp and furious. She turned toward him, her freckled face flushed with anger. ¡°Say something, you old beard!¡± Pistol¡¯s weathered hand came up gently, resting on her shoulder. He shook his head slightly, motioning for her to look toward the rest of the train. Bolton groaned, shifting slightly as his blurry vision cleared. He followed Sarah¡¯s gaze, his eyes landing on the other passengers. The miners, scattered in the shadows of the swaying lanterns, stared at him in silence. Their eyes were sunken, their faces unreadable, as though they were hiding something in the moonlight or the dim glow of the train. The oppressive quiet broke as Hogswind¡¯s voice cut through the air, commanding and sharp. ¡°Pick up the watches, child.¡± ¡°I¡ª¡± Bolton tried to speak, his voice hoarse, but Hogswind¡¯s hand came down hard on the bar. ¡°Pick up the damn watch,¡± Hogswind barked, his words slurring slightly as he took a long swig from his flask, the word Chief etched boldly across its metal surface. Bolton scrambled forward, his trembling hands reaching for the watches. He paused, his fingers brushing over the cracked black-and-white photo in the larger pocket watch. His family stared back at him: Michael, sharp-eyed and composed; Amelia, confident and daring; and himself, grinning with a boyish optimism that now felt like a lifetime ago. His chest tightened as tears welled in his eyes. The watch¡¯s rhythmic pulse throbbed in sync with his heartbeat, almost as if mocking him. The rhythmic pulse synced with his heartbeat, loud and insistent, like a drumbeat he couldn¡¯t ignore. For a fleeting moment, the ache in his ribs dulled, replaced by a pang of longing. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on his shoulders. Bolton closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. Images of Vermolly filled his mind¡ªher mangled body, her laughter, her guidance during his time in Quadrant nine. They would take scraps from old machines, crafting makeshift Gearpresses to fly higher and faster, Bolton always hoping to one day captain an Akiyoma airship. But that dream felt impossibly far away now, lost in the weight of everything he¡¯d endured. ¡°Used to work, you know¡­ the time?¡± Bolton murmured, breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, almost to himself, as he swung open the cracked glass window of his pocket watch and carefully removed the black-and-white photo inside. The train lanterns swayed above him, their flickering light dancing across the worn photograph. Bolton¡¯s fingers brushed over the edges of the picture, his touch soft and reverent. There they were¡ªMichael, sharp-eyed and steady as a compass; Amelia, smirking faintly with her defiant confidence; and himself, grinning with a boyish optimism that now felt like it belonged to someone else entirely. ¡°My pocket watch used to work,¡± Bolton said, his gaze fixed on the photo. ¡°Now it¡¯s stuck turning backwards, and I don¡¯t know why.¡± He tilted the watch closer to the lantern light, peering into its exposed interior. ¡°No matter how many times I break it open and look, the gears are always turning backwards. And somehow¡­¡± He trailed off, narrowing his eyes at the frozen hands of the watch. ¡°Now. Somehow. They¡¯re completely still.¡± The stillness in his voice hung in the air like the faint hum of the train. Bolton exhaled slowly, grounding himself as he folded the photo carefully and slid it back into the watch. The cracked glass window clicked shut, but the faint weight of the moment lingered. He reached out, his hands trembling slightly as he picked up both watches. His larger pocket watch, with its cracked window and broken gears, slipped into the deep pocket of his loose pants, its weight a persistent reminder against his leg. The smaller silver pocket watch¡ªthe one Hogswind had given him¡ªhung lighter, more delicate, as he looped its chain around his neck. The train car was silent now, the swaying lanterns casting shifting shadows across the miners¡¯ faces. Bolton felt their eyes on him, a quiet judgment or curiosity lingering in the air. Hogswind¡¯s gravelly voice cut through the tension, steady but pointed. ¡°See?¡± The Chief¡¯s lips curved into a small, knowing grin as he leaned back in his seat. ¡°They both weigh the same. Don¡¯t they. My watch even¡­tell¡¯s time.¡± Bolton didn¡¯t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced down at the silver watch hanging around his neck, its precise cogs ticking faintly, and then at the weight in his pocket, where his broken watch rested. He could feel it¡ªone heavy with memory, the other almost too light, as if offering him a path forward. His chest tightened as he thought of Vermolly, of the shop they¡¯d built together, the dreams they¡¯d shared, and the makeshift Gearpresses they¡¯d cobbled together from discarded parts. She¡¯d been the only constant in his life after everything else had fallen apart. He swallowed hard, forcing the memories to settle. Slowly, Bolton straightened his shoulders, his grip tightening briefly on the edge of the bar. ¡°They do,¡± he murmured finally, his voice barely audible, though it carried an edge of resolve. For a moment, the train car was silent, the tension heavy in the air. Then, as if a dam had broken, the Yardrats erupted into cheers and hollers, their voices reverberating against the wooden walls and swaying lanterns. ¡°I sniff a Yardrat?! One for the mines!¡± one voice bellowed, followed by another round of roaring laughter. ¡°Who¡¯s just about seen somedie right before ¡¯em?¡± another miner shouted, raising his mug high. Nearly every hand in the car shot up, followed by a roar of laughter that shook the train car. ¡°Might be a Royal, but he¡¯s got grit!¡± shouted another, thumping his fist on the table. The energy surged, the miners clinking their mugs together, stomping their boots against the floorboards in a steady rhythm that matched the hum of the train. The swaying lanterns cast chaotic shadows across their faces, amplifying the celebratory chaos as mugs were raised high and drinks spilled freely. Even Sarah, who had been lingering near the shadows, couldn¡¯t suppress a grin. She leaned closer to Pistol, her voice just audible over the noise. ¡°Is this really how men become friends?¡± Pistol, ever calm amidst the chaos, chuckled softly as he wiped down another mug. ¡°It¡¯s how one becomes closer,¡± he replied, his tone carrying a quiet certainty. Bolton, still gripping the edge of the bar, exhaled deeply, his ribs aching but his resolve hardening. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, his shoulders straightening as if bracing against the weight of the moment. His gaze flicked toward the miners, who roared with laughter and raised their drinks, their energy infectious. The energy surged, the miners clinking their mugs together, stomping their boots against the floorboards in a steady rhythm that matched the hum of the train. Even Sarah, who had been lingering near the shadows, couldn¡¯t suppress a grin. She slid a mug toward Bolton, her freckled face lighting up with a mischievous smile. ¡°This one¡¯s got a burn,¡± she said with a wink. Bolton hesitated, the warmth of the mug seeping into his palms. It was heavy, unfamiliar¡ªjust like everything else in this moment. But Sarah¡¯s grin lingered, coaxing him to take the plunge. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and raised the mug to his lips. The sharp heat of the drink hit him instantly, burning down his throat before settling warm in his stomach. He coughed once, unprepared for the intensity, but forced himself to swallow it down. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. A soft laugh escaped Sarah as she leaned against the bar, clearly amused. ¡°First time tryin¡¯ something stronger than ginger ale?¡± she teased, her tone light but kind. Bolton wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to mask the burn still tingling in his throat. ¡°Is it that obvious?¡± ¡°Little bit.¡± Sarah¡¯s grin widened. ¡°But hey, even alcoholics start somewhere.¡± The raucous cheer of the Yardrats swelled again as mugs clinked and laughter echoed through the car. Bolton allowed himself a small, fleeting smile, the warmth of the drink mingling with the strange, almost comforting energy of the room. For a brief moment, the weight he carried felt a little lighter. Pistol didn¡¯t answer immediately, a quiet pride flickering in his eyes as he wiped a mug clean. ¡°it¡¯s how one becomes closer,¡± he said with a small nod, his voice low enough that only Sarah could hear. Meanwhile, Chief Hogswind leaned back, his massive arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the car with a broad, toothy grin. ¡°Yardrats! Prepare for a feast! We¡¯ve less than half a day¡¯s trip before we arrive in Quadrant nine again! Smile and thank Pistol! Ain¡¯t no better host than a former Yardrat!¡± The crowd roared louder, their energy infectious, sweeping even Bolton into its tide. He stood at the bar, his chest still tight but his stance steady, the faint hum of the pocket watch in his pocket grounding him amidst the chaos. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the weight of the train¡¯s energy didn¡¯t crush him¡ªit lifted him. ¡°You¡¯ve got a lot of faith in that boy, Pistol,¡± Hogswind said, his tone sharp and edged with disbelief as he cast a pointed glance at Bolton before turning back to Pistol. The noise of the train car didn¡¯t seem to bother him; if anything, the cheers and boisterous laughter only made his voice resonate louder. ¡°Not the boy, Nicholas. Like I said, just a favor,¡± Pistol replied, his voice calm and casual, as if discussing the weather. He didn¡¯t even look up, his focus on the mug he was wiping down. ¡°The Legendary Rock Brawler, ¡®Pistol¡¯ of the Kenton mines, doing a favor?¡± Hogswind barked, his booming voice cutting through the din of clinking mugs and stomping boots. ¡°Tell me that doesn¡¯t sound like the beginning of¡ª¡± ¡°¡­another complicated bare-assed adventure,¡± Pistol interrupted with a half-smile, swaying his head in disbelief. ¡°Ah, who¡¯s to know what the future holds anyway!¡± Hogswind¡¯s scraggly laughter rose above the raucous chatter of the Yardrats, his voice carrying a rough, unrefined joy. Around him, miners thumped their mugs on the tables in rhythm with his laughter, adding to the growing chaos. He took a seat at the bar, settling into Bolton¡¯s right with a wide grin. ¡°Now. Do I drink with this potential threat?¡± Bolton tensed, his chest tightening as his ears caught every word. The car¡¯s noise seemed to press in on him¡ªthe rhythmic stomp of boots on wood, the cheers rising and falling like waves. Still, he kept his gaze down, pretending not to listen. ¡°Threat?¡± Pistol cut in, his tone smooth and unbothered, standing out amidst the rowdy crowd. He raised a barrel mug to his lips, taking a long, deliberate swig before continuing. ¡°Sounds to me like you¡¯re afraid of¡ª¡± He lowered the mug with a sly grin, ¡°¡ªa mere boy.¡± ¡°Mere boy?¡± Hogswind chuckled, his voice dipping low and rough like gravel. ¡°Since I met you many ticks ago, I¡¯ve learned not to underestimate what a mere boy is capable of.¡± The train car erupted into laughter, the noise cascading like a burst dam. Miners slapped their knees, shouted over one another, and raised their mugs in exaggerated toasts. The swaying lanterns overhead cast chaotic shadows on the walls, flickering like firelight in a cave. Bolton¡¯s heart pounded, but he stayed still, straining to hear more as the noise of the car swirled around him. Hogswind leaned back in his seat, letting the chaos simmer for a moment. His sharp eyes flicked to Pistol, and his grin widened. ¡°Now, let¡¯s try that legendary drink. Ain¡¯t too often a ¡®mere¡¯ Yardrat gets to ride the Midnight Train. These things are legendary. Learned not to questions why we get picked for rides on these things.¡± Pistol nodded in agreement, finally setting his rag aside. The raucous energy of the room seemed to hum with anticipation as he grabbed a mug and moved toward one of the massive barrels mounted on the walls. The miners¡¯ cheers subsided slightly, replaced by the rhythmic clinking of empty mugs as they tapped them against the tables, waiting impatiently. "How many of these Midnight Trains are there? And do they all serve drinks?" Hogswind asked. "Thirteen that I know of," Pistol responded. "Like everything in New Dwarden¡ªsecrets wrapped in secrets." Hogswind let out a low chuckle. "That number sticks to everything New Dwardian like flies on shit." He took a swig from his mug. "In my thirty-plus bleedin¡¯ years as a Yardrat, I¡¯ve only been on Harry¡¯s and Bart¡¯s trains. Sadly, no mead on one and no talking on the other." Sarah slid behind Hogswind, refilling mugs with practiced ease. **"Each conductor runs their train their own way. Midnight Trains are almost alive in a way. They see and feel the heart of their conductor¡ªand those who ride within." She glanced at Bolton, who was staring into his reflection in one of the large, barrel-shaped mugs¡ªcommon as the rails themselves on this train. "Lucky we got the one with you, innit?" Hogswind said with a grin. Pistol scoffed. "Greater powers decide who steps on and off this train. Luck¡¯s got nothin¡¯ to do with it. You want predictable transport, stick to the regular routes." Hogswind barked out a laugh and raised his mug. "No thanks. Mead¡¯s better here anyway." Golden, frothy liquid flowed from the barrel, and the miners gripped their mugs tightly, their eyes following every drop. The scent of the drink¡ªwarm, spiced, and comforting¡ªfilled the air, quieting even the rowdiest of the Yardrats as the first mug overflowed. When Pistol snapped the tap shut, a collective sigh of anticipation rippled through the car, quickly followed by murmurs of approval. He had the train car prepared¡ªmugs and glasses neatly arranged in compartments that seemed designed to survive the rowdy energy of its passengers. The flickering firelight reflected off polished glass, lending the scene a warm, almost surreal glow. All eyes were on Hogswind as Pistol slid the frothing mug across the bar to him. The Chief caught it in his massive hand, his grin widening. The room fell into an expectant hush, save for the faint hum of the train¡¯s movement and the soft creak of swaying lanterns. All eyes were on Chief Hogswind now. The men watched with bated breath, eager to see his reaction as he wrapped his massive hand around the mug. Pistol, too, stood still, his rag forgotten over his shoulder as he leaned slightly forward, waiting. The glow from the fire reflected off the drink, casting an inviting shimmer as Hogswind slowly lifted the mug to his lips. Every miner leaned in, the moment drawn out, thick with anticipation. Even Bolton, despite everything, found himself caught in the moment, watching intently as Hogswind prepared to take his first sip of Pistol¡¯s alleged ¡®legendary¡¯ drink. ¡°By the damn green, Pistol!¡± Hogswind bellowed after a long gulp, his voice slicing through the air. ¡°You¡¯ve outdone any man, god, or Colossus. I¡¯d drink this off the rim of a loo!¡± Laughter erupted through the train car, quickly followed by a roaring cheer that seemed to shake the very walls. ¡°The Yardrats will drink good tonight!¡± Chief Hogswind shouted, rising triumphantly from his seat, his booming voice igniting another wave of celebration. ¡°I know it¡¯s been decades, but you know this boy ain¡¯t no threat,¡± Pistol said, chuckling deeply. ¡°I¡¯ve known you to sniff out a spent cigarette in a loo.¡± ¡°Why not let the act play out?¡± Hogswind grinned, wiping foam from his mouth as he glanced at Bolton. ¡°Bolton, this is Nicholas Hogswind! Always makes a grand entrance. Exclusively drunk too,¡± Pistol teased, tugging at his beard. ¡°Call me Chief,¡± Hogswind said warmly, leaning back into his seat at the bar. ¡°A friend of Pistol¡¯s is a friend of mine. Practically an obligation.¡± He settled in, his posture relaxed but his presence still commanding. ¡°The name¡¯s Sarah,¡± sprang a voice to Bolton¡¯s left. ¡°I¡¯m something of an assistant here.¡± Bolton turned to see Sarah standing next to him, her fiery orange hair flaring at the tips. As she slipped off her orange gloves, Bolton noticed her freckled face, the spots tightly packed around her nose like scattered embers on her pale skin. She leaned her elbow on the bar, a grimace on her face that even made Pistol uneasy. ¡°The old guy in front of us?¡± She nodded toward Pistol. ¡°He¡¯s the sweetheart who made sure you were doing okay,¡± she said with a large smile. Her eyes sparkled in a way that made Bolton momentarily forget his pain, lost in the warmth of her gaze. ¡°Delivered to you by¡ª¡± ¡°Someone¡­ who really cares for you,¡± Pistol interjected, guarding the secret. ¡°Yes,¡± Sarah added, her voice softening as she caught Bolton¡¯s eye again. ¡°If you need anything, just let me know. I know you¡¯ve got questions, but for now, sit tight and enjoy a drink. Sounds like you¡¯ll need it.¡± Bolton stole a glance at Sarah, his mind briefly drifting. The soft hues of her loose skirt contrasted with the warm firelight, and her bright eyes flickered with a quiet kindness. For a moment, he found her undeniably charming. But now wasn¡¯t the time. He tore his gaze away, refocusing on the looming figure of Chief Hogswind. Chief Hogswind downed the last of his drink before leaning in with a broad smile. ¡°Now, what¡¯s Primarian ex-Royalty¡­¡± he burped, grabbing the top of Bolton¡¯s and forcing him to meet his eyes, ¡°doing on a Midnight Train?¡± Bolton heard Sarah recede into the shadows behind him, her boots softly thudding as she tended to the booths. He had no choice but to meet Hogswind¡¯s reddened, weary eyes. The smell of liquor was heavy on his breath. ¡°Leave the boy alone. He doesn¡¯t know much. Got banged up from a fight,¡± Pistol interrupted, pouring another drink for Bolton. ¡°With whom?¡± Hogswind¡¯s voice turned sharp. Pistol glanced at Bolton, eyes narrowing, as if warning him to remain silent. Bolton leaned forward slightly, eager to piece together how he ended up on this train, how much time had passed since the fight. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. He ain¡¯t dead,¡± Pistol said firmly. Bolton frowned, struggling to remember. "It wasn¡¯t a fight. I didn¡¯t stand a chance," he muttered, looking down at the stained bandages wrapped around his waist. "... My friend... she was killed. Then¡ª" "What kind of drink did ya serve me, Pistol?" Hogswind cut in, his voice light but firm, steering the conversation away as Bolton¡¯s words faltered. Pistol raised an eyebrow. "To name a few ingredients¡ªOrange Smooth Honey from the Gallup Mountains. A kick of allspice from the Essessel Woods." "Well, give it to Bolton¡ªand double the potency!" Hogswind boomed, his laughter filling the car. "Everyone on this train deserves more than just a drink, huh?" he roared, riling up the passengers once more. "Here¡¯s a secret, my royal... eh, understudy!" Hogswind¡¯s deep belly laugh shook the air as he smoothly swiped a shot of liquor from Pistol¡¯s hand and passed it to Bolton. "Drink makes things a little easier, but money..." Pistol smirked, finishing the thought with a knowing gleam. "Money is always the result of someone¡¯s hard work¡ªno matter how you''ve swiped it." He gave a satisfied nod, watching as Bolton hesitated... then, reluctantly, downed the drink. Hogswind stood tall, raising his mug high. ¡°On my mark, Yardrats! We cheer! We drink! And we forget the damn night! Cold as it is!¡± The miners, their empty mugs clutched in eager hands, leaned forward, eyes flicking between Bolton, Pistol, and their Chief, waiting for the signal. Chapter 4: All Aboard The Whisky Sunday (Part 4) Then¡ªthe roar came. "Chief! Hogswind! Chief! Chief Hogswind!" The chant erupted from the crowd, voices rising between the booths lining the train. Boots pounded against the wooden floorboards, shaking the car in a rhythmic thunder. Mugs slammed onto tables. The energy surged like steam building in an overworked engine. "Oi, Yardrats! Half past the time to scratch your arses! If you want the drinks ya earned, then eyes on me!" Chief Hogswind bellowed, his voice booming through the train, rattling the flames of the lanterns above. "Sir, MY HEART IS FOR SIR!" one side of the train cheered. "Sir, MY ARMS IS FOR SIR!" the other side shouted even louder, eager to outdo their rivals. Hogswind leaned over the bar, scanning the rows of oddly shaped bottles¡ªmeads, exotic juices, liquors¡ªbefore settling his gaze on Bolton, who was still reeling from his first swig of mead. "Boys! Some bigwig from Dwarden City, maybe a Quadrant Leader¡ªhell, could even be the King¡ªsaw fit to reward those who keep the pistons pumping and gears churning by lettin¡¯ us ride this Midnight Train! A rare honor!" His voice boomed over the crowd, commanding their attention. He gestured toward Bolton. "But rarer still, we got royalty among us. This here is Bolton Woltwork, a man who''s likely been through¡ª" Bolton stiffened, his fingers tightening around the rim of his mug. "Celebrate without me," he muttered. His voice was even, but the weight behind it was undeniable. Hogswind paused, his grin not quite fading. "A man who''s likely been through¡ª" "I¡¯m not royalty. Never will be." Bolton¡¯s tone was calm, but it carried an edge. "And I ain¡¯t rich. Never will be," Hogswind shot back without missing a beat. "Yet here I am, lungs full of soot and dirt, and still breathing just fine." He leaned forward, his massive frame casting shadows in the lantern light. "Breathin¡¯s enough, ain¡¯t it?" Srah let out a small breath, shaking her head. "Look around you, Bolton." Her voice was softer now, but sure. "These guys don¡¯t see ya as some crown polisher. You may as well be King Michael to them." The train car seemed to exhale, the rowdiness dimming¡ªnot gone, just waiting. From behind the bar, Pistol took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing on Bolton with quiet interest. Sarah stood still, tense, her gaze flicking between the Chief and Bolton. "Lay off! He''s clearly been through a lot, you rock ogre!" Sarah snapped, stepping forward. Her tray wobbled precariously in her hands, but her voice was steady. Hogswind didn¡¯t even glance her way, his focus entirely on Bolton. The train car fell into a thick silence, the lantern flames swaying in the still air. ¡°Nicholas,¡± Pistol called, his voice calm but deliberate as he wiped down a glass, ¡°you remember when we were first conscripted as Yardrats?¡± Hogswind exhaled, his expression shifting. "Ah, yeah¡­ we¡¯d just finished kicking some teeth in at Whistletop¡¯s adult section. Four sorry excuses for men and their monster, knocked down into the dirt like human pegs." Pistol¡¯s lips twitched in amusement before turning somber. "...You remember why?" ¡°We were rounded up quickly. The Primarian Arc¡¯s just as ruthless with children as with adults.¡± Hogswind¡¯s voice grew heavier. ¡°The rest¡­ well, we know how that went.¡± Sarah eased her stance, glancing at Bolton. He sat quietly, watching the two men recount their past, his gaze flicking between them. His fingers curled around the rim of his mug, the weight of everything pressing on him like a vice. Seizing the moment, Sarah leaned in toward Bolton. ¡°Trust Pistol,¡± she whispered, her voice softer now. ¡°He¡¯s the conductor of a Midnight Train. These things run on a little more than just steam¡ªthink goodwill and soul magic.¡± Pistol visibly tensed. "Wha¡ª?" His confused voice cut through, his eyes darting toward Sarah. She gave him a playful glance before turning back to Bolton. "He¡¯s a good guy, and he knows your brother. More importantly, he knows the Quadrant Leader who saved you." She hesitated, then added with a wink, "And hey¡ªyou¡¯re still breathing, so that¡¯s something." Bolton sat up suddenly. ¡°Who saved me?¡± Sarah tilted her head. "Aurous," she said, matter-of-factly. "Smelled like a sewer, but yeah¡ªQuadrant Leader One. Aurous." The name hit Bolton like a lightning strike. ¡°Aurous!¡± Bolton shot up from his seat. Pistol, mid-conversation with Hogswind, froze, the glass hovering just short of his lips. His jaw tightened¡ªbarely, but enough to notice. Sarah, catching it, grinned mischievously before gently tapping Bolton¡¯s shoulder. ¡°You¡¯re not invincible,¡± she murmured, nudging him back toward his seat. ¡°But you¡¯re very protected.¡± Bolton¡¯s body tensed, his muscles aching from the sudden movement. His mind was still racing, struggling to piece everything together. Sarah, watching him carefully, let out a small sigh. ¡°If you¡¯re lookin¡¯ for that harness you were wearin¡¯ when we found you, don¡¯t bother. It¡¯s done for.¡± Bolton blinked, his breath catching slightly. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Whatever that air compression thing was, it was wrecked beyond repair,¡± she explained, nudging him gently back into his seat. ¡°Torn to shreds, and what¡¯s left of your clothes are in the far cart. We had to get you out of it just to stop the bleeding.¡± His fingers twitched at the mention of it. He vaguely remembered the harness, the pressure of it against his chest, the way it had whined as it strained against gravity before¡ªbefore everything went black. Sarah leaned against the bar, arms crossed. ¡°You were lucky Pistol pulled you in when he did. Whatever happened before this train found you¡ªyou weren¡¯t walking away from it.¡± Bolton¡¯s gaze drifted downward, his mind clouded with fragmented memories. The hum of the pocket watch against his leg, the rhythmic sway of the train¡ªit was all grounding him now, but the weight of what happened before still lingered in the back of his mind. Pistol, catching Bolton¡¯s distant stare, exhaled through his nose. "Don¡¯t overthink it now, kid. You¡¯re breathing. That¡¯s what matters." Sarah gave a light shrug. "Yeah. And at least now you¡¯re dressed proper. That scrap heap of an outfit wasn¡¯t exactly royal material." Bolton exhaled, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips¡ªbut it felt like someone else¡¯s. The name Aurous echoed in his mind. A man of legend within the Primarian Royale¡ªso boisterous and enigmatic that his very presence commanded respect. Aurous, the creator of Quadrant Nine. His name was spoken with equal parts reverence and fear. Bolton had heard the stories¡ªhow the man¡¯s strength and cunning had shaped an entire Quadrant, his laughter shaking the halls of the Royale as easily as he moved armies. The idea that Aurous had saved him? Surreal. Impossible. His thoughts swayed¡ªor maybe that was just the drink finally catching up to him. He steadied himself, blinking through the dull warmth settling behind his eyes, his mind trying to line up the names in order. Quadrant Four¡ªEnton, the Bear. Unyielding. Immovable. Quadrant Five¡ªHios, the Giant. Quadrant Six¡ªDrock, the Toad. Sly. Adaptable. Quadrant Eight¡ªGlassford, the Owl. Silent. Wise. Quadrant Nine¡ªAurous, the Ape. Boisterous. Cunning. Quadrant Ten¡ªDavina, the Cat. Graceful. Elusive. Quadrant Eleven¡ªNewton, the Ignorpa. A beast of instinct and speed. And the others¡ªhe knew them. He did. But their names drifted just out of reach, slipping from his grasp like spilled mead over a bar top. Sarah¡¯s voice yanked him back before he could chase them further. ¡°Oi, Woltwork¡ªdon¡¯t pass out on me.¡± Bolton blinked, realizing he had been staring too long at nothing, his head dipping slightly forward. "Don¡¯t think I can. Too much on my mind." He pushed himself up, trying to stabilize himself. "Said the man with a swish and sway in his step," Sarah laughed, shaking her head. "Almost had me convinced we were sailin¡¯ off from Quadrant 13¡¯s shoreline." Her smirk flickered in his periphery, but her presence felt grounding, pulling him back from wherever his mind had started drifting. The bar top felt cool beneath his fingertips as he planted his hands against it, exhaling slowly. He smirked faintly, but even as the warmth of the drink settled in his stomach, a thought lingered in the back of his mind¡ªthose missing names. They were there. Just out of reach. Before Bolton could recall the rest, the weight of the present dragged him back. That creeping sense of unease tightened in his chest, the feeling that danger was still out there, waiting. But then¡ªSarah. Her calm expression, paired with the revelation that an old friend had come to his aid, took the edge off the panic clawing at his ribs. His heartbeat slowed. His breath, once caught in his throat, evened out. Then he felt it. A warmth creeps through his limbs, his thoughts just a fraction slower. Not enough to be noticeable¡ªbut he noticed. The drink had settled in heavier than expected. Damn. His brows furrowed slightly. How strong was Pistol¡¯s brew? Sarah¡¯s fingers drummed lightly against the counter, a barely-there motion that caught Pistol¡¯s attention. She didn¡¯t speak¡ªshe didn¡¯t have to. The old man caught the signal immediately, letting out a small grunt before turning his back, already cutting Bolton off from another pour. Bolton barely had time to register that exchange before Sarah¡¯s hand found his elbow, a light but deliberate touch as she helped guide him back onto the barstool. He wasn¡¯t exactly stumbling, but she did it anyway. And she knew it. ¡°You¡¯re steady enough,¡± she murmured, her fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary before she let go. Bolton huffed. ¡°I was fine.¡± Sarah smirked. ¡°Sure.¡± He exhaled, sinking into his seat, his gaze shifting toward Pistol and Chief Hogswind on his right. Their conversation pulled him¡ªreluctantly¡ªback into the moment. Pistol cleared his throat, speaking a little louder, as if signaling Bolton to pay attention. ¡°Anyway, that memory is growin¡¯ dust. We did the right thing back then. Just got caught in¡­¡± ¡°In the fuckin¡¯ middle,¡± Hogswind finished, nodding in agreement. Pistol leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. ¡°I¡¯d suggest we¡¯d be in something similar today. Quadrant Leader Aurous rides with us on the Whisky Sunday¡ªtwo carts ahead, near the front of the train. He expects the boy at a destination, to meet with another. The less we know, the better.¡± Hogswind scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. "The boy¡¯s been through hell¡­" he muttered, almost as if thinking aloud. ¡°Should recruit him into being a Yardrat at this point.¡± Pistol¡¯s voice cut through the space between them, quieter but heavier. ¡°Aurous saved the boy after he saw his best friend murdered in front of him.¡± Bolton¡¯s shoulders tensed. His fists clenched¡ªbriefly¡ªbefore he forced them to loosen. His eyes burned with disgust as they flicked to Pistol, but the anger drained from his expression the moment he met the old man¡¯s steady, knowing gaze. Pistol didn¡¯t say anything else. He didn¡¯t need to. The slight nod he gave Bolton said more than words could. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. ¡°Familiar,¡± Hogswind muttered, watching the silent exchange. Sarah exhaled sharply. ¡°So maybe we take a little more caution when speaking with Bolton,¡± she chimed in, her voice gentle but firm. Pistol¡¯s lips twitched into a soft, knowing smile as he gestured for her to leave it be. There was no disapproval in his expression¡ªonly something quieter, warmer, as if silently thanking her. Sarah caught the look, and for the first time, her usual teasing edge softened. Without another word, she slipped behind the counter, her hands already moving to prepare the next round of drinks. But Hogswind wasn¡¯t done. He exhaled through his nose, his fingers drumming against the bar before speaking¡ªnot to Bolton, but to the train itself, through the mead¡¯s reflection before him. "The title of Yardrat is a prestige¡­ awarded to those who don¡¯t quite fit¡­ New Dwardian social standards." His voice was loud, but measured, carrying through the air like an old sermon. "It is for those who need a second chance. For those caught by the Primarian Arc for merely the thought of a crime. Or for those who crave a thankless adventure." He lifted his mug slightly, turning his head toward the scattered Yardrats seated throughout the car. "For the stinky. The sublime. The shitty. The ones who don¡¯t make it on time." A few of the Yardrats grinned, raising their mugs. The rumble started slow¡ªa deep, rhythmic thump-thump as wooden cups hit tables, boots tapped against the floorboards. Hogswind¡¯s eyes met theirs, the grin returning to his face. "A Yardrat serves his time!!" The chant erupted, the words rolling through the train car in ragged, boisterous voices. "A Yardrat serves his time!!" Mugs slammed, boots stomped, and the swaying lanterns above flickered wildly in the growing momentum. Bolton barely had time to process the shift before Hogswind turned back to him. He leaned forward, his sharp eyes locking onto Bolton. "Are we certain we don¡¯t understand each other, Bolton Woltwork?" Bolton¡¯s gaze flicked up, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. ¡°You were exiled, weren¡¯t ya? At eighteen?¡± Bolton¡¯s breath hitched¡ªbarely noticeable, but enough. He slumped back in his seat, the weight of the words settling into his chest. ¡°Right!?¡± Hogswind barked, his massive hand grabbing the edge of Bolton¡¯s stool and spinning it sharply to face him. The thunder of boots, clanking mugs, and roaring voices didn¡¯t stop¡ªif anything, it surged. The chant had become a beast of its own, pulsing through the train like a living heartbeat. Hogswind, emboldened by the moment, threw his massive arm around Bolton, his grin wide, his breath thick with mead and mirth. ¡°Clearly, we choose to live again!¡± he bellowed, swigging deep from his flask. ¡°The monsters fail again! And we¡ªwe drink again!¡± His words were met with a fresh wave of cheers, fists pounding on tables, boots hammering against the floorboards. The very walls of the train seemed to rattle in agreement. Hogswind turned to Pistol, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. ¡°So, with your permission, Pistol¡ªare we ready?¡± Pistol smirked, knowing full well that permission had already been granted by the riotous energy in the air. ¡°What say you, Sarah? Ready for a night on the tracks?¡± he asked, his voice lifted just above the growing chaos. Sarah exhaled, wiping an imaginary bead of sweat from her brow. ¡°Glasses and mugs are served,¡± she sighed, standing behind him with a tray full of fresh pours. ¡°Guess all we gotta do is open the tap.¡± Pistol chuckled, then turned to Bolton, his voice steady beneath the storm of voices. ¡°What say you, Bolton? Our destination is still half a day¡¯s journey. Care to join us?¡± The question hung in the air for a moment, and for the first time since stepping onto the Whisky Sunday, Bolton hesitated. His fingers tightened around his mug. His mind drifted¡ªto his father, Daniel Woltwork, the former king, and the words he had once spoken: A parent¡¯s duty is to smile alongside his children when possible. The memory hit him like a wave, pulling him between past and present. His father¡¯s voice seemed to linger, urging him forward, reminding him that even in the darkest of times, there was still room for joy. His grip relaxed. He took a deep breath, lifted his mug¡ªthen, with a grin spreading across his face, he shouted: ¡°OPEN ¡¯EM!¡± The train car erupted. Mugs slammed together, voices roared, and the footfalls of miners swarmed toward the center bar like a stampede. Sarah rushed to refill tankards, the swaying lanterns above casting flickering light over the wild, pulsing energy below. The celebration had truly begun. Music emerged from the chaos¡ªat first, just humming. Then, the rhythmic banging of mugs against tables, boots stomping in perfect unison, the train itself seeming to rumble with them. Pistol leaned toward Bolton, speaking just loud enough for him to hear, his voice steady amid the storm of laughter and song. ¡°In times where life seems its bleakest, it¡¯s important to celebrate with those who may very well carry you from the darkness,¡± he said, his eyes sharp with something deeper, something that held weight. ¡°And Yardrats¡ªformer or otherwise¡ªare adept at fighting things from the dark.¡± Before Bolton could respond, a miner leapt up onto a table, slamming his mug down with enough force to send ale flying. His voice, raw and bold, boomed above the crowd. Coffins With Mead Miner 1: My mother once told me, It''d be best if she¡¯d left for a bucket of mead (Miners together: Ha!) She bit her lip, her lip quivering pissed, and she spat her rum on me! (Miners Togethers: Ha!) All Together: She was a whore! A stinkin fat boar! A pig foul indeed!(Together) One hundred adored, a hundred on four, for being on her knees! (Together) We drink to the whores, we drink out the door, We¡¯ll drink a barrel on me (Together) Brothers and sisters! Fuckers and fisters! Prepare our coffins with mead Miner 2: My mother once told me, love is a bet, my lassie¡¯ but a dream (Miners Together: Ha!) She quivered her lip, the cunt royally pissed, and she poured her rum on me (Miners Together: Ha!) All Together: She was a whore! A stinkin fat boar! A pig foul indeed!(Together) One hundred adored, a hundred on four, for being on her knees! (Together) We drink to the whores, we drink out the door, We¡¯ll drink a barrel on me (Together) Brothers and sisters! Fuckers and fisters! Prepare our coffins with mead Miner 3: My mother last told me, life is best, licken those accursed bottles clean (Miners together: Ha!) She ran her lips, her breath burnin¡¯s of piss, then she- The swaying lanterns of the Whisky Sunday¡¯s train car flickered wildly, the raucous Yardrat cheers reverberating through the air. Bolton stood at the bar, the faint warmth of leftover mead still clinging to his lips as he struggled to push away the storm of his own thoughts. Then, the train lurched. The floor shuddered beneath them as a guttural, distorted howl split the air. The sound was unholy¡ªa broken symphony of growls, mechanical grinding, and the screech of metal tearing against itself. Every Yardrat froze mid-celebration, their mugs clutched tight, faces pale. The far doors to the train car burst open, splinters flying as hinges screeched. A heavy, unnatural thudding echoed into the space, rhythmic and deliberate, like the heartbeat of something not meant to live. A shadowy grotesque creature stepped into the light. It was a grotesque amalgamation of raw flesh and exposed metal, its massive, muscular body glistening with sinew and oil. Tufts of fur jutted out in patches, mismatched like a botched taxidermy experiment. Thick pipes twisted along its ribcage, hissing steam with each breath. Its limbs were disturbingly uneven¡ªone leg thick and powerful, the other spindly and threaded with wires, its exposed bones plated with jagged steel. Its tail whipped behind it, a chain-tipped horror that clattered against the floor with each step. But its face¡ªits face froze them all. The creature¡¯s head was canine in shape, but wrong in every way. Skin stretched too tightly over a metal skull, jaws overextended and packed with jagged teeth that didn¡¯t align properly. The glowing red lenses of its eyes swirled erratically, like a machine struggling to process the world around it. Despite its grotesque appearance, it radiated a primal, predatory malice, its snapping jaws producing sickening clicks as it advanced. Pistol remained stoic behind the bar, his hand calmly wrapping around the handle of a heavy iron wrench. Chief Hogswind, in stark contrast to the trembling Yardrats, stepped forward, his massive frame looming, arms crossed. His voice boomed with defiance. ¡°Yardrats!¡± Hogswind barked. ¡°This is what we fight in the dark! If you still call yourselves tunnel men, then stand tall now! And if you run¡ªbest not turn your head back this way!¡± His words struck like a hammer, but the fear in the car was thick. Mugs trembled in shaking hands. The word monster passed between them in hushed whispers. Bolton couldn¡¯t move. His breath caught as the creature tilted its head unnaturally, jaws snapping at the air as though testing the sound. Then, its glowing eyes landed on him. And it crouched. It was preparing to pounce. Then came a new sound¡ªthe dull thunk of mugs lifted from uncertain hands. Enton stepped from the shadows of the doorway, plucking two mugs of mead from the miners without so much as a glance. He raised them, as if weighing their worth, before taking a slow swig from both. His sleek black robe clung to his broad shoulders, and the pistons along his spine hissed softly, releasing thin trails of steam. His expression was unreadable. Cold. Calculating. ¡°Not used to these in the dark, eh?¡± His voice cut through the air, smooth and unshaken. ¡°A machine¡¯s interpretation of life. Flesh and steel, melded in perfect chaos. Creatures known as Malice¡ªthe will of Yerro, in its truest form. Here to collect.¡± He stepped forward, resting a hand on the creature¡¯s grotesque head. The Malice rumbled low, but did not snap at him, its attention still fixed on the crowd. ¡°If your name isn¡¯t Michael, Amelia, or Bolton Woltwork, you¡¯ve got nothing to fear,¡± Enton murmured, stroking its patchy fur. ¡°Do not mistake these for the fodder in the mines.¡± Bolton¡¯s pulse pounded. He clutched the counter behind him as Enton¡¯s gaze locked onto him, sharp and unyielding. ¡°Your brother fought well, Woltwork,¡± Enton said, voice measured. ¡°Even managed to save your life, with the help of a traitor.¡± He gestured toward the train car door. A shadow filled the doorway. Aurous. The Quadrant Leader¡¯s four massive arms gripped the frame as he ducked inside, his towering, ape-like form nearly scraping the ceiling. His human torso gleamed with sweat, and his loincloth swayed as he moved. A grin stretched across his face, teeth flashing like a crescent moon. ¡°Free will now, brother!¡± Aurous bellowed, voice rich with wild energy. ¡°Free to choose! Life from death! Machine to life! Honey from ham!¡± He grabbed a nearby tap, poured himself a beer, guzzled it down, then slammed the dented mug onto the counter. The wood cracked beneath his fingers. He crouched, his massive upper body shifting into a ready stance. ¡°Care to test my choice?¡± Enton didn¡¯t flinch. His voice, however, sharpened. ¡°Go ahead. Keep pretending you¡¯re human or otherwise. Since when does a cog question where it spins.¡± His gaze swept the Yardrats. ¡°Look at me. Remember this moment. I am not your enemy.¡± He placed his hand once more on the Devil Dog¡¯s patchy fur. ¡°This creature¡ªthis is the truth of Yerro¡¯s will. Yerro wants to awaken. The King refuses to allow the natural order. I am it¡¯s selected envoy.¡± Bolton exhaled, his voice barely a whisper. ¡°Wake Yerro and¡­that¡¯ll destroy all thirteen Quadrants.¡± For the first time, Enton hesitated. A flicker of something¡ªpain? Frustration?¡ªcut through the iron in his voice before he pushed forward, his words harder now, desperate. ¡°Yardrats! Tell me¡ªhow many of your own have been killed?¡± His gaze swept the room, the flickering lanterns casting long, uneasy shadows. ¡°How many have been dragged underground? How many have vanished into the dark, leaving nothing but blood in the dust?¡± A silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, from the back of the train, a voice. Weak. ¡°M-My brother. He¡­ he was pulled under by a Mud Gutter.¡± Enton turned, eyes narrowing. ¡°Spider-like, yet easy to dispatch¡­ except as of late, correct?¡± A low murmur of agreement rippled through the train. "Yerro suffocates beneath this city. And as he withers, the things below grow stronger. The creatures grow bolder. The mines run barren." Enton¡¯s voice cut like a blade. "The Quadrant Leaders must submit their souls. Or more of you will be dragged into the sewers, your names lost in the dark." "Yerro was corrupted long ago!" Aurous snapped. "Little by little, sure¡ªbut now we have something like free will! Do as Yerro says, and we lose it! We go back to being nothing but spinning cogs!" Enton¡¯s face twisted, frustration bleeding into his voice. "That¡¯s exactly what we are! Cogs! Machines, organics¡ªit makes no difference! We all have a place! Tell me you don¡¯t feel the confusion gnawing at you!" "Confusion?" Bolton¡¯s voice came quiet but firm. "That¡¯s choice." He wasn¡¯t looking at Enton anymore¡ªhis gaze had drifted past him, distant and unreadable. The eerie blankness in his eyes sent a rare ripple of unease through Hogswind. Enton¡¯s jaw clenched. "We lost our purpose, Royal. Just like you. Now we meander broken roads, waiting for something to set us right again." "So we gather all thirteen of us¡ªthen what?" Aurous challenged, stepping forward. "The Colossus wakes up and just walks away? You understand that Malice ain''t that much different from what we used to be!" Enton exhaled sharply, his patience fraying. "Cooperation is ideal, but not required!" He threw a hand toward the Malice, its jaw snapping at the air in agitation. "This is what awaits us all if we keep suppressing Yerro. Lawless husks, thrown to the wind, our souls harvested into beasts until Yerro awakens anyway. Why must I explain this to you, brother? We are stealing what was never ours to begin with!" The tension thickened. The Devil Dog let out a guttural growl, its fangs glinting under the swaying lanterns. Pistol exhaled slowly. His voice came steady, calm. Certain. ¡°Sarah. Take Bolton to the back.¡± Sarah hesitated, shifting from foot to foot. Her hands clenched at her sides. ¡°But¡ª¡± ¡°Now.¡± Pistol¡¯s grip tightened on the wrench. ¡°This fight ain¡¯t ours. Not yet.¡± Aurous cracked his knuckles, the sharp pop echoing through the silent train car. His grin widened, wild and sharp as a beast let loose from its cage. ¡°Come on then, brother.¡± His stance shifted lower, massive hands ready. ¡°Let¡¯s see if Yerro¡¯s will is enough to stop me.¡± Chapter 5: Dont Wake The Owl (Part 1) The low moan of metal bending rippled through the ship before the first scream. Then came the screech¡ªhigh, sharp, and unbearable. The sound of the Whistlin'' Death tore through the air like knives scraping glass, sending shivers down Amelia¡¯s spine and rattling her bones. It felt as though the ship itself were crying out in agony. She had heard tales of this sound¡ªships collapsing under pressure, entire structures reduced to splinters. Bolton and Michael used to tell her stories like this¡ªthe Whistlin'' Death turning ports into graveyards¡ªhalf history, half bedtime horror. But now, it wasn¡¯t just a story. It was all too real. Explosions pounded the halls. The notorious whistle vibrated the ground beneath her feet, each pulse heavy enough to make her wonder if the ship could survive. Yet before the chaos erupted, there had been warning signs¡ªthe faintest hum through the floorboards, the way the lanterns flickered just off-beat, and the air growing too still, too heavy. She glanced at Rick, confused, her hand instinctively reaching for her knife¡ªonly to find it missing. Then the Pappy Long Legs¡¯ lanterns flared a sickly red, casting a pulsing, ominous glow down the corridor. The ship seemed to writhe in anticipation, its lights a heartbeat counting down to disaster. Amelia and Rick clutched their ears, crouching against the vibrating walls as the relentless cacophony battered them. Each second stretched as the ship trembled, threatening to collapse. "Rick?! The stories?! What do we do?" Amelia screamed, her voice lost in the noise. Rick didn¡¯t answer. His mechanical arms dug into the walls, leaving jagged impressions in the metal, his eyes wild but locked onto hers. Then he pointed¡ªurgently¡ªtoward a door shaped like an owl at the far end of the hall. Amelia didn¡¯t need further explanation. She bolted, but the ship¡¯s violent shuddering threw her off balance. She staggered, catching herself against the wall. The vibrations didn¡¯t stop, rolling through her chest like thunder. At the door, her fingers fumbled with the handle, trembling as sound waves pulsed through her body. She yanked, then pushed¡ªnothing. The noise wasn¡¯t just sound anymore. It was pressure¡ªa force pressing down on her, grinding her movements to a crawl. Her eyes darted back to Rick, panic widening her gaze. This can¡¯t be it. It can¡¯t end like this. Rick was close behind, his thinner arms covering his ears while two larger mechanical limbs worked feverishly on the door. His fingertips extended, transforming into a crude, sparking saw that screamed nearly as loud as the ship. He motioned for Amelia to stay low, his face tense as the blades carved through. Before Rick could finish, the original Roy¡ªthe mechanical guide Amelia had half-grown to trust¡ªemerged from behind the door. His metallic fingers beckoned them forward, his spotlight eyes cutting through the chaos like a guiding beacon. ¡°YOU are not allowed. However, exceptions have been made,¡± Roy said, his tone light, almost too casual as if they weren¡¯t seconds from disaster. They rushed through, passing a crackling veil of blue light. Static buzzed against Amelia¡¯s skin, prickling as she stepped through. The screech faded into a muffled rumble, but even in the silence, a suffocating weight lingered¡ªas if they¡¯d only stepped into the eye of the storm. ¡°My new directive is to ensure your safety, Amelia,¡± Roy intoned, his voice devoid of emotion. ¡°Take a breath before speakin¡¯, Crowny,¡± Rick warned, brushing past her. Relief washed over her¡ªbriefly. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, dread clawed its way back. The space was vast, its walls streaked with soot and shadow, lit by flickering flames and electric arcs that framed a towering mechanical figure. It loomed in the atrium, half-suspended in midair. Half of its body was a mangled metallic skeleton, battle-worn and scarred. Exposed wiring sparked sporadically, barely holding together. The other half was disturbingly familiar¡ªwhite coat tails speckled with black dots and a frayed bomber jacket hanging loose like a corpse¡¯s skin. A cracked, bird-shaped helmet crowned its head. Amelia¡¯s breath hitched. Glassford. Quadrant Leader Glassford, the Owl of Quadrant 8. She had seen him countless times¡ªpristine, calm, untouchable. But here, he hung like a broken marionette. A horrifying thought hit her. He¡¯s a machine. The realization twisted her stomach. Glassford¡ªthe leader, the legend¡ªwas a lie. ¡°A...machine,¡± she whispered. ¡°Rick¡­ one of Father¡¯s best friends. A machine.¡± Her mind reeled. This wasn¡¯t just machinery¡ªit had lived, fought, and now, it was dying. The gashes, ruptured cables, and worn patches told a tragic story. Was leadership itself a lie? Were the others like him? What if my brothers are already machines too? Rick¡¯s voice snapped her back. ¡°Crowny! Listen! If the Whistlin¡¯ Death wanted this airship gone, it¡¯d already be in pieces. They didn¡¯t bring a fleet¡ªjust their damned heavy weight. They¡¯re not here to burn us out¡ªthey¡¯re here to take.¡± They¡¯re here to collect something... Or someone.¡± He jabbed a finger toward Glassford. ¡°The Owl of Quadrant 8. If they can¡¯t get him, they¡¯ll settle for you!¡± Her gaze fell to the tubes snaking from Glassford¡¯s body into the walls, faintly pulsing. He was being drained¡ªa Quadrant Leader reduced to fuel. ¡°Quadrant Leaders don¡¯t get assassinated,¡± she muttered, disbelief shaking her voice. ¡°They¡¯re the best of the best¡­¡± Rick¡¯s patience snapped. ¡°By the blasted Tumbling Greens! You Woltworks wouldn¡¯t trust the stink of shit in front of you! Yes, that¡¯s Glassford! And no, I didn¡¯t kill him. But I sure as hell didn¡¯t save him! Now hide or pick up a weapon before this mess takes you too!¡± Amelia¡¯s gut screamed to press Rick for answers, but the urgency in his voice forced her to act. Survive now¡ªquestions later. Her gaze shifted to the tubes snaking from Glassford¡¯s ravaged body into the walls, faintly pulsing. His energy was being drained¡ªa Quadrant Leader reduced to fuel. She pressed a hand to her chest, betrayal mingling with a creeping fear. ¡°Rick. Quadrant Leaders don¡¯t get assassinated. Killed lik- like any other person! They¡¯re the best of the best! This is¡­impossible,¡± she muttered, disbelief shaking her voice. If Glassford could be taken down, what did that mean for the others? For everything she believed untouchable? Rick¡¯s patience snapped. ¡°By the blasted Tumbling Greens! You Woltworks wouldn¡¯t trust the stink of shit right in front of you!¡± His voice cracked. ¡°Yes, that is Glassford! And yes, I¡¯m not innocent! Didn¡¯t kill him but¡­ didn¡¯t help him either! Now hide or pick up a weapon, unless you want to get permanently tangled in this mess as well!¡± Amelia hesitated. Her gut screamed to press him for answers. Could she trust him? ¡°I¡¯m not doing a damn thing until you explain¡ª¡± Tried shouting Amelia. ¡°Explain what? The infinite void that is the spirit world? You want it carved into a damn popsicle stick?!¡± Rick roared, his voice cracking under the weight of desperation. ¡°Crowny! I don¡¯t know how it works! I¡¯m just a father who screwed up¡ªa mistake I¡¯d make again!¡± The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. He shouted, his words raw and unsteady, even as his eyes darted past Amelia, scanning the shadows behind her. ¡°Believe me or don¡¯t¡ªbut I found him like this. Half-dead, and fading fast.¡± Amelia looked away, the thundering pistons of the Pappy Long Legs pounding in her ears like war drums. She stumbled, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. ¡°Get up! Scurry over here, damn it!¡± Rick hissed, his voice barely cutting through the hum of the machinery. His red sunglasses hid his eyes, but the tension in his stance betrayed his urgency. ¡°Pick up a stick, a bolt¡ªhell, anything sharp! Something¡¯s coming.¡± He paused, his voice softening but no less desperate. ¡°By the Goblet and Green, don¡¯t do it for me. Do it for Roy¡ªand for yourself. We need to be ready.¡± He swallowed hard. ¡°Extraction Protocol Q8.¡± ¡°Extraction Protocol Q8?¡± Amelia¡¯s eyes darted to Rick, who shifted uncomfortably and avoided her gaze. ¡°Another invention?¡± ¡°Another one that saves your life yes,¡± Rick snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. ¡°Our ticket outta here... should yous still feel comfortable breaking bread with me.¡± Amelia¡¯s brow furrowed as her gaze drifted toward the platform housing Glassford. The hum of circling engines sent vibrations through the glass beneath her feet, pulsing with flickering lights like veins. A cage. A containment system. Her breath hitched. What kind of monster needed a cage like this? The subtle vibrations beneath her feet reminded her of the Yardrat chambers¡ªglass prisons designed to hold creatures too dangerous to roam free, captured during the average supply run. Her mind flashed back to the glistening tanks and reinforced walls, each structure built to either study¡ªor destroy¡ªwhatever was trapped inside. Depending on the interest of it¡¯s captur. The idea unsettled her. She hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on her chest. Her hand hovered near the locket around her neck before she quickly lowered it, frowning as if the action had betrayed her uncertainty. Her eyes flicked toward the tall, narrow windows lining the walls, revealing slivers of the outer evening sky. Through the dim glass, the faint glow of the horizon seemed distant¡ªcold and indifferent. The pulsing blue light from Glassford flickered against the glass, casting jagged shadows of small automatons poised in defensive positions. Their metallic frames glinted sharply, reflecting the hum of the containment platform like predators waiting for a signal. For a moment, Amelia remained still, her breath catching as the machines¡¯ dark outlines twitched ever so slightly¡ªalive, but dormant. Her fingers curled into fists. The vibrations grew stronger beneath her, a low, mechanical growl building from the depths of the ship. Hesitation wasn¡¯t an option. She glanced at Rick, who was furiously welding the door shut, his posture tense, shoulders hunched as if holding the weight of the ship¡¯s chaos on his back. The clang of metal against metal echoed through the room. His movements were frantic, sharp, as though fighting against time itself. Meanwhile, Roy tinkered with a small ventilation unit, his mechanical fingers clicking away with precise, playful indifference. The platform hummed louder. The engines seemed to come alive, the faint vibration now pulsing through the glass beneath her feet. Amelia shifted uneasily, glancing down as if the ground could fall away at any second. ¡°Where¡¯s my knife, Rick? The one that should¡¯ve been in the front pocket of my uniform,¡± Amelia asked, her voice cold but measured. ¡°By the Goblet and Green! Grab somethin¡¯ that at least looks like a weapon!¡± Rick shouted, frustration spilling over as debris crashed from the ceiling, cracking one of his lenses. Amelia shot him a sour look, her frustration still simmering, but without a word, she knelt to pick up his cracked glasses. Rick kept welding, the sparks casting fleeting shadows across his face, but there was an unspoken tension in the air. Gently, almost reluctantly, she slid the damaged frames back onto his nose. Her fingers brushed against his skin, and for a moment, his mechanical limbs stilled. His frown, once hard and set, softened at the edges. Neither of them spoke, but in that quiet gesture, the argument seemed to fade, leaving behind a fragile truce. He grunted, his tone quieter. ¡°Roy¡¯s got your knife,¡± he said, his voice still rough but with a hint of reluctance. His gaze lingered on her briefly, almost as if weighing his next words. ¡°Get it. Help me fight. Live another day.¡± With that, he nodded toward Roy, leading her in the direction of the small machine, his previous gruffness easing into something a bit more protective. She nodded in agreement, quickly making her way toward Roy, who was standing just a few steps away, manning a console that controlled the pistons galloping in the room. ¡°Rick said you have my knife.¡± ¡°This is TRUE,¡± Roy said, his spotlight eyes dimming slightly. ¡°So hand it over,¡± Amelia demanded. ¡°WHY?¡± Roy tilted his head. ¡°Whisky requested something of yours. It was going to USE it.¡± ¡°Whisky?¡± Amelia asked, her confusion growing. ¡°Yes. The security bot YOU dubbed Whisky. It is currently... dancing in the incinerator,¡± Roy said flatly. ¡°Really?¡± Amelia blinked, then shook her head. ¡°Never mind that, Roy! Give me the knife. Rick¡¯s orders.¡± Roy turned toward Rick for confirmation before opening a compartment and retrieving the knife. Amelia quickly strapped it to her waist with a loose wire. ¡°Wait. AMELIA.¡± She froze. ¡°What is it, Roy?¡± ¡°Your hat.¡± Roy extended her Yardrat cap¡ªnow patched with a tiny metallic smiley face. Amelia blinked. ¡°You¡­ fixed it?¡± Roy¡¯s eyes flickered. ¡°You leak too much.¡± Amelia blinked, taken aback. Her Yardrat hat¡ªthe simple flat cap she had worn countless times in the mines¡ªsat in Roy''s hands, as pristine as ever. But something was different. Roy had added a patch, a small metallic smiley face, its dull sheen catching the flickering light. It was an odd, almost childlike touch, completely out of place amid the noise and destruction around them. ¡°Y-you fixed it?¡± Amelia whispered, reaching out to take the cap, her fingers brushing against Roy¡¯s cold, mechanical ones. The weight of it in her hand felt strangely comforting, a relic of a simpler time before the weight of machines and broken truths had pressed down on her. Roy¡¯s spotlight eyes flickered, dimming slightly as if unsure of how to respond. ¡°Yes. You are¡­ Yardrat. UNIFORM must be whole.¡± She stared at the hat, her mind struggling to reconcile the innocence of the gesture with the chaos unfolding around her. For a moment, the cacophony of battle and the screeching of the Whistlin'' Death seemed to fade, replaced by the simple truth of this small act of kindness. Roy, for all his oddities and mechanical nature, had fixed something. And not just anything¡ªhe had fixed something that mattered to her, something tied to her identity, her history. "Your eyes... they leak too much," Roy observed, his spotlight eyes dimming slightly as if unsure how to respond. ¡°Thanks, Roy,¡± Amelia muttered, her voice softer than she intended. Her fingers brushed over the small patch¡ªthe metallic smiley face, a strange and innocent addition that now felt like an anchor in the chaos. The air hummed with tension as Rick hunched by the door, welding in swift, furious strokes. Outside, Pappy Long Legs groaned under heavy blows, the metal walls trembling with each impact. Yet, in that sliver of time, Amelia felt something different¡ªsomething quiet and unbroken amid the storm. She pulled the cap on, a faint smile tugging at her lips. The world hadn¡¯t made sense in ages¡ªmaybe it never would¡ªbut Roy¡¯s simple gesture gave her one clear thought: not everything was broken. Not yet. Her thoughts snapped back to the chaos as her eyes caught the blue glow of the gem embedded in her locket. Her hand instinctively closed around it, her pulse quickening. The screeching. The danger. The timing. It felt connected to the gem like it was beating at the storm¡¯s heart. Is it going to float again? Should I have crushed it earlier? Her mind raced. ¡°Rick!¡± she shouted over the cacophony of falling debris and pounding pistons. ¡°Whatever¡¯s happening¡ªit¡¯s because of this damn locket! I¡ªI¡¯m going to crush it, to get the gem... probably!¡± Rick whipped around, alarm flashing in his eyes as his welding torch clattered to the floor. ¡°Are you sure, Crowny? You¡¯ve got no idea what that could mean! This isn¡¯t just some rock in a locket¡ªit could be your soul, your brothers¡¯, maybe even a piece of Yerro¡¯s own!¡± ¡°If you crush it, young lady, you might trigger something wild¡ªsomething we can¡¯t take back.¡± Her hand tightened around the glowing gem, its pulse thudding in time with her heartbeat. Throw it down. Crush it. End this. Rick¡¯s voice softened. ¡°This ain¡¯t somethin¡¯ to walk off the chin, Amelia.¡± But the chaos outside¡ªthe Whistlin¡¯ Death, the mechanical screeches, the roar of imminent collapse¡ªonly grew louder. ¡°It¡¯s like your friend Ehmir said¡ªwe¡¯re playin¡¯ ball without a stick!¡± she snapped back. ¡°My brothers aren¡¯t dead, so staying alive is all I¡¯ve got!¡± With a final look at the patch Roy had sewn onto her hat¡ªa quiet symbol of innocence in a world on the edge¡ªAmelia pressed the cap firmly onto her head and straightened it, a grim smile tugging at her lips. The gesture grounded her¡ªif only for a fleeting moment. ¡°I¡¯m choosing to trust only my brothers! For now! Anyone else is still up for discussion,¡± she muttered through clenched teeth, locking eyes with Rick. ¡°We¡¯re all lickin¡¯ dice today.¡± ¡°Fresh outta my book, Crowny! Well¡ª¡± Before he could finish, a thunderous crash shook the room. Amelia ducked as debris rained down from the ceiling. The sound reverberated like a monstrous roar, and through the sudden cloud of dust and smoke, something large, something menacing, descended into the room. Chapter 5: Dont Wake The Owl (Part 2) Before he could finish, a thunderous crash shook the room. Amelia ducked as debris rained down from the ceiling. The sound reverberated like a monstrous roar, and through the sudden cloud of dust and smoke, something large, something menacing, descended into the room. Who? Or worse¡­ what? Her gaze fell to the locket in her hand. A faint blue light seeped through its cracks, flickering in rhythm with her racing heartbeat. It pulsed¡ªalive, restless¡ªcasting soft, shifting shadows across her fingers. Throw it down. Crush it. End this. The thought struck like a hammer, but her hand refused to move. ¡°What if it ended the chaos¡ªor them?¡± Suddenly, the room fell silent. The once-constant rumble of the Pappy Long Legs ceased, leaving Rick, Roy, and Amelia frozen. Their eyes locked on a silhouette emerging from the swirling gray and black dust. The oppressive quiet pressed down on them, amplifying the tension. ¡°Crushing what you don¡¯t understand¡ªthat¡¯s ignorance. And a disregard for the flesh that¡¯s still warm inside. You wouldn¡¯t crush the egg of an Ignorpa without witnessing the powerful life within.¡± Amelia¡¯s gaze narrowed as she eyed the glowing gem. ¡°W-why shouldn¡¯t I?¡± she demanded, but the figure said nothing. Smoke poured from the ceiling¡ªthick, heavy, and almost sticky. It clung to her skin, dragging through her lungs like oil, curling around her feet. A sound followed. Jagged laughter rippled through the smoke¡ªdeep, unsettling, and far too human. But something about it was wrong. Off. It scraped at the edges of her mind, each breathless rasp sinking deeper, twisting what should have been laughter into something hollow and broken. Two glowing blue eyes pierced through the haze, the same hue as the gem in her locket. The figure¡¯s tall, lanky frame wavered, with large protrusions jutting from its back and long, stilt-like legs. Amelia¡¯s breath caught as razor-sharp strings dangled from above¡ªtwisted puppet wires swaying with the figure¡¯s every movement. ¡°The gem¡­ awarded to you and your siblings at the Greisha ceremony. It carries a piece of Yerro¡¯s soul¡ªsomething I now intend to claim. No hard feelings,¡± the voice threatened. ¡°Unless you crush it, that is.¡± The strings didn¡¯t just connect to the figure¡ªthey extended into the smoke, controlling other shapes. More Whistlin'' Death pirates emerged, similar in appearance, their movements marionette-like, dragged forward by the same glistening, knife-edged strings. Their jerky movements hummed with tension, the strings tightening with every step. Rick¡¯s sensors flared as razor-sharp strings snapped into focus, bursting from the smoke like fangs from a predator¡¯s maw. ¡°I hear shitty puppets could always use more string,¡± Rick mocked, though his voice carried the weight of concern. Before anyone could react, a giant metallic ball zipped along the taut razor wires, gliding and twisting as if it had a mind of its own. It spun closer, each rotation gleaming in the flickering light, its polished surface gleaming wickedly in the flickering lantern flames. Then it plummeted, slamming into the floor with a deafening crash. It rolled for a single heartbeat¡ªthen burst open. A web of razor wire unraveled outward, pulling taut with chilling precision. The wires lashed out, slicing through the air with terrifying speed, their edges glinting like teeth. Sparks flew as they tore into the walls, leaving jagged cuts. Amelia dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the deadly strands. Rick wasn¡¯t so lucky. Two of his mechanical arms were caught, razor wire digging deep into their frames. Sparks shot out as he grunted in pain, his body jolting under the brutal impact. The red lights from the Pappy Long Legs flickered ominously, casting an eerie glow that pulsed like a heartbeat. Amelia¡¯s breath hitched. It had flashed like this before¡ªa warning. Her gaze darted to Rick. His silence said everything. This wasn¡¯t just another fight. The ship trembled as if it sensed the danger too, echoing Rick¡¯s own sinking unease. Rick, still recovering from the last attack, shot her a look¡ªgrim, sharp. More trouble was coming. ¡°So, you believe me to be this ¡®Devil Dog?¡¯¡± a voice slithered from the haze. The silhouette stepped closer, its glowing, jagged grin slicing through the smoke. ¡°Humorous name for an anim¡ª¡± ¡°Animal like you!¡± Amelia¡¯s voice cut through, sharp and trembling. She tightened her grip on the knife, the cold edge pressing against her palm. ¡°I remember the smoke. That thing nearly killed me. It¡¯s not¡ª¡± ¡°Wrong!¡± the silhouette barked, and a thin wave of razor wires hissed out of the fog. Amelia barely flinched in time. A sting burned across her cheek as warmth trickled down. She stumbled back¡ªinto something worse. Her back hit a web of razor-like strings. The edges bit into her skin. She froze. Each shallow breath felt like a mistake. Every movement¡ªanother gamble with blood. Her clothes hung in shredded strips, leaving her exposed and trembling. A voice dripped through the mist, mechanical and cold. ¡°I am Number Two. Behind me stand Numbers Three, Seven, and Twenty-Two.¡± The silhouette leaned closer. ¡°And you, my delusional ex-princess, must be Amelia Woltwork.¡± "Girl. Do you want to know what Gigarock can do?" Number Two¡¯s voice sharpened, each syllable a scalpel drawn slow. "The gem embedded in your locket. Do you even understand what it truly is?¡± Amelia hesitated, casting a quick glance at her torn clothing. Blood dotted the fabric. Her hands trembled slightly, but she forced herself to meet Number Two¡¯s gaze. Only its cold, mechanical eyes pierced through the thickening mist, glowing with a light that matched her locket. Behind him, figures emerged¡ªhalf-seen shadows shifting in the fog. The faint outlines of the others¡ªNumbers Three, Seven, and Twenty-Two¡ªhovered in the haze. Their eyes blinked in unison, an eerie orchestra of mechanical intent. ¡°How it act''s as a cage for souls? Its rarity? Its forms? Its value?¡± The words hung in the air, heavy and calculating, like a threat wrapped in a riddle. Number Two¡¯s eyes twitched toward her locket, the glow reflected like a smoldering ember. His movements were stiff¡ªpuppet-like¡ªbut wrong in ways Amelia couldn¡¯t name. The others remained still, their mechanical gazes adding to the dread that pressed against her chest. ¡°That tattoo¡ªdo your brothers carry the same? Does it tingle in the presence of Yerro¡¯s soul?¡± The silhouette¡¯s voice dropped to a murmur, unnervingly direct. As if in response, her locket glowed faintly blue, casting an eerie shimmer through the fog, illuminating the twisted metal threads snaking through the mist. Amelia¡¯s eyes flashed with defiance. ¡°Metal or man?¡± ¡°Why the concern?¡± Its metallic teeth clattered from the fog, accompanied by the faint sound of winding gears. ¡°You¡¯re either some rogue muscle of the Primarian Arc or an ex-suit from the Primarian Royale. Human has been optional lately. Which one is it?¡± Amelia challenged, her voice steady despite the dread twisting like ice in her stomach. Number Two chuckled, a hollow sound that scratched the walls like nails. Outside, the Pappy Long Legs¡¯ rumble faded to silence, leaving only the sinister whisper of sharpening wires behind him. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. ¡°I¡¯m just Number Two,¡± he replied, his voice dropping to a slow, deliberate tone. ¡°And I¡¯m here to extend a deal. Otherwise, you¡¯d already be dead. Down. With. The. Ship.¡± Thick smoke curled around him, consuming Number Two¡¯s form entirely, leaving only faint, haunting glimpses of his glowing blue eyes piercing through the haze. The coat it wore hung in tatters, swaying like loose skin. Amelia slipped the locket back into her pocket, her fingers brushing its cold surface as though to keep it close. Her other hand tightened on the knife. The blade¡¯s edge quivered slightly. From the corner of her vision, a thick, corded wire shot from Rick¡¯s mechanical arm, hissing like a viper. It extended into the smoke, aimed directly at Number Two. The wire moved with a fluid, sinewy strength, pulsing with a deep red light that flickered in rhythmic bursts, mirroring the lamps of the Pappy Long Legs. Amelia squinted, barely able to make out the faint shape of the coat clinging to Number Two¡¯s form, its hard edges softened and warped by the swirling mist. She couldn¡¯t see Rick¡¯s precise hit, but the red charge arced through the wire, crackling as it struck. The silhouette absorbed the current. It twitched but didn¡¯t fall. Its stance stayed loose. "And that must be Rick," Number Two sneered, his voice carrying a mocking edge from somewhere in the haze. "The legendary Rick. Former Primarian Hammer, am I right? Those wires look familiar." Rick¡¯s voice broke through the tension with an experienced calm. ¡°They should be. Now get out.¡± ¡°Violence first, questions later? Isn¡¯t that what got you into this mess, Rick the Primarian Hammer?¡± Number Two mocked. ¡°One. Of. Five.¡± Rick¡¯s mechanical limbs tensed. ¡°What do you know about¡ª¡± Number Two¡¯s eerie gaze shifted toward a giant metal ball hanging just above Roy¡¯s head. ¡°Ah, perhaps it¡¯d be wise to listen before you act,¡± he replied smoothly. Roy remained blissfully unaware, focused intently on Glassfor, the former Quadrant Leader. The ball swayed ominously above him. ¡°This fog,¡± Number Two continued, his voice curling like smoke, ¡°only grows thicker. It strangles organic life¡­ but electrifies and ignites machines. Gives us a little extra oomph.¡± Roy paused, his curious eyes lingering on the thick cables feeding into the walls of the Pappy Long Legs. The machinery surrounding Glassford¡¯s remains hummed with ominous energy. Rick¡¯s voice broke sharply. ¡°Boy! Where¡¯s your mind!?¡± Roy hesitated, quickly withdrawing his hand, though his gaze remained fixed on the large wires, his fingers twitching. ¡°Tammersmith! Where did you put his mind!? In a deal best served by royalty!? Which King did you ask for the favor!? Michael or his puppet father!?¡± Before he could finish, a barrage of thick, tendon-like wires shot from the walls, each ending in spear-tipped edges that slammed into Number Two. The impact rang out like gunfire. Black oil leaked from its body, pooling beneath the writhing strands. Electricity crackled, searing it one last time before subsiding. Number Two sagged, its mechanical frame trembling but not falling. Amelia¡¯s breath came in shallow gasps. ¡°What about the deal, Rick?¡± she asked her voice tight with unease. Rick¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°Should¡¯ve kept its mouth shut about my son. Don¡¯t forget¡ªit¡¯s not alone. Whatever it is, it¡¯s using Primarian Hammer tech.¡± ¡°The wires?¡± Amelia pressed, glancing toward the thick strands. ¡°It seemed¡­ familiar with them.¡± Rick nodded grimly. ¡°Modified, sure, but I recognize the shotty yet particular design.¡± Amelia¡¯s gaze shifted back to the fog, catching eerie shadows hovering beyond. ¡°And the others?¡± she whispered, her voice barely audible. ¡°I can see their shapes¡­ unmoving. They¡¯re just¡­ waiting.¡± ¡°Still as stone,¡± Rick confirmed, his voice hard. ¡°My security bots are on em'' like a living wall. Even those things know better than to test it.¡± ¡°Whisky¡­¡± Amelia murmured under her breath, grounding herself amid the tension. Rick¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°That ¡®number whatever¡¯ isn¡¯t dead because it was never alive,¡± he muttered, glancing her way. ¡°This is all a game to one man¡ªa puppet master pulling strings on machines that should¡¯ve stayed buried. Worse is, I once looked up to him¡­ back when I was an apprentice Primarian Hammer. Never one for subtlety.¡± Amelia¡¯s eyes narrowed, suspicion and defiance flickering within them. ¡°And now he¡¯s after you? Or¡­me?¡± Rick nodded grimly. ¡°Like anythin¡¯ lately, can¡¯t say for certain. But the Whistlin¡¯ bastards tore apart my shop in Veranus lookin¡¯ for something I may or may not have had¡ªa rare piece of Gigarock. Not your typical Yardrat street grade; this is S-Class. Straight from Yerro¡¯s heart, like the Gigarock in your locket. The kind that keeps a Quadrant Leader ticking.¡± ¡°The kind of power that¡¯s a nightmare for New Dwarden¡¯s enemies,¡± Amelia murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes flicked to Roy, who remained transfixed by the wires. Like the machines behind Number Two, he stood still¡ªtoo still. Her gaze hardened. ¡°Rick¡­ what did you do? What is Roy?¡± Rick exhaled sharply. ¡°Your Crowny brother, the King, knew about Glassford¡¯s disappearance three years ago.¡± His voice dipped lower, rough with fatigue. ¡°It¡¯s a mystery for the ages¡ªthe original Glassford was never recovered. So, the King and I fashioned a convincing replica, powered by the Gigarock in his locket.¡± He hesitated, his jaw tightening as if the words themselves burned. ¡°After long nights and seat-denting research, the fake Glassford started appearing in public, steady as clockwork. But it wasn¡¯t long before it started showing signs of¡­ autonomy. Its creation was a secret kept tightly among the Crown and the Primarian Hammer. Fact is, only the King or Queen of New Dwarden could scrounge up an S-Class Gigarock, and even then, only in dire emergencies. It was risky¡ªbarely tested and volatile.¡± Rick¡¯s expression darkened. He looked down, shoulders heavy. ¡°It was a penny-knicked setup from the start. The damn replica would fail constantly, and I was left to keep it ¡®alive¡¯ between appearances like some shitty wind-up doll. But something¡­ changed. Over time, a small piece of the King¡¯s Gigarock must¡¯ve fused with the machine. The replica started to believe it was Glassford¡ªlike it had a mind of its own. Even wandered off, far beyond New Dwarden. I found it half-dead.¡± His voice dropped lower. ¡°Talked to the King. That¡¯s when we knew it had to be taken out of commission. It¡¯s been hidden away in the Pappy Long Legs ever since¡ªa ghost running on borrowed life. Been salvagin¡¯ what I could.¡± Amelia felt a chill creep down her spine. She glanced at her locket, its faint glow casting a soft light against her trembling fingers. This same power¡ªuntamed, unpredictable¡ªwas hanging around her neck. Her hand closed over it, protective yet uneasy. Rick¡¯s gaze lingered on her, regret pooling in his eyes. ¡°Eventually, I paid the price for this deception, and so did others. After an unsuccessful attempt to remove its heart, one of us Hammers¡ªMarta¡­ didn¡¯t make it out.¡± His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. ¡°The kind of power that can breathe life¡ªor something close to it¡ªinto a machine¡­ it doesn¡¯t come without consequences.¡± Amelia¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line, her suspicion rising. ¡°How much does my brother know?¡± Her voice cut through the fog, low and demanding. Rick flinched. His silence spoke louder than any answer. Amelia exhaled through her nose, bitterness creeping into her tone. ¡°Are you scared to destroy what¡¯s left of its heart? What¡¯s left of the Gigarock¡¯s flesh?¡± Rick¡¯s eyes dropped toward the ground. ¡°On the day Marta died, we concluded that the flesh held within a Gigarock cannot be destroyed¡ªonly contained. Worse yet, any attempt to can result in¡­ situations far worse than death.¡± ¡°What now?¡± Her voice softened, wavering between wonder and fear. ¡°You want me to repair it? Destroy it? That¡¯s your plan?¡± Rick¡¯s head dipped toward the dangling shell of Number Two while the silhouettes of the other Whistlin¡¯ Death pirates seemed to crawl closer from the fog. His jaw tightened, his words sharp. ¡°You were never part of the plan, Amelia.¡± Rick¡¯s voice faltered, carrying something almost wounded. ¡°My objective was to figure a way to contain Glassford¡¯s remnant.¡± He gestured toward Roy. Amelia¡¯s breath hitched. ¡°Your son? You used your son!?¡± Her words cracked like glass. Rick flinched but held his ground. ¡°One of many ghoulish spirits that inhabit Yerro offered me a reward¡ªfor returning what it called a ¡®Raa¡¯Tas,¡¯ or a ¡®tainted piece¡¯ of Yerro¡¯s heart.¡± He swallowed hard, his voice roughening. ¡°It preyed on my insecurities, made promises it knew I wanted to hear. My son was teeterin¡¯ on life. And now, the thing¡¯s left me barely breathing, my son without flesh¡­ and here I am, talkin¡¯ about what¡¯s alive and what isn¡¯t. I¡¯m beginning to lose my wonder for this world.¡± Amelia¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°My brother has you cleaning this up, doesn¡¯t he?¡± Rick let out a hollow laugh, but it died quickly. ¡°Furious was he. Had to make up for a terrible thing. Now I¡¯m out lookin¡¯ for Glassford¡¯s original and a permanent way to contain the Raa¡¯Tas, yes,¡± Rick admitted wearily. ¡°Now caught up in whatever you are and the puzzle you fit into. You¡ª¡± Before Rick could finish, the fog thickened, shifting into hulking shapes¡ªmechanical bodies with jointed limbs and hollow faces. They loomed in the mist, twisting like ghosts awakened from their graves. Amelia¡¯s breath quickened. Tendrils of fog wrapped around her ankles, curling like living vines. WAmelia¡¯s breath quickened. What is this? Rick smirked, his voice cutting through the tension. ¡°You didn¡¯t think they¡¯d get rid of all my security forces just like that, did ya?¡± The ship rumbled, and the walls of the Pappy Long Legs came alive. The ¡°little Roys¡± clung to the bulkheads like spiders, their glowing red eyes blazing. Their mouths opened¡ªwires uncoiling, spears snapping outward. Suddenly, the vents began to hum, sucking in the fog like the breath of some massive beast. Swirls of mist coiled toward the walls, leaving only the metallic phantoms behind. Rick stepped closer, his voice dark with grim humor. ¡°I hear shitty puppets could always use more string,¡± he muttered, never taking his eyes off the lifeless husk of Number Two. ¡°Now, let¡¯s find who¡¯s in control and end this mess.¡± Amelia wiped sweat and soot from her hands, her fingers tightening around her knife. She opened her mouth to speak but froze as something crashed down in front of Rick. A massive metallic ball dented the floor before rolling back into the fog. A voice followed, smooth and unnervingly calm. ¡°Why ruin the fun?¡± The smoke parted, revealing a towering figure with metallic stilts for legs and a mechanical arm. Brass goggles glinted under the dim light, and his tattered coat carried the marks of storms and smoke. He swung a pneumatic weapon in his hand¡ªa chain-bound ball of steel hissing softly, like a predator stirring in its sleep. Amelia shuddered. He wasn¡¯t just a machine. He was a statement. The figure grinned, his glowing blue eyes locked on her. ¡°Number Two? Three? A hundred?¡± He leaned closer. ¡°Let¡¯s just say I¡¯m not your enemy. But I am.¡± His voice cracked with sharpness. ¡°Omission¡¯s still lying. And I won¡¯t kill you¡ªyet. You see, I need that Gigarock in your locket. Dead bodies don¡¯t work.¡± The fog shifted again, revealing four more figures¡ªtwisted reflections of the first, their frames sharp and skeletal. Each bore crude titles like IRON 1 and GOLD 1, etched in harsh lettering. Rick¡¯s voice broke the tension. ¡°Why ranks? Why numbers?¡± He gestured subtly for Amelia to move toward Glassford. ¡°Wake him or destroy him.¡± Rick¡¯s tone dropped, urgent. ¡°If this thing¡¯s a rogue Primarian Hammer, we¡¯re going to hell either way.¡± Amelia hesitated, her knife trembling. What if waking him makes things worse? Rick¡¯s golden eyes softened. ¡°No time, Crowny. Trust your instincts.¡± Chapter 5: Dont Wake The Owl (Part 3) Before she could react, the machine¡ªNumber Two¡ªlunged. Nearly invisible razor wires hissed as they snapped taut, propelling it forward with breakneck speed. Its metallic limbs blurred a whirlwind of aggression and smoke, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Thick, dark fumes poured from its mouth, swallowing the air in the acrid stench of burning oil¡ªlike the Clankers that haunted Whistletop Alley. Amelia¡¯s mind screamed to move, but her legs stayed rooted, frozen by terror. A massive arm struck her. The impact sent her crashing into the cold metal wall of the Pappy Long Legs. Her vision flickered, the edges darkening, but the sight of the ¡®little Roys¡¯ beside her burned clear. Their glowing eyes blinked wide with concern as she gasped for air, pinned by the machine¡¯s weight. Number Two loomed closer, its joints groaning with each lurching step. Instinct seized her. Her hand shot to her waist, finding the knife. She drove it forward without thinking. The blade struck true. It sank into Number Two¡¯s chest with a metallic screech, the machine¡¯s momentum forcing it deeper. Sparks erupted¡ªelectric-blue flares mixed with fluorescent black oil laced in rainbow streaks. The viscous liquid sprayed in arcs, reflecting eerie patterns against the walls and across her face. The weight pressed harder. Her breaths came fast and shallow as the machine froze, shuddering under the sudden impact. The little Roys sprang into action, their small hands pressing against the cold frame, shoving in a desperate attempt to free her. Their efforts barely moved it. The machine¡¯s weight held firm, its glowing eyes flickering¡ªnot with defeat, but amusement. For a moment, only the hiss of steam escaped the wound. The machine¡¯s light dimmed, pulsing erratically, but it did not collapse. Then it spoke. ¡°You¡­¡± The voice rasped, glitching with static, and then chuckled¡ªa sick, distorted sound. ¡°Sometimes I wonder¡­ do I even have the privilege of dying?¡± It paused, its light flickering again. ¡°Too bad.¡± Amelia froze. Her grip on the knife tightened as she watched it move¡ªdeliberately, consciously. With unsettling calm, it slid further up the blade, forcing the weapon deeper into its chest. Each inch sent arcs of electricity crackling outward, spraying oil in rainbow-hued bursts, but the machine didn¡¯t stop. Its glowing eyes burned brighter, reveling in her horror. Suddenly, its free hand darted into her pocket. Before she could react, it yanked out her pendant, holding the locket up like a prize. The chain swung, catching the dim light, mocking her helplessness. ¡°Don¡¯t miss this moment.¡± Its voice softened, savoring her shock. ¡°Look at me, girl! What does a machine need with a soul?¡± Its fingers curled around the locket, metal joints creaking as if ready to crush it. The glow from its eyes flickered, locked onto hers, unblinking. ¡°Ahh,¡± it murmured, almost tenderly. ¡°Your eyes¡ªso full of life.¡± Its voice dropped lower, twisted with greed. ¡°I, too, can be greedy.¡± The words sank like hooks into her chest, but anger snapped her back. ¡°As if a Yardrat has anything to fear in the dark!¡± she spat, her voice sharp and defiant. The machine tilted its head, a cruel grin carved into its motion. It leaned closer, pressing harder against the knife, almost daring her to act. But her fury flared brighter. Her hand shot out, wrenching the pendant free from its grasp. The chain snapped as she tore it away, shoving it into her pocket and sealing it closed with a fist. Her breaths came in ragged gasps. She pushed against Number Two¡¯s frame, straining against its weight, but it didn¡¯t budge. Her chest burned, pinned by the limp yet unyielding mass. Then¡ªa metallic groan. Rick¡¯s voice cut through the chaos. ¡°You didn¡¯t think they¡¯d take out all my security forces that easily, did you?¡± Before Number Two could react, Rick¡¯s mechanical arm splintered outward like an uncoiling piston. Bolts snapped, gears cracked, and the impact smashed into the machine¡¯s body. Number Two staggered back, freeing Amelia in a burst of movement. She stumbled forward, dragging in gulps of air as she scrambled to her feet. Her gaze locked on Rick¡ªawed, terrified, and desperate all at once. Rick steadied himself, his splintered arm twitching, but his eyes burned with focus. Then, without a word, his hand disappeared beneath his shirt, gripping something inside¡ªa pulsing core of blue and orange light, wrapped in mechanical threads. Amelia froze at the sight. It was alive. Or something close to it. ¡°Rick!¡± Her voice cracked. ¡°Dammit! If you die, Roy dies!¡± But Rick didn¡¯t stop. Instead, he gritted his teeth and yanked the core free. Before he could respond, a harsh, rattling cough cut through the chaos. Amelia spun. Roy hunched over, hacking up a vile mixture of black oil and dark, blood-red fluid. The iridescent drops trickled down his chin¡ªan unnatural blend of machine and life, tangled like some macabre alchemist¡¯s brew. Amelia¡¯s stomach churned. ¡°Roy?¡± Rick¡¯s gaze darted around the room. The fog thickened, curling low across the floor before being pulled into the Pappy Long Legs¡¯ vents¡ªsilent, deliberate, like the ship itself was breathing. Along the walls, razor wires unfurled, and massive iron balls hung poised on their tracks, ready to strike. Rick wheezed. ¡°If you die¡ªRoy dies anyway.¡± His voice cracked, raw with effort. ¡°He¡­ has my human heart. But I damn well wonder¡­ if that¡¯s all he has.¡± Amelia froze. ¡°He¡¯ll live,¡± Rick rasped, forcing the words through gritted teeth. ¡°You¡¯ll find a way in Veranus! The blasted recipe¡ªMorsha Bread!¡± Before she could speak, Roy straightened. His pale face was waxy, his eyes dulled to faint embers. Slowly, with an almost mechanical motion, he reached to his chest for the heart still beating. ¡°No¡ª¡± Amelia started. Roy¡¯s trembling fingers hovered, hesitating for just a moment. His gaze flickered toward her, and something human¡ªfear?¡ªsurfaced behind the mechanical glaze. Rick¡¯s voice cut through. ¡°It¡¯s all right, Roy.¡± His voice softened, raw but steady. ¡°You¡¯re still here, son. You¡¯re still here.¡± Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. But Roy¡¯s fingers moved again. Rick¡¯s own hands mirrored the motion, tearing into his sternum. Sparks danced as his chest split open like a cabinet. Wires and glowing veins pulsed beneath the surface, twisting and writhing in a fragile, alien web. Amelia stumbled back, her breath hitching. The sight hollowed her stomach¡ªboth horrifying and mesmerizing. Rick¡¯s eyes burned with resolve. Without hesitation, he gripped his core¡ªa heartlike mass glowing blue and orange, wrapped in taut, mechanical tendrils¡ªand twisted. Sparks erupted as he crushed it in his palm, the raw energy bleeding through his fingers. ¡°This is what happens¡­¡± His voice faltered but didn¡¯t break. ¡°When you make the wrong deals¡­ for the right reasons.¡± The Pappy Long Legs shuddered. Gears groaned to life, pistons churning with thunderous force. Walls shifted, snapping into place, and the ship itself seemed to wake, trembling in response to Rick¡¯s sacrifice. Amelia screamed. ¡°Rick, stop!¡± But it was too late. Rick turned to her, his cracked red glasses catching the dim light. He tossed them her way, the reflection of the burning core dimming in his eyes. His smile¡ªfaint but defiant¡ªfroze her in place. ¡°Live for something better, Crowny,¡± he said, his voice breaking. ¡°Promise me.¡± Then the light flickered out. ¡°Activating. Protocol. Q8.¡± Roy¡¯s voice rang out¡ªflat, mechanical, hollow. The words echoed in the silence, sealing Rick¡¯s fate. The Pappy Long Legs roared to life. Its walls twisted, gears locked into place, and compartments exploded open, revealing weapons that snapped into position. The ship shifted as if breathing¡ªits massive bulk pulling inward before exhaling into motion. And then Roy moved. His eyes, once dull embers, blazed with a sudden, unnatural fire. Metal veins beneath his skin pulsed to life, glowing with the same eerie blue and orange light that had burned within Rick¡¯s core. The mechanical groan of the Pappy Long Legs amplified, its vibrations rumbling through the floor as Roy¡¯s body stiffened. His voice deepened, distorted. ¡°Command recognized,¡± he intoned. ¡°Veranus destination locked. Objective¡ªunwavering.¡± Amelia¡¯s heart slammed against her ribs. ¡°No.¡± She stepped forward, reaching for him. ¡°Roy¡ªwait¡ª¡± But Roy didn¡¯t move. His gaze¡ªcalm, mechanical¡ªwas already locked forward. A pulse of energy rippled through the ship, rattling the walls. The razor wires unfurled, snapping into place, and the iron balls on their tracks lurched forward with deadly purpose. Amelia¡¯s breath quickened. She clenched Rick¡¯s cracked glasses in her fist, her knuckles white. The Pappy Long Legs wasn¡¯t just awake. It was alive. The Pappy Long Legs responded with a mechanical roar. Compartments hissed open along the walls, releasing weapons and defensive systems that snapped into position like waiting jaws. The little Roys sprang to life, scrambling into position. Tiny cannons locked onto the invading puppets, their glowing red eyes blazing with purpose. Red lights pulsed brighter, bathing the room in an ominous glow as gears ground and twisted. It felt alive¡ªawakened not as a ship, but as a fortress. A beast defending its wounded heart. Amelia barely breathed as the chaos unfolded. Awe and dread tangled inside her, tightening her chest. The ship revealed hidden mechanisms¡ªgun barrels sliding from panels, spiked rails lining the floors, and iron traps snapping shut. The little Roys fired first. Their tiny cannons spat fire and lead, tearing through wires and limbs. Sparks rained as the fog was sucked away through vents, unveiling Rick¡ªstanding, barely upright, at the room¡¯s center. He was fading. Amelia saw it¡ªthe heat rippling off his skin, the unsteady tremor in his hands. Yet, even as he teetered, Rick¡¯s eyes burned with focus, his determination holding the ship together. The walls shifted again, crushing razor wires and slamming invaders into grinding gears. Panels snapped shut, sealing paths. The Pappy Long Legs moved like a living machine¡ªrelentless, precise, and terrifying. Amelia¡¯s pulse quickened. She couldn¡¯t tear her eyes from Rick. His jacket hung open now, exposing the raw blue-orange glow pulsing in his chest. It flickered, struggling, feeding the ship even as it devoured him in return. The room pulsed with him. Each breath. Each beat. The little Roys moved in sync, falling into rows, their red eyes glowing as they pressed forward, cannons still firing. Amelia swallowed hard. It wasn¡¯t just Rick¡¯s creation anymore¡ªit was his body, his blood, his soul welded into the ship. But it was breaking him. Her throat tightened. Her voice cracked as she shouted, ¡°R-Roy, what is Protocol Q8?¡± Roy, still hunched and dripping oil, straightened. His voice emerged hollow and mechanical, yet laced with something too human to ignore. ¡°To clear the objective,¡± he said, staring ahead. ¡°No matter the cost.¡± ¡°No!¡± Amelia¡¯s voice sharpened. ¡°Get me to Glassford¡ªnow! I made my choice!¡± Roy¡¯s eyes flickered as if something inside him heard her desperation. He stepped closer, his movements calm despite the chaos. His metallic fingers gripped her arm, steady but gentle¡ªa touch that grounded her. He glanced briefly at Rick, then turned back to her. ¡°He cannot fully die until I die.¡± The words hung between them, heavier than the grinding metal around them. Amelia¡¯s breath caught. ¡°What does that mean? Roy¡ªwhat does that mean?¡± His glowing eyes softened¡ªjust for a moment. ¡°I¡­ still live,¡± he said. ¡°I am¡­ alive.¡± The words struck her harder than the chaos around them. She bit back the lump rising in her throat and set her jaw. ¡°Roy.¡± Her voice steadied. ¡°Toss me¡ªnow.¡± Roy¡¯s grip tightened. With a smooth, powerful motion, he launched her through the air. Amelia soared, her arms outstretched, before crashing onto Glassford¡¯s massive frame. She grabbed hold of the tangled cables hanging from the Quadrant Leader¡¯s body, her breath ragged, her determination blazing. ¡°This ship¡¯s still heading to Veranus, right?¡± Roy¡¯s voice rang out, loud and certain. ¡°At all costs.¡± Around them, the Pappy Long Legs came alive again. The little Roys adjusted like soldiers, their cannons spitting fire into the retreating pirates. Iron tracks groaned, sending massive balls of steel careening through the remnants of enemy machines, flattening them in bursts of sparks and shrieks. The room shifted¡ªwalls folding, gears grinding, stairs unfurling from hidden compartments. Narrow windows slid open, slashing beams of light through the swirling steam. Vents hissed, releasing clouds of heat, and the ship trembled, its full strength finally unleashed. Roy¡¯s head snapped up. ¡°Amelia!¡± His voice rose above the chaos. ¡°The Whistling Pirates¡¯ ship¡ªits magnetic grip is gone. Rick¡¯s protocol broke it!¡± Amelia¡¯s fingers dug into the cables. ¡°And the Pappy Long Legs?¡± Roy¡¯s eyes brightened. ¡°It flies again.¡± A thunderous groan shook the room. The ship parted down the middle, gears, and pistons grinding as it pulled itself free. The wind howled through the gaps, carrying the scent of metal and rain. The sudden rush of air sent Amelia¡¯s hair whipping back as debris from the destroyed machines scattered into the horizon, disappearing into the swirling clouds. Her gaze darted upward. A colossal airship loomed above, casting its shadow over the chaos¡ªa polished galleon fused with sepia-toned metal, its rotors humming like thunder. The hammer-and-flame insignia of the Whistling Pirates gleamed against the hull, flickering in the light. The Pappy Long Legs trembled but held firm, its walls and beams locking into place with a final, resonant snap. Amelia¡¯s grip tightened. The ship wasn¡¯t just fighting¡ªit was claiming itself, reborn in fire and steel. The little Roys pressed forward, dismantling the last of the pirate automatons in bursts of sparks and shredded metal. Weapons folded back into their compartments as the room settled, its hidden defenses ready for the next assault. Amelia climbed higher, her hands stinging from the jagged edges of Glassford¡¯s frame. The light in its chest pulsed faintly, beating in time with the Gigarock in her locket. Amelia¡¯s voice softened as she climbed, moving carefully from one mechanical rib to the next toward Glassford¡¯s chest. ¡°Roy! We¡¯re family now! Got it?!¡± The wind surged, whipping her hair back as she lost her grip. Her fingers slipped against the cold metal, and her body began to slide. Panic flared in her chest, but before she could fall, strong metallic arms caught her. Roy¡¯s hands shot out, clamping down around her wrists. Metal scraped against metal, his joints creaking under the strain. For a moment, it felt like he might buckle, but then his grip tightened¡ªunyielding, solid. Amelia gasped, her breath shaky as she clung to him. The hum of his inner mechanisms vibrated through her arms, and for a fleeting second, she wondered if she could feel the faint echo of Rick¡¯s pulse still beating inside him. ¡°I¡¯ve got you,¡± Roy said, his voice softer now¡ªmechanical, but steady. Her heart pounded at the certainty in his words, even as faint sparks flared along his elbow joint. She tightened her grip on Glassford¡¯s massive frame, swallowing the lump in her throat. Roy¡¯s expression flickered¡ªsomething unreadable passing through his dimmed eyes. Then, with a quiet resolve, he nodded. Amelia¡¯s heart pounded at the certainty in his words. She tightened her grip on Glassford¡¯s massive frame, swallowing the lump in her throat. ¡°Good,¡± she said, her voice raw but steady. She let out a shaky breath, then grinned¡ªjust barely. ¡°By the Goblet and Green¡­ we¡¯ll get through this.¡± Her fingers tightened on the jagged edges of Glassford¡¯s frame. ¡°One piece at a time. And if we don¡¯t¡ª¡± Her grin sharpened as she braced herself against the wind, ¡°¡ªthen let¡¯s make it loud enough they remember we tried.¡± Chapter 6: Midnights Malice (Part One) Bolton Aurous burst in from the opposite end of the train, his massive frame backlit by the shattered windows as moonlight spilled through the broken glass. He didn¡¯t hesitate¡ªhis four massive arms moved like coiled pistons unleashing at full force. Bolton saw the attack a second too late. Aurous grabbed him by the collar and hurled him backward like a tossed ragdoll. Bolton barely had time to brace before he slammed into a booth near the bar, the impact rattling his bones. Wood splintered beneath him, and for a moment, his vision blurred. But he couldn¡¯t focus on the pain. The train was a battlefield. Tables lay overturned, lanterns swung wildly, their flickering glow casting jagged shadows over the carnage. The entire length of the train stretched before him, booths lining both sides like the ribs of a beast. And at the far end¡ª**past the overturned chairs and shattered glass, past the haze of steam and the wreckage of a broken world¡ª**the Malice loomed. It hadn¡¯t reached him yet. It twitched where it stood, its form grotesque and unstable, its muscles flexing like a thing in the process of becoming. Then¡ªit moved. The Malice surged forward, a blur of sinew and metal. Its limbs piston-fired as it lunged. And something huge swatted it aside. The Malice hit the opposite end of the train with a sickening crunch, crashing into an empty booth. Wood splintered. Metal groaned. The entire frame of the train car shuddered under the force. The creature let out a garbled hiss, steam venting from its pulsating sinews. Its glowing red eyes flickered in and out, glitching, struggling to stabilize. It twisted on the ground, half-crushed beneath the wreckage. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. A low rumble rolled through the train. Not from the engine. From the miners. Bolton gritted his teeth, breath still uneven. His body ached, but his mind was sharp. His fingers twitched. He wasn¡¯t just going to sit here. His eyes locked onto a Yardrat hunched at a booth nearby¡ªa burly, scarred miner gripping a tankard. The icepick at his belt loop gleamed under the swaying lanterns. The man wasn¡¯t moving. Frozen. Just watching. Bolton didn¡¯t think. He moved. His fingers snatched for the icepick¡ª But before he could grab it, a hand caught his wrist. Sarah. Her grip wasn¡¯t tight, but it was enough. Cold. Not the kind of cold from fear, nor the fleeting chill of nerves. Something deeper. Something unnatural. Yet¡ªbeneath the ice of her skin, her pulse was hammering. Fast, steady, relentless. Like a machine running too hot, too fast, inside something that should have been lifeless. Bolton swallowed hard. He didn¡¯t understand what he was feeling¡ªonly that it was wrong. She didn¡¯t speak. She didn¡¯t have to. Her blue eyes flicked to the icepick, then back to him. No panic. No anger. Just understanding. And something quieter. Something sadder. Bolton¡¯s fingers hovered, pulse hammering. Then¡ªa whip-crack of sinew snapping tight. The Malice lunged. It closed the distance in an instant. Its grotesque hybrid fist slammed into a Yardrat¡¯s chest, lifting the man off the ground like a ragdoll. The miner whipped backward, his spine colliding with the ceiling in a sickening thud. The Malice didn¡¯t let go. Before the Yardrat could even scream, its other arm shot up, clawed fingers locking around his throat. His boots kicked uselessly in the air. The thing¡¯s muscles pulsed, sinew glistening under the dim lantern light, stretched too tight over its grotesque limbs. Steam hissed from its joints, filling the cabin with the stink of scorched metal and raw meat. The Yardrat gasped, his voice a desperate, choked rasp. "SOMEONE GET THIS BLOODY THING OFF ME!" Chief Hogswind didn¡¯t hesitate. His massive boots slammed onto a table, shaking the entire train car. His voice was a roar. "WHAT¡¯RE YOU LOT WAITIN¡¯ FOR? AN INVITATION?!" he bellowed. "Aurous gave us an opening! THAT THING''S DOWN¡ªTEAR IT APART!" The cabin erupted. The miners surged forward¡ªa wall of grit, steel, and fury. Chapter 6: Midnights Malice (Part Two) Mugs shattered over the Malice¡¯s skull, ceramic splinters raining down like shrapnel. Boot knives flashed in the dim light. Fists met sizzling flesh. The pinned Yardrat was ripped free as his comrades barreled into the Malice, knocking it to the ground. One miner ripped off his suspenders, wrapping them around the Malice¡¯s thick neck, hauling back with a snarl as steam spurted from its torn sinews. Another jammed a rusted wrench between its joints, twisting hard until something snapped. Bolton could only watch as the fight turned savage. Blood hit the floor. Steel clashed against bone. The Malice didn¡¯t go down easily. But for the first time¡ªit wasn¡¯t winning. It shuddered, writhing beneath the assault, its once-mighty form buckling under the sheer weight of the attack. The train car shook from the violence, metal groaning under the onslaught. And then¡ªEnton spoke. "Why die for the royal boy?" His voice cut through the chaos, smooth yet laced with a dangerous edge. His stance was unshaken, despite the battle raging around him. He hadn¡¯t lifted a finger to fight yet¡ªnot fully. Instead, he stood among the carnage, the very picture of control, his dark coat barely rustling despite the wind whipping through the broken train windows. He tilted his head slightly, his black paperboy cap casting a shadow over his sharp, monstrous features. "Surely the Yardrats of Quadrant Ten have more to live for than some royal who doesn¡¯t give a damn whether they breathe or rot in the mines." Bolton¡¯s pulse spiked, but before he could speak¡ªChief Hogswind did. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. ¡°Interesting theory.¡± The words were slow, deliberate. Then¡ªHogswind threw his mug. The heavy ceramic tankard, still full of mead, slammed into Enton''s chest, drenching his pristine military-style coat. A blatant, dripping insult. Silence. Bolton felt his stomach knot. No one disrespected a Primarian Hammer like that. The air crackled between them, tension humming. ¡°One,¡± Chief Hogswind continued, his voice thick with amusement, ¡°you present your point with a giant monster. Not dissimilar to those we fight every day. Mind some that have killed our own daily.¡± He gestured vaguely at the raging Malice, still thrashing under the miners'' assault. ¡°That¡¯s a piss-poor start.¡± Enton¡¯s golden, inhuman eyes narrowed. ¡°Two,¡± Hogswind continued, ¡°this gives us grounds for a royal favor. Tit for tat. Knuckles for Blood.¡± "A royal favor?" Bolton repeated aloud, blinking. He turned to Sarah, who silently mouthed: that¡¯s not a thing. Hogswind grinned. ¡°And three¡ª¡± He cracked his knuckles, flexing his massive hands. His smile turned razor-sharp. ¡°You fucked with a really really old Yardrat.¡± His voice dropped low, words heavy as iron. Bolton barely had time to register the meaning before he followed Hogswind¡¯s gaze¡ªdown the aisle of the train, toward the bar. Pistol stood behind the counter, hand resting lazily on his massive hand cannon, the smirk on his face as sharp as a whetstone. Enton¡¯s coat still dripped with mead. The train lurched beneath them. And the fight wasn¡¯t over. Aurous was in motion¡ªa force unto himself, too fast, too fluid for Bolton¡¯s eyes to track. One second, he was dodging Enton¡¯s strikes with an almost playful grace. The next¡ª A sound. A sharp, splintering crack. Bolton barely registered what had happened before he saw it¡ªa jagged shard of metal, flung loose from the chaos, slashing across Aurous'' cheek. Bolton barely had time to process it¡ªuntil he saw the blood. Not just black like the oil-stained ichor of machines. But red. A sickening mix of both, swirling together in a color that should have made sense¡ªbut didn¡¯t. Something inside Bolton twisted. The Quadrant Leaders had never been Yerro¡¯s chosen. Never blessed with strength beyond their own. They had been machines all along. Sarah exhaled sharply beside him. ¡°I don¡¯t think we were meant to see Quadrant Leaders fight.¡± Then, she hesitated¡ªcorrecting herself. ¡°Actually, we weren¡¯t meant to see them lose.¡± Chapter 6: Midnights Malice (Part Three) His stomach churned. Enton wasn¡¯t losing himself. He wasn¡¯t broken. He was becoming aware. Bolton swallowed hard, shaking the thought away. He didn¡¯t want to know what that meant. Not now. He stepped forward again, his knuckles aching, the heat of battle roaring through him. He didn¡¯t care if he was still weak. He had to fight. And then, Aurous¡¯ voice boomed across the chaos. "Pistol! If I don¡¯t die, you owe me the recipe to that Golden Mead of yours!" Pistol barked a laugh, but his eyes gleamed with something deeper¡ªsomething dangerous. ¡°This is my train, I¡¯m fighting too." Then, he moved his hands in a tearing motion. Bolton barely had time to process what was happening before the roof of the train was ripped open. The sound was deafening¡ªmetal shrieking, rivets popping loose, the very structure of the Midnight Train bending to Pistol¡¯s will. A sharp gust of night air rushed through the car, sending shattered glass and loose scraps spiraling into the darkness beyond. Above them, the sky opened up¡ªmassive, endless, and impossibly celestial. A deep purple-blue canvas, streaked with silver clouds and constellations shifting in patterns Bolton didn¡¯t recognize. But more than that¡ªthe train wasn¡¯t on tracks anymore. And then¡ª A voice, raw and strained, cut through the rushing wind. "I remember killing your friend! Bolton!" Bolton¡¯s breath hitched. His pulse faltered. His body turned before his mind caught up, something primal seizing his chest. Heat rose to his face, fingers twitching at his sides. He barely noticed Sarah¡¯s hand gripping his sleeve¡ªa small tether against the raw, gut-deep instinct to lunge. It wasn¡¯t just Vermolly. It was every loss. Every moment of helplessness. Every Yardrat whose screams had rung in his ears long after they¡¯d gone silent. It was the fear that he was just like Enton¡ªjust another broken machine pretending to be whole. And now Enton wanted to be fixed. Bolton wanted nothing more than to tear him apart. Enton¡¯s fists clenched at his sides, his frame trembling¡ªnot with fear, but with something worse. Something broken. "Yerro will fix this," he seethed, each word growing sharper, more dangerous. His voice twisted into a near snarl, his desperation curdling into something else. "Yerro must." The words hung there. The wind rushed through the broken train, cold and empty. The lanterns flickered. Bolton could hear his own breath, ragged in his throat. And then¡ª Aurous laughed. A dark, knowing chuckle, carried by the wind. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. "This beautiful WONDERFUL morning, I cut my hand open on a piece of paper," he mused, voice thick with something resembling amusement. "Small, shriveled things with a straight corner." His eyes gleamed as he dodged another strike. "And it was a wonderful thing." Enton lunged again, his movement deceptively fast for his massive frame. The air cracked as his fists swung through it, each strike brushing away the wind itself. He wasn¡¯t just fighting¡ªhe was carving through the space around him, his sheer force distorting the air. Aurous met him head-on. He didn¡¯t slip beneath the blows like a dancer but braced against them, absorbing the shock before retaliating with piston-powered punches of his own. Four fists struck in quick succession¡ªeach impact reverberating through the train car. His fingertips glowed orange-hot, the heat trailing behind his strikes like molten embers. Enton barely flinched. The blows landed, rattling the metal of his body, but he stood his ground, brushing off the force as if shaking off dust. His sleek military-style coat barely rustled, and his paperboy-style cap remained perfectly poised atop his monstrous frame. Aurous grinned, recognizing the challenge. He took a step back, his boots scraping against the shifting floor of the train car, and snatched a half-full mug of mead from a nearby table. He raised it to his lips, taking a long, exaggerated swig before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ¡°Sarah¡¯s got my heart, boy!¡± he bellowed, his laughter booming over the chaos. ¡°Ain¡¯t just metaphorical!¡± Bolton barely had time to register the words before the Malice surged¡ªflesh, metal, and something worse twisting into an amorphous mass that no train car could hold. The walls bulged, stretching like wet paper. Sinew-laced limbs shot out, twisting through steel beams, peeling back the train¡¯s ribs. Bolton¡¯s breath caught. "Where!?" Aurous'' grin didn¡¯t waver. If anything¡ªit widened. Then¡ªthe Malice struck. Sinews snapped around him, yanking him into the chaos. His laughter didn¡¯t stop. It grew wilder, more fevered, as the darkness swallowed him whole. "MOVE IT, BOY!" Pistol¡¯s voice cut through the storm, sharp and commanding. The train shook beneath them, the clash of Aurous and Enton rattling through the air like a drumbeat of war. Malice swelled, an amorphous tangle of flesh and metal, writhing with unnatural hunger. A sinew lashed out¡ªwhipping toward Bolton like a razor-sharp tendon snapping loose. A deafening BOOM cut through the chaos. Bolton barely registered the motion¡ªPistol, wide as a boulder and twice as unshakable, had moved faster than the eye could follow. From beneath the bar, his massive hand had drawn something out¡ªa cannon, thick-barreled and black as iron, its weight effortlessly cradled in his grip. The shot roared like a thunderclap. Not a bullet¡ªsomething heavier, something denser, a cannonball of unknown make. It collided with the rogue sinew midair, obliterating it in an explosion of raw force, sending chunks of blackened, writhing mass splattering against the walls. Smoke coiled from the cannon¡¯s muzzle as Pistol rested it back against the bar, unfazed, his broad frame casting a long shadow against the lantern light. "You don¡¯t wanna die, do you?" His voice was steel, cutting through the madness. The train groaned as the Malice swelled again. Pistol didn''t blink. "You¡¯ll find some of your answers at the front of the train. As for the rest¡­" He smirked, flexing his grip around the cannon¡¯s barrel. "Well, that¡¯ll depend on our friends here." Bolton¡¯s fingers twitched. His boots shifted¡ªhalf a step toward Aurous, half a step toward the battle that still clawed at his chest. Aurous'' laughter was still echoing, but now it sounded further away¡ªdistant, unraveling into the void. The train lurched beneath them, the air thick with gunpowder and smoke from Pistol¡¯s shot. The Malice wasn¡¯t stopping¡ªit pulsed, shifting, adapting, stretching into something even larger. Aurous and Enton still clashed like living titans, the force of their battle shaking the very bones of the Midnight Train. Bolton clenched his fists. He couldn¡¯t just run. Not yet. His voice cut through the chaos, raw and desperate. "And the Yardrats!? What about them?" His chest was heaving now, fingers twitching, torn between self-preservation and the sickening guilt of leaving others behind. He knew how this went. He¡¯d run. He¡¯d survive. But how many wouldn¡¯t? Pistol didn¡¯t even glance at him¡ªjust chambered another round into his massive hand cannon, jaw set, shoulders squared. "Go," he rumbled. "They¡¯ve got their own fight." The words hit harder than the cannon¡¯s blast. Bolton¡¯s breath stilled. His muscles tensed. One more second. Then¡ªSarah yanked him forward. Her grip was ironclad, unyielding. The door to the next train car slammed open, swallowing them into darkness. She dragged him through the wreckage, past splintered booths and flickering lanterns. His feet stumbled beneath him, but she didn¡¯t let go¡ªcutting through the chaos with a determination that never wavered. The Malice roared, its form swelling, forcing itself into impossible spaces. Steel groaned. Glass shattered. Bolton threw one last look over his shoulder¡ªat the chaos, at the fight still raging. At Aurous, vanishing into the dark. His feet twitched, the instinct to turn back screaming inside him. Then¡ªSarah pulled him forward, and the moment was gone. Pistol¡¯s voice rang out one last time¡ª "NOW GO!" The train lurched. The wind roared. Sarah shoved open the door to the next train car and pulled Bolton inside. Chapter 6: Midnights Malice (Part Four) Darkness swallowed them whole. The sounds of battle¡ªthe roaring wind, the clashing metal¡ªfaded, like a distant nightmare. Bolton¡¯s breath was still ragged, his heartbeat uneven. Then, he felt it¡ªthe train groaned beneath him. It didn¡¯t sound like steel anymore. It sounded softer. The metal beneath his boots had changed, the very structure of the train warping. Then¡ªflickering shapes. Tiny firefly-like creatures drifted in slow, weightless arcs, their faint golden glow pulsing like dying embers. They moved without rhythm. Without order. Watching. Sarah¡¯s hand was still wrapped around his wrist. She didn¡¯t let go. Instead, she took a step forward, her voice barely above a whisper. ¡°We keep moving.¡± And for once¡ªBolton didn¡¯t argue. The glow of the fireflies swelled, as if watching him. He could see the terrain now¡ªsoft shrubbery, luminescent spores dusting his torn clothes. Whatever he touched left trails of shimmering dust, briefly entertaining the mysterious floating creatures as they drifted closer, their golden glow pulsing with curiosity. The strange dust clung to him, leaving streaks of shimmering gold against the remains of his jacket¡ªwhat little survived his fight with Vermolly. "Sarah," Bolton muttered. She didn¡¯t answer. Her figure was barely visible now, only her hand and wrist clearly illuminated. "Sarah!" he called again, louder this time, stomping his foot. Then¡ªshe stopped. Bolton felt the shift. Her movements¡ªerratic. Sharp. Almost static. The warmth faded from her grip. Her fingers turned cold. Metallic. Then¡ªthe ticking sound. Faint. Rhythmic. But off. Sarah turned her head, her eyes catching the dim glow of the fireflies. ¡°This was part of Pistol¡¯s plan,¡± she said, her voice quieter, heavier. ¡°I know you¡¯re sick of secrets. I wasn¡¯t supposed to tell you yet, but¡ªyour brother Michael is waiting for us in Veranus.¡± Bolton¡¯s breath hitched, his grip tightening slightly. ¡°Some things are kept secret for a reason,¡± she continued. ¡°It¡¯s up to us to trust what¡¯s unfamiliar, uncomfortable¡­ strange.¡± Then, she turned fully toward him. Her eyes glowed. Not like a cat¡¯s. Not like anything human. Inside them, tiny orange gears turned in slow, deliberate motion¡ªintricate and ceaseless, like the inner workings of a timepiece. Bolton¡¯s breath hitched. The sudden chill of her hand. The unnatural precision of her movements. The sound¡ªlike a key winding tight inside a lock. His body reacted before his mind caught up. His feet planted. His arm jerked back. He yanked Sarah to a halt. "My brother! What about the Greisha Ceremony!?" His voice cracked, edged with something between fear and frustration. Then¡ªhe caught himself. The outburst hung in the air, raw and jagged. His pulse steadied. His breath evened. "I understand this train has¡­ abilities. But please, I¡¯m actually scared..." His voice dropped, quieter now¡ªalmost pleading. Bolton swallowed, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist. ¡°Terrified, really.¡± A pause. "Are you like Enton?" He hesitated. "Are you alive? Or¡­ a machine?" The ticking continued¡ªsteady, measured, like a heartbeat made of brass and cogs. His grip loosened. Then, the train cart burst to life. Light flooded the space like an exploding firework. Shadows scattered. Sarah turned to him. The glow of the fireflies reflected in her eyes, casting strange patterns against the delicate gears turning within. ¡°Neither,¡± she said softly. ¡°Somewhere in the middle. Like Pistol.¡± Then¡ªher hand rose to his face, the touch impossibly gentle. A warm caress against his cheek. Bolton¡¯s breath hitched. For a moment, he didn¡¯t pull away. His fingers twitched, then hesitantly lifted, wrapping around her hand. Her skin felt¡­ wrong. Not cold, not lifeless, but something in between. Like the surface of something meant to be warm but made elsewhere¡ªcrafted, rather than born. She looked different. Almost unrecognizable. Paler. Almost porcelain. The freckles he swore he had seen just moments ago were gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished ivory. Her skin, once kissed by warmth, now carried an unnatural sheen, like polished ceramic. A wind-up figure caught between movement and stillness. Bolton tightened his grip just slightly, anchoring her, as if holding her hand might keep her from slipping further into whatever she was becoming. For a fleeting second, the warmth flickered back, the illusion resetting. And then¡ªit was gone. Then, as if reality itself flickered, she shifted. For a brief moment, warmth returned to her skin, the light from the swaying lanterns casting soft freckles across her nose, a faint flush blooming on her cheeks. The Sarah he met on the Whisky Sunday, sharp and full of life, stood before him. Then¡ªgone. Her features paled again, porcelain overtaking flesh. The change wasn''t instant, nor was it fluid. It came in flickers, as though the illusion of her humanity was being tuned like a faulty radio signal. A glitch in something larger than her. The space around them seamlessly morphed to match. Bolton¡¯s gaze drifted beyond her, taking in the impossible landscape of the train cart. It was no longer metal and bolts. The space stretched into something organic, like a narrow section of a bayou, with a wooden dock beneath his feet, gently rocking atop an unseen river. The water below was black and depthless, its surface reflecting nothing. Sarah stood at the edge of the dock, watching him with those firefly-glow eyes¡ªeyes that flickered between something warm and something cold, something human and something built. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. Without a word, she reached out, gently taking Bolton¡¯s hand and lifting it to her own. His fingers rested against hers¡ªwarm skin meeting something that wasn¡¯t quite flesh. ¡°Are you afraid now?¡± she asked, her voice neither mocking nor soft, but something in between. Bolton swallowed. His pulse hammered beneath her touch. "I am..." Bolton muttered, his voice barely above a breath. A pause. Sarah exhaled, her grip on his hand tightening for just a moment. Then, softer¡ª**almost as if confessing a secret¡ª**she whispered, "Me too." A single tear slipped down her cheek. For a fleeting second, it shimmered like glass¡ªreflecting light like a perfect, polished droplet. Then, just as quickly, it flickered¡ªturning metallic, cold, unnatural. Bolton watched as it trailed down her skin, caught in the flickering shift between human and machine. Then, in a voice that wavered between warmth and something unsettlingly precise, she murmured, "We keep moving," Sarah said, her voice softer now. But then¡ªsomething shifted. The porcelain sheen of her skin flickered, warmth bleeding back into her features like color returning to an old photograph. The stark, eerie glow of her eyes softened, pupils contracting, their blue hue deepening. Her freckles returned in a slow bloom across her nose, the faintest flush rising in her cheeks. Then¡ªclick. A faint, rhythmic ticking stuttered, then smoothed out, like the final, settling ticks of a wound clock finding its rhythm again. For a moment, the sound felt too large for such a small thing¡ªa whisper of machinery woven into the silence. Sarah blinked, looking away for a moment. Then, almost shyly, she looked back up at him¡ªnot with gears turning behind her eyes, but with something undeniably human. ¡°The Whisky Sunday never has passengers,¡± she murmured, her voice lighter, laced with something playful. ¡°It wasn¡¯t meant to.¡± Bolton hesitated, his fingers still laced with hers. For a moment, neither of them let go. Then, slowly, their hands separated. And for the first time, Bolton didn¡¯t argue. Then he looked up¡ªand his stomach twisted. The sky was within reach. It stretched overhead, so close that if he only jumped, he could touch it. Wisps of clouds drifted lazily past his head, brushing against his skin like passing breath. Sarah took a slow step forward, her gaze distant. ¡°Pistol¡¯s secret ingredient in the Golden Mead,¡± she murmured, almost to herself. ¡°Gochican Honey. Warmed to a specific degree. He said I was the only one who could get it just right.¡± She hesitated, her voice quieter now. ¡°That was when he found me. Long ago. When I wasn¡¯t me anymore.¡± A breath. A pause. ¡°Something took my humanity¡­ it looked human, but it was the furthest thing from it.¡± Bolton swallowed. ¡°Is Pistol really just a bartender?¡± Sarah blinked¡ªthen laughed, a real laugh this time, warm and familiar, though something behind it trembled. ¡°Hardly.¡± She turned slightly, shaking her head, a soft smile playing on her lips. ¡°He¡¯s the conductor of the Whisky Sunday. A Yardrat through and through. And quite frankly¡ª¡± she shot Bolton a teasing look, ¡°he makes more than just any mead.¡± Bolton didn¡¯t reply. He just watched. Then, without warning, the ticking in his head sharpened. A memory uncoiled, unbidden. A massive gear-driven door, deep in the heart of the Primarian Arc. A cold room, lit only by the pulse of something immense beyond the metal walls. His father¡¯s voice¡ªhis mother¡¯s hand on his shoulder. A gift placed in his palm. The pocket watch. A whisper, lost to time: You¡¯ll understand someday. The memory snapped shut as quickly as it had come. Bolton exhaled sharply, his fingers brushing against the pocket watch in his coat, grounding himself in the present. Sarah¡¯s skin grew whiter, the soft hues of life draining away, leaving only the rigid, doll-like texture of something artificial. Thin red lines bled from the corners of her mouth, as though the paint of a long-forgotten smile had begun to crack. She was becoming what she truly was. Then¡ªa half-smile. ¡°Do you know what happens when you die?¡± she asked. Bolton¡¯s breath hitched. ¡°Aren¡¯t we running¡­?¡± he muttered. Sarah tilted her head slightly, watching him. ¡°Once we transfer train carts, we¡¯ll always be within reach of the front of the train. However¡­¡± she let the words linger, her tone cryptic, almost amused. ¡°We¡¯re just as close to the end, too.¡± Bolton frowned. ¡°What does that mean?¡± She didn¡¯t answer immediately. Instead, her gaze drifted toward the floating firefly-like creatures, their golden glow reflecting off the glass-like surface of the water below. Some of them landed on lilypads, their soft bodies brushing against frogs that seemed to manifest from the depths, born from the bayou¡¯s quiet breath. Bolton followed her gaze, his expression distant. ¡°My father said Midnight Trains are like pocket worlds. Bridges connected by Yerro. Allowed by Yerro.¡± He muttered, almost to himself. Sarah¡¯s smile flickered, unreadable. ¡°More like pocket minds.¡± She turned, her movements light¡ªalmost too light¡ªas if gravity had loosened its grip on her. Then, she gestured toward the water. ¡°Sit.¡± Bolton hesitated, scanning the train cart¡ªa world within a train cart, a bayou suspended in the belly of the Midnight Train. His own reflection in the water stared back at him, distorted by the firefly glow. Sarah remained still, watching him. Waiting. ¡°So you don¡¯t know what happens when we die, Mr. Would-Be King.¡± Bolton exhaled slowly, gaze lowering. ¡°We go back to Mother Green.¡± He stared at his reflection one last time before reluctantly taking a seat. Then, for the first time since the train started moving, he dipped his feet into the water. It was warm¡ªunnervingly so. The surface barely rippled, as if reluctant to acknowledge his presence. ¡°Why aren¡¯t we running, Sarah?¡± Sarah¡¯s fingers traced the edge of the dock. ¡°Michael pulled strings so that Pistol would pick up the toughest group of miners from their riff-raffin¡¯ party in Quadrant One. That¡¯s where Aurous found you¡ªbrought you on with his giant lizard.¡± Bolton frowned. ¡°That doesn¡¯t answer my question.¡± He flicked his foot, splashing into his own reflection. Sarah let the ripples settle before she spoke again. ¡°Because the train has split. Midnight Trains are truly something special.¡± She lifted her chin slightly, glancing toward the firefly-lit sky. ¡°You know the New Dwardian jingle.¡± ¡°A Midnight Train always meets its destination. Stars of night¡ª¡± she started. ¡°Will see it shine.¡± Bolton finished, his voice quieter now. ¡°Yeah. My mother used to tell us that.¡± Sarah nodded. ¡°So trust Pistol. Our destination is a moon¡¯s lick away.¡± Bolton raised an eyebrow. ¡°Your Quadrant Six lingo is showing.¡± Sarah smirked, but before she could reply¡ª A sharp hiss of steam cut through the quiet. Bolton barely had time to register it before the door at the far end of the train cart groaned open. A long, creeping shadow stretched across the floor, cast by the lantern light beyond. It moved slowly, deliberately, before its owner followed¡ªheavy boots striking against the warped wooden planks, each step unhurried, inevitable. Pistol stood in the doorway, his massive frame filling it entirely. The glow of the lanterns barely touched him, leaving only his silhouette¡ªa figure carved from the very bones of the Midnight Train. His coat hung loose over broad shoulders, and his hat sat low over his eyes, shadowing his expression. For a moment, he said nothing. He simply exhaled, a slow, measured breath that cut through the air like steam venting from old machinery. Then¡ªhis voice rumbled through the car, steady, certain, the weight of iron scraping against stone. ¡°Come, boy.¡± The words weren¡¯t a command. They weren¡¯t a question. They were fact. ¡°The battle was not won.¡± He tilted his chin slightly, the dim light catching the edge of his weathered features. ¡°However¡­ it moves to another day.¡± Bolton hesitated, his fingers curling against the damp wooden dock beneath him. His thoughts were a tangled mess, but only one rose to the surface. ¡°And the Yardrats?¡± His voice was quieter now, careful. Pistol turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder. For a moment, it looked as if he might not answer. Then¡ª ¡°Aurous is protecting them.¡± His voice was heavy with something unreadable. ¡°All we can do is trust him. Quadrant Ten is their home. They should have an advantage. Even against a Malice like that.¡± The words sank into Bolton¡¯s chest like stones, settling deep. The lanterns flickered. The train groaned. Pistol stepped back into the next car, disappearing into the shadows beyond. Bolton swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears. His muscles ached, exhaustion creeping in, but still¡ªhe stood. Sarah remained seated, watching him, fireflies dancing in the air between them. Bolton exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. Then, without another word, he turned to follow Pistol into the unknown. ¡°Bolton.¡± He paused, glancing over his shoulder. Sarah¡¯s expression was unreadable, her fingers brushing absently against the wooden dock. The fireflies hovered close, their golden glow casting shifting patterns across her face. ¡°I was supposed to give you this.¡± Bolton frowned. ¡°What?¡± She hesitated¡ªjust for a second¡ªthen met his gaze, her voice quieter now. ¡°Aurous¡¯ heart.¡± The train groaned beneath them, metal shifting deep in its bones. Sarah inhaled slowly, her grip tightening around something unseen in her palm. ¡°One of the thirteen pieces.¡± Bolton¡¯s breath hitched. The door behind him remained open. Pistol waited. The Midnight Train rumbled on, destination unknown. And for the first time in a long time¡ªhe didn¡¯t know whether to move forward or turn back. The door slammed shut. Darkness swallowed the train car whole. Bonus Extra 1: Winds Of Change (Song) (Verse 1) Of gears o'' brass and steam we dwell, Where toil and hustle indeed have never fell, A world of wonders, shiny bright, But change creeps in wi'' the comin'' night. (Break, supporting singers) And so we sing, through gears that grind (Chorus) Oh, winds of change, they blow so strong, In this steam-filled world where we all belong, Wi'' every cog n¡¯ every gear, Our future''s path ain''t never too clear. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. (Verse 2) Ooooo airships glide o''er skies o'' gold, Tales o'' change are often told, For progress marches ever on, In this realm where dreams are drawn. (Break, supporting singers) "And so we sing, through gears that grind," (Chorus) Oh, winds of change, they blow so strong, In this steam-filled world where we all belong, Wi'' every cog n¡¯ every gear, Our future''s path ain''t never too clear. (Break, supporting singers) And so we sing, through gears that grind, (Chorus) Oh, winds of change, they blow so strong, In this Steampunk world where we belong, Wi'' every cog and every gear, The future''s path ain''t never clear. (Outro) So let us embrace the shiftin'' tide, In this Steampunk world, let change abide, For in the flux, we find our might, And steer our course through day and night. Bonus Extra 2: Chapter 1 (All-In-One) Chapter One: Devil Dog''s Dice Amelia Amelia¡¯s footsteps echoed through the grand halls of the Primarian Arc, the polished stone floors shimmering faintly under the soft glow of oil-fed lanterns. Government buildings in Quadrant Zero clung stubbornly to tradition, powered by fire and oil, with electricity reserved for high-security vaults and essential mechanisms. The air hung heavy with the scent of burning oil and the faint metallic tang of old copper, mingling with the rhythmic hum of gears hidden behind the walls. Above her, intricate contraptions worked tirelessly: gears turned to lift lanterns higher, clockwork chandeliers adjusted to cast light into every shadow, and vents hissed, exhaling bursts of warm, stale air. Everything in the Arc moved with purpose, every mechanism connected to another, a chain of actions that felt almost alive. Quadrant Zero¡¯s brilliance was undeniable, but it was a relic of a world Amelia no longer belonged to¡ªa world of contracts, duty, and unwavering absolutes. The weight of the locket hidden in her boot pressed against her ankle, a constant reminder of what she carried. It was more than a keepsake; it was a tether to her past and a pointed tip to the future that refused to loosen its hold. A memory stirred, vivid and unwelcome, rising like dust caught in a sunbeam. The black-and-white family portrait hung in her mind: Bolton, his warm grin infectious, stood beside their mother, his joy a constant, unwavering glow. Beside him, Michael was a stark contrast¡ªstiff, composed, his sharp eyes brimming with calculation. Even then, he carried himself like royalty, as if the crown already rested upon his brow. ¡°His head¡¯s too big for a crown,¡± she thought. ¡°Michael was always getting into trouble with Bolton, yet he¡¯d somehow end up walking free. How does he keep besting us?¡± Her steps faltered as the memory deepened, dragging her back to the day of the Greisha Ceremony. The final challenge had been a spectacle, a day of celebration and unity for the people of New Dwarden. Quadrant Zero had become the beating heart of the city that day, transformed into a grand arena. The thirteen surrounding Quadrants had emptied as citizens flooded into the center, their spirits high, their voices ringing with cheers and song. The smell of roasted meats and spiced ales had filled the air, mingling with the faint hum of the stage¡¯s machinery as it rose into place¡ªa marvel of engineering crafted to honor the ceremony. She remembered standing under the blinding lights of that stage, her boots planted on the polished metal platform that glimmered like gold. Above her, banners of every color fluttered in the breeze, each bearing the sigil of a Quadrant. The crowd roared with excitement, their faces glowing with anticipation as they waited for the final act: the duel. Scattered throughout the grand arena, the city''s thirteen Quadrant Leaders sat among their people, each surrounded by the colors and symbols of their respective Quadrant. Their presence was both awe-inspiring and oppressive, a reminder of the weight each leader carried¡ªand the stakes of what was to come. The clash of fists, the roar of the crowd, the metallic ring of the stage¡ªall blurred in her mind like smoke curling into the sky. Everything felt like a haze, except for the voice of the announcer, sharp and cutting through the chaos: ¡°Exile! By the barrel and down the metal! The match has been decided! Bolton has yielded, and Amelia is no longer able to fight! By the ritual of the ancient Greisha, New Dwarden¡¯s King is Michael Woltwork! New Dwarden, please welcome Yerro¡¯s new vessel! Bless our Green.¡± The words echoed in her mind as the polished metal beneath her turned cold and unyielding. The cheers of the crowd dissolved, morphing into the mechanical clatter of clinking gears and the relentless hum of clanking pipes. A low vibration resonated through her body, like a second heartbeat¡ªa reminder of everything she¡¯d lost. The memory began to unravel, slipping away as reality crashed back in. Her voice echoed in her mind, tethering her consciousness to a disorienting pull: ¡°I remember a splitting headache then¡­nothing. Isn¡¯t death supposed to be a rush of memories? Perhaps even fun.¡± She couldn¡¯t move. Darkness coiled around her like mist, tight and unrelenting. Echoes of distant clinks grew louder, resembling the sound of a broken-down carriage. Her body felt heavy, paralyzed. ¡°Wake up!¡± ¡°She¡¯s twitchin¡¯! Wake her!¡± a voice bellowed, sharp and urgent, cutting through the fog. Amelia¡¯s mind jolted. A peculiar light pierced the dark void, soft and warm, enveloping her. The voices became clearer: one gruff and familiar, the other metallic and jarring, as if filtered through static. Her senses returned in fragmented pieces¡ªthe faint scent of oil, the rhythmic hum of machinery, the rough sensation of cold metal beneath her. Her vision slowly cleared, and she saw them¡ªa towering man with a thick mustache and a smaller, metallic figure beside him. She blinked hard to make sense of it. ¡°I can confirm Amelia Woltwork is not deceased!¡± said the metallic figure, its glowing flickering eyes fixed on her. The name¡ªWoltwork¡ªfelt heavy, a title she had long since tried to shed. She sat up slowly, her limbs feeling like lead. ¡°Just Amelia,¡± she muttered. Rick smirked. "Right, ¡®just Amelia.¡¯ Well, you¡¯re lucky to be alive, so let¡¯s skip the formalities and all the pretty words like ¡®how are you¡¯ or¡ª" ¡°Nice to meet you!¡± Roy chimed in, his tone bright. ¡°Yes, that too,¡± Rick agreed with a shrug. As Amelia struggled to regain her senses, fragmented memories surged through her mind: the weight of expectation, the blinding lights of the Greisha Ceremony, and the bitter taste of exile. The past clung to her like rusted iron chains, heavy and unyielding. Instinctively, her hand drifted toward her boot, tapping the spot where her locket had been hidden. But it wasn¡¯t there. Her fingers brushed her neck instead, finding the chain and the locket resting against her skin. The glowing blue gem pulsed faintly, as if echoing the rhythm of her racing heart. For a moment, she froze, caught between memory and reality, before the warmth of the locket anchored her in the present. "Confused? Like a playful wolf among stray dogs, eh?" Rick grunted, his voice gruff yet not unkind. He knelt before her, pulling out a small piece of bread from a pouch and handing it to her. "Eat. It''ll help settle your come-to nerves." She hesitated but took the bread, biting into it. The familiar crunch and savory flavor brought back memories of meals in the royal kitchens of the Primarian Arc. She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. ¡°Who are you?¡± "Name¡¯s Rick. Used to bake all sorts of breads for the royal charade. A secret chef," he said, scratching his head. "All back when I had all my blasted limbs. More pressing matters¡ªyou¡¯re now aboard an airship known as the Pappy Long Legs,¡± he continued, his voice softening. "We picked you up after some monster nearly made ya¡¯ dinner. A Crowny dinner, at that." The words sent a chill through her, and the memory of the beast surfaced unbidden¡ªits curled fangs, its throbbing muscular body, the overwhelming terror. Her stomach twisted as her mind replayed its relentless charge. She shuddered, her gaze drifting downward as if seeking reassurance. But instead of flesh and bone, her eyes landed on the intricate, spider-like metal appendages where his legs should have been. The gleam of polished steel caught her off guard, and her breath hitched. She followed the line of his limbs, realizing his arms were equally mechanical, glinting faintly in the dim light. Her confusion deepened as she swallowed the last bit of bread, trying to piece together what he¡¯d said. ¡°A monster? Like in the mines?¡± Her voice was quiet but laced with unease. ¡°What happened?¡± The ship hummed beneath her, the low, steady thrum of its engines a constant reminder that she was no longer on solid ground. Amelia¡¯s gaze drifted to the porthole¡ªclouds stretched out as far as she could see, and the world below felt impossibly distant. Her thoughts turned inward¡ªBolton and Michael. What kind of people had they become? Were creatures like that hunting them, even in their homes? The memory of the beast clawed its way back into her mind¡ªits smoke-blackened mouth, its glowing blue eyes¡ªrelentless and monstrous as it tore through Quadrant Seven¡¯s taverns and homes, leaving chaos in its wake before finally reaching her. She swallowed hard. It wasn¡¯t just a creature; it was a warning. She could only call it one thing: the Devil Dog. Rick¡¯s mechanical limbs whirred as he moved toward the control panel. "We¡¯re headed for Veranus. It¡¯s a rough place, but it¡¯ll give you time to figure out your next move." She nodded absently, though her mind was miles away. She gripped the locket tighter, the faint glow from the blue gem inside pulsing faintly. ¡°Count your questions on one hand,¡± Rick said, glancing back at her. ¡°No rush in solvin¡¯ world hunger and peace at the same damn time. Gives us ol¡¯ timers nothin¡¯ to do.¡± His voice softened, trailing off as he watched Amelia¡¯s body slump. Her exhaustion finally overtook her, the overwhelming grogginess pulling her under despite her efforts to stay awake. As they turned Amelia¡¯s limp form, Roy¡¯s sharp gaze fixed on a faint blue glow pulsing around her neck. The locket dangled there, its chain catching the dim light as it shifted with her shallow breaths. Rick followed Roy¡¯s gaze, his expression darkening as recognition flickered in his eyes. Their movements grew deliberate, cautious, as if the small object held more weight than its size suggested. ¡°Rick. Humans... they generally do not glow, correct? They do not typically possess cores like you,¡± Roy noted with a hint of wonder. ¡°So why does SHE?¡± ¡°Hmmm,¡± Rick grumbled. ¡°Tired of you remindin¡¯ me I don¡¯t have a heart. But for the record¡ª¡®my core,¡¯¡± he added, raising his voice as if to make a point, ¡°is a hot, relentless, steam-powered drum.¡± His tone shifted, cautious now, as if revealing too much might be dangerous. ¡°It glows bright, sure. But not like this. This isn¡¯t attached to her, Roy.¡± ¡°A SOUL,¡± Roy interjected with eerie certainty, his mechanical gaze unblinking. ¡°Somethin¡¯ like that, sure,¡± Rick nodded, his expression growing solemn. ¡°But let¡¯s not get lost in the mystics of those who breathe and those who don¡¯t! Check for the Gigarock in that glowing locket. The King was adamant about keeping that thing safe. Unless she¡¯s got a thing for glowin¡¯ rocks, that¡¯s gotta be it.¡± ¡°It¡¯s gold, as the letter described. HIGHLY probable we are correct,¡± Roy concurred. ¡°Keep fidgeting with the locket, Roy! I¡¯ll check if her soul ain¡¯t planning to vacate her body anytime soon,¡± Rick instructed. Following Rick¡¯s command, Roy carefully examined the source of the ghostly blue glow. Meanwhile, Rick gently opened Amelia¡¯s eyes, his penlight ticking softly as it scanned for signs of brain trauma. His examination paused, however, when something unusual caught his attention¡ªa frog-shaped tattoo just above her right breast. The intricate designs extended toward her neck, its metallic green hue glinting in the light. Intrigued, Rick leaned in closer, his eyes alight with curiosity as he studied the rune-like patterns woven into the ink. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ¡°By the dirt under my feet, I¡¯d only heard of this mark,¡± Rick remarked, his voice tinged with astonishment. ¡°Marks are commonplace among machines. Is Amelia a MACHINE?¡± Roy asked, poking curiously at the side of Amelia¡¯s neck. ¡°When the royal triplet babes are born, they¡¯re given this bugaboo tattoo with ancient writin¡¯,¡± Rick explained, leaning in to closely examine the intricate swirls, sharp curves, and the subtly pulsating glow of the tattoo. ¡°This mark¡ªit¡¯s more like an oath. Supposed to eat yer body whole by age four, like a parasite grown from a deal with Yerro,¡± he continued, his gaze narrowing. ¡°A condition for power.¡± ¡°Rick?¡± Roy asked, his finger inching toward Rick¡¯s throat. ¡°What¡¯s that finger hurtlin¡¯ toward me for?¡± Rick shot back. ¡°You have no mark. No tattoo. It¡¯s not the same. WE are not part of her deal?¡± Roy asked innocently. ¡°If Yerro did not grant me your soul, I must ask again¡ªwho did?¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. They¡¯re gone,¡± Rick replied, his voice trailing off. ¡°What¡¯s goin¡¯ on with us¡­ it¡¯s different. I¡¯ve gone and made a one-sided deal. Lucky it¡¯s the side that matters,¡± he muttered, gently pushing Roy¡¯s finger away. ¡°This tattoo¡­ best believe it lives and breathes with Amelia¡ªor so the Quadrants say. If it¡¯s here, she¡¯s fine.¡± Amelia could feel the distant thuds and thumps as Rick and Roy paced around her, their voices growing muffled as her focus wavered. No matter how far she drifted in her mind, a strange warmth around her feet kept her anchored. ¡°¡­ What¡¯s the extent of that mark, Amelia? Can¡¯t just be for liftin¡¯ heavy boulders,¡± Rick wondered aloud, though his voice seemed to drift further away. ¡°Yerro: A Colossus or Great Spirit responsible for creating the City of New Dwarden upon its death¡ª¡± Roy began, only to be interrupted. ¡°Break that crank, Roy! Don¡¯t need that kind of information right now,¡± Rick scolded. ¡°Focus on the girl.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t need it?¡± Roy asked, his head tilting slightly, the light in his eyes dimming to a soft white. Rick sighed, shaking his head. ¡°Best understand somethin¡¯, Roy. You¡¯re not just some hodgepodge conveyor belt. You¡¯ve got blood, thoughts¡ªhell, maybe more emotions than me. Don¡¯t act like a block of metal. Now, gander at the damn locket¡ª¡± ¡°LOCKET,¡± Roy corrected. ¡°The locket contains a picture of the royal family, an embedded Gigarock¡ªits flesh intact¡ªand a crinkled piece of paper.¡± His eyes returned to their usual yellow glow, flickering with a hint of pride. Rick glanced at Roy, his expression softening, like a father approving a son¡¯s first steps. ¡°The Gigarock, Roy. What¡¯s the rock about?¡± ¡°This Gigarock is an extremely rare fragment of Yerro¡¯s heart,¡± Roy explained. ¡°A piece of very exclusive pie, as you¡¯d say. It ranks the highest among all known types¡ªS-class.¡± Rick nodded, his gaze flicking between the mark on Amelia¡¯s neck and the pulsating pink flesh encased in the Gigarock. The light within the gem seemed alive, its rhythm mirroring the faint glow of Amelia¡¯s tattoo. ¡°That¡¯s not just rare. That¡¯s priceless,¡± Rick muttered, handing the locket carefully back to Roy. Roy delicately maneuvered the locket, examining the inscriptions, the tiny cogs framing the faded Woltwork family picture, and the Gigarock¡¯s shining metal core wrapped in writhing, glowing vines. Satisfied, he began to tuck it away, but Rick¡¯s hand darted out to stop him. ¡°Best not be handlin¡¯ that longer than ya¡¯ have to, Roy,¡± Rick cautioned, his voice carrying a note of solemnity. ¡°That thing¡¯s precious¡ªto them, at least. Crownies¡­ they¡¯re different beasts. Amelia might be the nicer Woltwork, but don¡¯t mistake that for weakness. Let her decide when to show it, or we¡¯ll take it if we have to. Got it?¡± ¡°Shall I continue my DIRECTIVE?¡± Roy inquired, his metallic voice resonating. ¡°Well now that we know that death ain¡¯t hollerin¡¯ her name, we can finish scannin¡¯ her,¡± Rick ordered. ¡°I¡¯ll wake her the way my momma used to¡ªwith an iron grip.¡± ¡°Command recognized: scan Amelia Woltwork,¡± Roy responded, refocusing on the task at hand. ¡°Amelia Woltwork!¡± Rick cheered theatrically. ¡°Younger sister of King Michael and older sister to Bolton. Seconds apart, our royal trio! It is now your turn to feed the hand of the Iron Grip!¡± Amelia could feel the heat radiating from the man crouched over her. The scent of oil and freshly baked goods drifted into her nostrils, playful yet stinging. Slowly, she began to stir, feeling the world around her come back to life with faint sensations¡ªgentle pinches, soft prods, and the distant hum of machinery¡ªall working to draw her back into consciousness. ¡°You forced my hand, Crowny,¡± Rick taunted, his voice hovering ominously above her. Before Amelia could utter a sound, she sensed the man drawing closer. Through a narrow slit of her vision, she caught a blurred image of Rick¡¯s fingers inching toward her nose with mischievous intent. ¡°The trick to a good dream,¡± Rick proclaimed, ¡°is that it must be a story worth telling. And a good story always begins with¡­ a dream and a TWIST!¡± He emphasized his point with a purposeful flick and twist of his wrist. ¡°Assault!¡± yelped Amelia, jolting awake. ¡°Mugger! Thief! I¡ªI¡­ monster?¡± Amelia suddenly sprang to her feet, wobbling as she propelled herself upward, only to immediately fall back into a sitting position. ¡°Where¡¯s the monster? That thing? Why was it trying to eat me?¡± Amelia blurted, her voice smooth and angelic compared to Rick¡¯s gruff tone. ¡°It was just here¡­¡± she panicked, scanning her surroundings before her voice trailed off into exhaustion. ¡°Calm down, Crowny! We saved ya! No creatures here,¡± Rick assured her. ¡°We¡¯re the closest thing to a doctor you have right now, and I got my certification at a junkyard.¡± ¡°What¡­¡± Amelia muttered, her head spinning from the rush of sensations. Rick¡¯s ¡°IRON CLAW¡± grip remained as painful as ever, and Amelia groaned loudly as she fully regained consciousness, the sensation of pain flooding back. Slowly, she blinked her eyes open, the world appearing dim and hazy as she struggled to comprehend her surroundings. ¡°Tell me, Crowny. Did ya¡¯ always wear a birthmark on your right cheek? How about them green eyes? A tiny bend in the nose? A distinct yet modest jawline?¡± Rick examined her closely, moving at an uncomfortable speed. ¡°Do ya¡¯ prefer the clothing of a Yardrat? Or have you spent your royalties¡­ elsewhere? Moreso, was it necessary to work in those mines all those years? AAAAAAND what happened after your eighteenth birthday? The Greisha Crown Ceremony. Go on, I¡¯ll wait.¡± ¡°I¡ª¡± Amelia tried to respond, but her head drooped closer to the ground, her thoughts scattering like loose gears. ¡°And that¡¯s how you¡¯ll sound if I let ya. Questions! Questions! Questions! Let¡¯s try and look at this conundrum one screw at a time,¡± Rick interjected, his tone both commanding and oddly comforting. ¡°Initiating wellness analysis,¡± Roy¡¯s metallic voice chimed, precise and clinical. ¡°Gender: Female. Heart rate: elevated. Potential concussion detected. Height: approximately 1.88 meters. Weight: approximately 75 kilograms. Confirmed identity: Amelia Woltwork. Status: alive and healthy.¡± Rick smirked, shaking his head. ¡°Roy, you¡¯re about as comforting as a leaky steam valve. Gotta say, your bedside manner¡¯s got a lotta room for improvement.¡± ¡°Add pissed to that,¡± Amelia grumbled, her voice muffled as her eyes fluttered shut. ¡°You didn¡¯t have to squeeze my nose, you know. Back in the Conkle Mines, pranks like that got you killed¡ªor worse.¡± ¡°Little Crowny, you¡¯re still royalty¡ªnot just some Quadrant Seven Yardrat. I had to check if you were awake or even capable of wakin¡¯ up,¡± Rick replied, irritation creeping into his voice. ¡°Understand this, the jaw we pried you from was one of no return. Ain¡¯t never seen a beast like that.¡± Amelia¡¯s brow furrowed as her thoughts sharpened. ¡°I heard everything you and¡­ whatever that is next to you were saying! You¡ª¡± ¡°No, ya¡¯ didn¡¯t! Because if ya¡¯ did, ya¡¯ wouldn¡¯t have yelled ¡®Assault,¡¯ ¡®Thief,¡¯ and ¡®Mugger¡¯ like you were filing a complaint with the cosmos,¡± Rick retorted. ¡°Got a kick and ¡®arrest me¡¯ sign somewhere in your overalls?¡± ¡°No, but I got a knife if I can¡¯t figure your goals in the next ten seconds!¡± Amelia snapped, her voice trembling as she struggled to stand. ¡°I don¡¯t know what¡¯s happening or who you are¡ªor if I¡¯m even alive or will live for the next five minutes! All I remember is falling¡­ being eaten¡­ and now my head hurts.¡± ¡°Oi! Girl, listen. Tiptoe now, we¡¯ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I would¡¯ve gladly thrown you off my airship two seconds ago if I wanted you dead, but now¡ª¡± ¡°Not advised,¡± Roy interrupted innocently. ¡°But now,¡± Rick continued, brushing off Roy¡¯s interruption, ¡°here¡¯s the mercy: just focus on gettin¡¯ better. I promise I¡¯ll explain everything.¡± Amelia¡¯s glare softened slightly, though her breathing remained uneven. ¡°Where am I?¡± ¡°That¡¯s a better question. Welcome aboard the Pappy Long Legs!¡± Rick declared proudly, his words cutting through her daze like a sharp blade. ¡°She¡¯s my own design¡ªbuilt to outclass those dull New Dwarden Akiyoma ships. This beauty can fly circles around ¡¯em! Roy here can give you the grand tour¡ªif you¡¯re up for it.¡± Amelia shook her head, wincing as the motion aggravated her headache. ¡°Not necessary.¡± Rick¡¯s expression fell. ¡°Too bad. Roy would¡¯ve loved to show you around.¡± ¡°This is my primary purpose,¡± Roy chimed in eagerly. ¡°I aim to LEARN and, to quote Rick, ¡®have a good time.¡¯ My secondary function is to protect you.¡± ¡°I can handle that myself,¡± Amelia muttered, her gaze drifting to the intricate machinery surrounding her. ¡°Are¡­ are we still in Quadrant Seven?¡± ¡°Yes, just outside your little mineshaft in Little Creek,¡± Rick replied. ¡°Been hoverin¡¯ here since your¡­ incident. Which we¡¯ll clarify once you stop reachin¡¯ for that knife.¡± After a tense pause, Amelia sighed and let her knife clatter to the floor. She leaned back against the metallic railing, the faint scent of bread pulling her toward an uneasy calm. ¡°Ah yes, front pocket of your uniform. Them Yardrats still wear overalls? Changin¡¯ as slow as stone weathers, those miners,¡± Rick chuckled, his tone teasing yet warm. Before Amelia could respond, Rick¡¯s voice boomed again, cutting through the air like a crack of a whip. ¡°Roy! Get the girl some bread!¡± he barked, the command laced with a gruff urgency that left no room for hesitation. ¡°Yes, Captain Rick,¡± Roy responded, moving with mechanical precision. Rick knelt beside Amelia, his tone softening. ¡°Calm your mind. Focus on breathin¡¯. We¡¯ve got time to sort this out.¡± ¡°You get eaten, almost killed, then kidnapped! Then tell me to calm down!¡± Amelia raged, her chest heaving as panic set in. ¡°Until a couple of seconds ago, I couldn¡¯t even see my hands!¡± Her voice wavered with the onset of tears. ¡°The name¡¯s Rick. I¡¯m a damn good baker, an engineer, and now an airship pilot! Not just any airship pilot, but the pilot of the Pappy Long Legs! That combination¡¯s uniquely mine. As for Roy, well¡­ better you see him than hear me try to explain,¡± Rick said with a wry grin. ¡°You might find it surprising, but according to Rick, ¡®I am not HUMAN, but uniquely human,¡¯¡± Roy remarked, his tone almost contemplative. ¡°You¡¯ll see what he means once you¡¯re more awake.¡± ¡°Right you are, man from metal,¡± Rick chimed in with playful agreement. ¡°Anyway, I used to cook for you and your brothers when you were young Crownies. Things looked a bit different back then¡ªno mustache, fewer metal limbs, and¡­ well¡­ no blasted affliction.¡± Rick paused, his voice tinged with nostalgia. ¡°As Roy said, you¡¯ll understand once your sight clears up.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­ but I don¡¯t know a Rick,¡± Amelia confessed softly. ¡°Or a Roy. Never did.¡± ¡°Then you damn well know Tammersmith,¡± Rick replied, his voice carrying a note of certainty. Amelia¡¯s eyes flew open as if waking from a deep slumber, the realization hitting her like a lightning bolt. To Rick¡¯s surprise, she leaped up from the ground with a burst of energy, landing in a shaky crouch. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ You¡¯re Tammersmith!? From the Primarian Royale! The capital! But¡­ how¡­?¡± Amelia stammered in disbelief. ¡°You¡¯re not supposed to be here! You¡¯re not supposed to be talking to me, looking at me, caring for me! You¡­ you¡¯re¡­ changed?¡± Her emotions swirled in a maelstrom. ¡°What affliction!?¡± ¡°Could ya¡¯ have picked a better word?¡± Rick teased. ¡°Disabled is one of ¡¯em that goes around.¡± ¡°I¡­ I¡­¡± Amelia faltered, at a loss for words. ¡°Wha¡ªwhat happened?¡± ¡°They call it Soul Rot,¡± Rick began, his voice heavy with resignation. ¡°A gamble with desperate dice. Makin¡¯ deals with spirits is as foolish as bein¡¯ the canary coaxed to the coal mine. Worse, if you ain¡¯t careful, they¡¯re as unforgiving as the Clinkers clankin¡¯ around the inner quadrants.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve lost me,¡± Amelia muttered, disbelief thick in her voice. Rick chuckled darkly, his smile laced with bitterness. ¡°Soul Rot ain¡¯t instant death, despite what most New Dwardian knuckleheads think. Wish it were. It¡¯s slower, crueler.¡± He paused, running a hand over the jagged edges of his metallic limbs. ¡°Rick¡ªthat¡¯s the name I took after this wretched rot left me lookin¡¯ like a melted sack o¡¯ flesh. Ain¡¯t no one gonna believe I¡¯m a Tammersmith now, not with a face like chewed gum left out in the sun. People don¡¯t need to know what used to be¡­¡± His voice softened as he added, ¡°Since I last saw ya¡¯, it¡¯s gotten to my arms and legs. Already gone, Crowny.¡± Amelia tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at him. ¡°You move with metal limbs?¡± she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and faint disbelief. ¡°Seems the inner cities have grown away from wooden pegs.¡± Rick barked a short laugh, the sound dry and tinged with irony. ¡°Unless you¡¯ve got more coin than hair, you¡¯re stuck lookin¡¯ like a Quadrant Seven scarecrow,¡± he replied, motioning to his mismatched parts. ¡°I improvised. Pappy Science.¡± ¡°Pappy Science?¡± Amelia echoed, her disbelief plain as she glanced toward Rick. ¡°Innovation!¡± Rick declared with a crooked grin, tapping a metallic finger against his temple. ¡°Best seen, not explained.¡± He gestured toward the horizon. ¡°Now sit back, rub those tired eyes, and take a good gander at what¡¯s ahead. You¡¯ll have to get used to a heap of change soon,¡± he added, his tone softening. ¡°Your brother, the King, made sure of that. But me? Don¡¯t waste a worry on ol¡¯ Rick¡ªI¡¯ve got Roy to keep me upright.¡± Amelia took a moment to collect herself, the absurdity of her situation weighing heavily on her. Summoning her resolve, she clenched her fists and slowly rose to her feet. Despite the lingering sense of unease, her curiosity won out. Gradually, her surroundings began to sharpen from their blurred state, revealing a massive, jagged circular platform. It was covered in an array of intricate knobs, levers weathered from use, and coiled rails twisting like metal serpents. Around her, consoles of all sizes blinked and hummed, offering a glimpse into the mysteries of the strange vessel she had awakened on. ¡°So¡­ airships aren¡¯t too different from waterships, huh?¡± Amelia remarked, a hint of excitement in her voice. ¡°I-I¡¯ve never been on an airship before!¡± she added, her eyes lighting up with sudden wonder. ¡°You mean a boat?¡± Rick chuckled. ¡°And yes! Since your time away from the capital, New Dwarden¡¯s perfected the airship¡ªAkiyoma style, but I have to argue and will continue to argue that mine¡¯s a step above. Each of the thirteen quadrants have their own version of what they consider ¡®perfect¡¯, and well¡­ from what I can see those airships just don¡¯t explode as much anymore. Oh, and they have bigger cannons,¡± he boasted, the wind gusting into the cockpit as he stood tall. ¡°See! If ya¡¯ had stabbed me, ya¡¯ wouldn¡¯t have seen any of this!¡± Before Amelia could respond, Rick shoved a piece of his famous Morsha bread into her mouth. The sudden yet familiar crunch was enough to bring her back to years long past, filling her with crunchy, flaky, nostalgia. She devoured the bread eagerly, savoring the memories it evoked and the delicious flavor that danced on her tongue. For a brief moment, she forgot about the danger and strangeness of her situation, lost in the warmth of something warm and familiar. ¡°What do you think, Amelia? Just like ya¡¯ remember?¡± Rick asked with a large grin. Amelia raised her eyes to meet his for the first time in what felt like decades. Standing before her was a stout man with four metallic limbs¡ªspider-like, yet fluid and precise. His cartoonishly large mustache sat above a crinkly red nose, and his wide brown eyes peered out from behind round spectacles perched precariously on his face. The scent of machine oil and freshly baked goods clung to his overalls, a curious mix that somehow suited him. Despite the heavy wrinkles lining his face, Amelia wasn¡¯t fazed. To her, Rick was just another person who¡¯d had a hard lot in life¡ªmuch like the Yardrats she¡¯d worked with in the Conkle Mines. ¡°I¡¯m calling you Tammersmith... I don¡¯t like Rick,¡± Amelia chuckled. ¡°Seems silly to deny yourself a history.¡± ¡°Could say the same to you,¡± Rick teased. ¡°But respect¡ª¡± ¡°Look,¡± Amelia sighed, a fresh piece of Morsha bread hanging from her lip, ¡°I¡¯ll call you Rick,¡± she conceded between bites, ¡°but I don¡¯t like it. You¡¯re no uglier than the Yardrats down at the mines.¡± ¡°And you¡ªstart chewin¡¯ with your mouth closed, and you¡¯ll be half as ugly! Plus, ya¡¯ won¡¯t choke,¡± Rick shot back, accepting her remark with a grin. ¡°My great auntie choked on a piece of Cerulean silk meat after too much mead. Wasn¡¯t a pretty sight.¡± ¡°It¡¯s true! Meat-based organisms have LIMITED storage in their orifices¡­ err¡­ holes,¡± Roy chimed in from across the platform, his voice echoing awkwardly in the metallic expanse. ¡°Ah, yes¡­ something better left unsaid, Roy,¡± Rick remarked with a sudden frown. Amelia couldn¡¯t help but laugh, a grimace crossing her face as the memories continued to flood back. She felt an odd mixture of raw emotion, the bread stirring something deep within her. ¡°The Greisha Ceremony¡­ I¡¯m not supposed to make contact with anyone from the capital. I¡ª¡± Amelia began, her voice growing distant as the words faded. ¡°Silly rule.¡± ¡°Best not dwell on it,¡± Rick said, his tone cautious. ¡°There are things in this world we can¡¯t even begin to understand.¡± ¡°You sound just like them,¡± Amelia muttered, her mouth still full of bread. ¡°And you? Who or what d¡¯ya sound like, Crowny?¡± Rick asked, raising a brow, his tone tinged with curiosity. ¡°Does it matter anymore?¡± Amelia sighed, frustration creeping into her voice. ¡°I was attacked by some monster. Taken aboard this airship. Now I¡¯m sure the capital wants to hang me for breaking some stupid rule I didn¡¯t even know existed¡ªand you¡¯re my polite executioner.¡± ¡°You¡¯re quick to line the axe to your neck, Crowny,¡± Rick replied, moving closer to her. His metallic limbs clicked and whirred as they navigated the wires and consoles with uncanny precision. ¡°Here¡¯s the secret to good bread,¡± he added with a chuckle. ¡°It gets you to shut up long enough to listen. So do that, and I promise everything else will become clear.¡± ¡°Gracefully said, Rick,¡± Amelia quipped, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ¡°So why am I here? How¡¯d I survive?¡± ¡°We¡¯re on a mission ¡®ordained by your older brother,¡¯ King Woltwork,¡± Rick explained, his expression turning grave. ¡°Something unknown tried to bury ya¡¯. It ain¡¯t public knowledge yet, but I believe your brother foresaw this monster comin¡¯ for you¡ªat least to some extent. The ¡®why¡¯ isn¡¯t our concern right now. The ¡®when¡¯ is the real question. And that monster? It will come back, make no mistake. As for how¡ª¡± Amelia¡¯s steps were slow but deliberate as she approached Rick. Her hand dipped into her boot, retrieving the locket she¡¯d kept hidden there. She opened it, revealing a black-and-white family portrait. Her eyes lingered on the image, a mixture of frustration and sadness etched into her face. She turned the locket toward Rick, her finger pointing accusingly. ¡°You¡¯re telling me the same brother who pushed for us to be exiled from the capital¡ªQuadrant Zero¡ªis now looking out for us? The same man who showed no mercy during the Greisha Ceremony?¡± Amelia¡¯s voice rose, thick with doubt. ¡°The one who sent Bolton to fend for himself?¡± ¡°Games ain¡¯t fair, but your family plays by different rules, Amelia,¡± Rick replied, his voice softening as he met her gaze. ¡°Invisible strings guide those with power. You¡¯ll figure it out soon enough. Your brother knows about your time in the Conkle Mines. He knows how they¡¯ve been treatin¡¯ ya¡¯.¡± ¡°Like family?¡± Amelia shot back bitterly. ¡°Like family,¡± Rick agreed, his tone even. He gently guided her hand, urging her to close the locket and return it to her pocket. ¡°But that don¡¯t mean he¡¯s given up on ya¡¯. Not entirely.¡± As their conversation continued, a faint whirring sound drew Amelia¡¯s attention. Roy approached, cradling a mechanical flower crafted from scraps of metal and wire. The automaton extended the flower toward her, its glowing eyes flickering with an almost childlike innocence. ¡°When we rescued you. From your death,¡± Roy began, his voice even but tinged with something softer. ¡°I came upon a CHILD. She gave me a flower. She said, ¡®peace.¡¯ That I wasn¡¯t to hurt her family if she gave me something precious.¡± You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Amelia blinked, her brow furrowing as she processed Roy¡¯s words. Her hand instinctively darted toward her knife, her posture tense as she eyed Roy warily. ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡± she asked, her voice cautious. Rick stepped forward, his tone light but firm. ¡°It means people will learn to understand Roy,¡± he said, gesturing toward Amelia. ¡°Now, how ¡¯bout you stop reachin¡¯ for your blade and let him be.¡± For a moment, Amelia hesitated, her fingers brushing the hilt of her knife before she slowly relaxed her grip. Her gaze flicked between Rick and Roy, her suspicion softening into curiosity. Roy¡¯s outstretched hand remained steady, the flower gleaming faintly in the dim light. Rick smirked, nodding toward the automaton. ¡°Told ya¡¯ Roy¡¯s got more heart than he lets on. Go on, take the damn flower.¡± Amelia¡¯s hand finally reached out, her movements slow and deliberate. She took the flower from Roy, holding it delicately as if it might crumble under her touch. The edges of her lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile. ¡°Guess I¡¯ll add it to the list of things I never thought I¡¯d see,¡± she muttered, lifting the intricate creation to examine it more closely Amelia shifted uneasily, her eyes darting between Roy and Rick. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you are¡­¡± she muttered, stepping back defensively, her hand brushing the hilt of her knife. ¡°Then allow me,¡± Rick interjected, his tone gruff but steady. He plucked the metallic flower from Roy¡¯s grasp and tucked it into Amelia¡¯s front pocket with surprising gentleness. ¡°He¡¯s the reason you¡¯re alive.¡± ¡°He¡¯s a weapon?¡± she asked, suspicion lacing her voice. Rick¡¯s jaw tightened, his brows knitting together. ¡°He¡¯s my¡­ son. Now take a good look.¡± Amelia hesitated, her skepticism giving way to curiosity. Slowly, she released the knife, letting it slip back into her pocket, and studied Roy more closely. Her sharp gaze traveled over his squared, makeshift body, his head fashioned from repurposed headlights, and the way his mouth moved without lips yet somehow conveyed expression. Roy¡¯s tall frame was rigid yet oddly human, his exaggerated movements accompanied by the metallic jingles and creaks reminiscent of mining bots in the Conkle Mines. ¡°I have many questions,¡± Amelia admitted, a note of disbelief in her voice. ¡°Yerro¡¯s grace¡­ What have you done, Rick?¡± Before Rick could answer, Roy stepped forward, his movements deliberate yet protective. He raised a hand, pointing toward the vast sky behind her. ¡°Our mission now is to meet with Bolton and his guardian soon. All will be explained,¡± he stated with mechanical calm. Rick rested a hand on Roy¡¯s shoulder, glancing at him with a mix of pride and concern. He turned back to Amelia, his voice softening. ¡°Listen to Roy. For now, the story is that you were some monster¡¯s expensive snack. Locals thought you brought that creature to the county of Little Creek, as it¡­ allegedly whispered your name¡ª¡®Amelia¡¯¡ªwhile wreaking havoc. Best lean into the lie and let ¡®em assume you were eaten.¡± Amelia¡¯s brow furrowed, her skepticism returning. ¡°What kind of creature whispers names? Worse, my name? Local hogwash.¡± ¡°I verified it myself,¡± Rick replied, tapping a metallic finger to his temple. ¡°The locals were furious. Their shops, farms, lives¡­ all destroyed. If Roy and I hadn¡¯t found you collapsed, they¡¯d have hanged you on the spot. To make matters worse, the creature vanished without a trace, leaving them with only you to blame.¡± ¡°So your solution was to knock me out?¡± Amelia challenged, her voice sharp. ¡°Roy put on a convincing show,¡± Rick admitted, scratching the back of his head. ¡°We needed ¡®em to think we were arresting you. A few well-placed weapon demonstrations helped¡­ diffuse their anger.¡± ¡°According to Rick, you needed MARBLES,¡± Roy added innocently. Amelia snorted, despite herself. ¡°Ah, yes. That explains this searing headache,¡± she muttered, rubbing her temple. Her hand lingered near her knife, though she refrained from drawing it again. ¡°What¡¯s this mission, then?¡± ¡°Crowny, we did what we had to,¡± Rick said with a nervous chuckle, trying to steer the conversation. ¡°Now, let¡¯s move on. It¡¯s in the past.¡± ¡°It¡¯s in the past,¡± Amelia mimicked, exaggerating his southern drawl. ¡°Attempted murder can¡¯t just be ¡®in the past¡¯! This has to be connected to some royal dogwater.¡± ¡°Bullshit,¡± Roy chimed in, his tone matter-of-fact. Amelia burst into laughter, winking at Roy. ¡°Exactly. Bullshit!¡± She turned back to Rick, her expression sobering. ¡°And now what? You¡¯ve come to save me? With your son the robot? On an airship more expensive than a whole Quadrant? Did New Dwarden fund this?¡± Rick¡¯s metallic limbs hissed as he moved closer, his eyes narrowing. ¡°Not quite. A-¡± ¡°Not quite?¡± Amelia snapped back. ¡°More mysteries?¡± ¡°Listen Crowny. This Pappy Long Leg¡¯s mine, built with my hands, my scraps, and my damn ingenuity. You¡¯re alive because we made choices. Hard ones. Now, you wanna question ¡®em, fine. But don¡¯t you dare belittle what¡¯s keepin¡¯ you breathing.¡± ¡°You know, you¡¯re suspiciously sounding like someone who¡¯d kidnap an ex-royal,¡± Amelia snapped, her words sharp and biting. Rick¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line. ¡°Maybe I am. But let¡¯s consider the save your life part? Ah? You don¡¯t have to like it, but you¡¯re here now.¡± ¡°No, no, no! Wait. What¡¯s the plan? Send a monster, save me?¡± Her voice rose with indignation as she gestured toward Roy. ¡°Then whisk me away with an automaton you call your son¡ªmade from some illegal spirit deal? And now what? A grand adventure? Do you realize how wicked you sound?¡± Rick¡¯s expression hardened, his metallic limbs creaking as he crossed his arms. ¡°I gain nothin¡¯ from killin¡¯ someone who can¡¯t even be Queen, Crowny,¡± he replied coolly. ¡°That tattoo on your neck has your fate written all over it¡ªa signature from the wanderin¡¯ past.¡± Amelia¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°The only reason I¡¯m even listening to you is because your bread tastes familiar.¡± ¡°Best believe choices are gettin¡¯ harder for both of us,¡± Rick replied, his voice steady but laced with frustration. Roy shifted slightly, his glowing eyes flickering as he stepped forward. ¡°There is much I don¡¯t understand either, Amelia Woltwork,¡± he said, his tone surprisingly calm. ¡°My body operates with a human heart. I carry human abilities. I¡¯ve heard Rick use the word ¡®atrocity¡¯ before.¡± ¡°By the green, how?¡± Rick asked, his voice barely above a whisper. ¡°When I was¡­ conceived,¡± Roy replied, hesitating. ¡°Or birthed. Created.¡± it¡¯s voice faltered, but he pushed on. ¡°Outside of your desire to place me in this metallic vessel, I somehow heard you say it.¡± Rick¡¯s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the floor. ¡°How¡ªhow did you know that?¡± Amelia asked, her voice softer now, tinged with disbelief. ¡°Description: Rick shed tears,¡± Roy said simply. ¡°Water. Like a human. While he no longer possesses his heart¡ªbecause he has given it to me¡ªhe shed water. Prognosis: This does not sound ¡®wicked,¡¯ correct?¡± Amelia exhaled heavily, the weight of Roy¡¯s words pressing on her. ¡°Roy,¡± she said, her voice filled with an ache she couldn¡¯t hide. ¡°Do you even know what you are?¡± ¡°No,¡± Roy replied, his tone steady. ¡°But I feel a strong belonging with Rick. He does not feel like the creature that attacked you. Not like any animal. My objective: protect you. Maybe you could trust me.¡± Amelia¡¯s gaze locked with Roy¡¯s, the tension between them palpable. Her defiance flickered for a moment before the weight of his sincerity settled over her. She looked down, her hands brushing the tattered fabric of her shirt and the scorched edges of her boots.What kind of man willingly ties his soul to a machine? What kind of desperation drives someone to that point? The thought was as unsettling as it was sad. ¡°Fine,¡± she muttered. ¡°But the knife stays ready.¡± Rick let out a long sigh, the tension in the air easing just slightly. ¡°Trust comes later,¡± he said. ¡°Survival comes first.¡± Roy stepped forward again, his glowing eyes flickering. ¡°Rick is my father. Our souls are tied to one another. Rick said, without one, the other cannot exist.¡± Amelia¡¯s eyes widened, the implications sinking in. ¡°Who allowed such a condition? Contracts with spirits are strictly regulated and are almost impossible to fulfill¡­¡± She paused, her voice softening. ¡°Rat''s ass on who allowed it,¡± Rick replied, waving her apology away. ¡°What matters is we¡¯re here.¡± Amelia frowned but said nothing, her mind spinning with questions she wasn¡¯t ready to voice. She turned to Roy. ¡°Log a reminder to finish this conversation later.¡± ¡°CONVERSATION logged,¡± Roy responded dutifully. Rick let out a dry laugh. ¡°Learning to be human from two very social and palpable ones, I see.¡± Amelia smirked, the tension finally beginning to dissipate. She reached for another piece of Morsha bread, the familiar flavor grounding her. Memories of her father¡¯s tales about the Primarian Hammers surfaced unbidden, filling the silence as she chewed. ¡°This is complicated. However, there''s something I do remember,¡± she said finally. ¡°You repair Yerro''s heart. Top secret, right?¡± Rick¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°I¡¯m one of the few left.¡± ¡°Where are the others?¡± Amelia asked, her voice quiet. Rick hesitated, his gaze drifting. ¡°Seeing to an emergency. If¡­ they¡¯re still alive.¡± ¡°What emergency?¡± she pressed. ¡°We¡¯re not sure yet,¡± Roy interjected. ¡°But the creature that attacked you might just be the beginning.¡± Amelia¡¯s grip tightened on the bread. ¡°In the mines, we saw monsters. Big ones. Some were ghost-like; others were just¡­ bigger, nastier versions of what we¡¯d seen before. But nothing like that thing.¡± Rick nodded grimly. ¡°That thing wasn¡¯t just a monster. It was a message. Something so ugly with so much purpose.¡± Amelia¡¯s gaze shifted to the horizon, the clouds stretching endlessly before them. A message from whom? Or worse, for whom? She didn¡¯t ask. The answer would come soon enough. ¡°Gotta admit, you Woltworks have a mindless appetite for chaos,¡± Rick chuckled, his gaze lifting toward Amelia as if he had just stumbled upon a warm memory. ¡°No wonder you took to chewin¡¯ on Quadrant Seven¡¯s minin¡¯ life. Outta¡¯ all the rockwork, Conkle¡¯s the worst there is. There¡¯s a reason you Yardrats are local heroes and not just another batch of black-lunged workers.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t know Bolton or Michael the way I do. I¡¯m the best of the three!¡± Amelia declared, a smile tugging at her lips as her voice echoed through the chamber with a hint of incredulity. ¡°I don¡¯t have a throne to sit on, but¡­ I fend for myself. Despite the creatures¡ªmonsters, whatever¡ªthe Yardrats take care of each other. I might not be the strongest, but I make up for it by being crafty. If Bolton had gotten lucky after the Greisha Ceremony, maybe he¡¯d be one too.¡± Her gaze wandered into the distance, lost in contemplation. ¡°That stupid ceremony¡­ the stupid Greisha Ceremony,¡± she murmured, her words heavy with frustration. ¡°Shoves us out of the capital at eighteen, only to float by while one of us gets to be King and the others get hunted by monsters for the rest of their lives. Should¡¯ve read the fine print that never existed.¡± ¡°Or Queen,¡± Rick interjected, his tone gentle and reassuring. Amelia¡¯s eyes gleamed with introspection as she continued, ¡°Because of some spirit-binding contract, all royalty is born with a twin. Sometimes a triplet. Doesn¡¯t matter, though. People don¡¯t tend to remember anyone without a crown.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t need a crown to be remembered. I hear Yardrats are notoriously rude. Considerin¡¯ their job, they¡¯ve got more grit and spirit than most,¡± Rick remarked with an affectionate grin. ¡°Notoriety can¡¯t be ignored. Ask the other Hammers.¡± Amelia laughed, the sound bubbling up from deep within. ¡°And you? You¡¯ve been responsible for almost every large-scale incident¡ªand I quote ¡®incident¡¯¡ªwe¡¯ve had at the capital,¡± she retorted, barely suppressing her laughter. ¡°I can remember that detail even from when I was eight years old!¡± ¡°Crowny, I¡¯m an inventor! There are steps to the inevitability of success! Very doughy, snappy, golden, meticulous steps,¡± Rick explained with a chuckle. ¡°Old man, are we still talking about inventing?¡± Amelia teased. ¡°NO,¡± interjected Roy from afar, his voice cutting through their banter. A strange wedge of silence settled between them, broken only by the wind whistling through the massive swirling fans that kept the airship aloft. Amelia¡¯s smile faded into a more thoughtful expression as memories of her life in New Dwarden¡¯s capital flooded back. Rick noticed her eyes glistening with unshed tears, lost in thought. He leaned against a waist-high metallic barricade beside her, ready to offer comfort. ¡°Tammer¡ªah, Rick¡­¡± Amelia sighed, her voice tinged with weariness. ¡°I appreciate the bread.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know what else to do,¡± Rick replied with a sympathetic smirk. ¡°I think life¡¯s gonna change for both of us soon. Whether we suck the spoon or spill it.¡± ¡°Seems serious enough,¡± Amelia said, slipping another piece of bread into her overall pocket. ¡°Tradition, contracts, houses¡­ all just rules with different names.¡± ¡°Rules are usually there because some bloke took the time to smell the air and didn¡¯t want to shit in it,¡± Rick mused as he wandered deeper into the mechanical heart of the cockpit. ¡°But truth be told, they¡¯re broken for the same reason too!¡± ¡°Are you suggesting I break the rules?¡± Amelia teased, her tone lightening. ¡°What was that!?¡± Rick shouted, his attention abruptly snapping to the control panels. ¡°Nothing!¡± Amelia replied, leaning on the same barricade Rick had just vacated, the wind tousling her hair. ¡°Hmm¡­¡± Rick muttered dismissively as he brushed off Amelia¡¯s smug smile. ¡°Keep your fat noggin¡¯ busy! I need to set our course. Go look around! Take a breath of that borrowed time you and I¡¯ve come to be so lucky to have.¡± ¡°And where might this next destination be, royal kidnapper?¡± Amelia asked, approaching the cockpit with a hint of curiosity. ¡°To Veranos! A miracle city in the sky, just outside of New Dwarden,¡± Rick proclaimed, his voice carrying through the air. ¡°Whether you choose to come with us or stay in those blackened mines, we¡¯re likely to meet more of those creatures gunnin¡¯ for a royal snack! Doesn¡¯t take much imagination to figure that situation out. I suggest you at least give this new nomadic life a try,¡± he shouted from deep within the lantern-lit cockpit. His voice softened as he added, ¡°Oh, and do take a moment to look around. Ya might have to cozy up a bit.¡± Amelia paused, taking a moment to absorb her surroundings. She frowned, Rick¡¯s casual mention of telling the Yardrats she was ¡°under arrest¡± gnawing at her. ¡°Rick¡­ you told them what?¡± ¡°Best settle down, Crowny. Far as they know, I¡¯m buried knee-deep in Primarian turf. You¡¯re in my custody for now. While we figure out why that monster had a taste for royalty, your job¡¯s on hold¡ªlegally waitin¡¯ for your return, should you decide to go back to chewin¡¯ rocks. So buckle up!¡± Rick¡¯s voice carried across the deck, punctuated by the rhythmic clinks and creaks of levers and contraptions. ¡°And remember, the mess that creature left behind won¡¯t be forgotten anytime soon.¡± Amelia exhaled deeply, the tension easing from her shoulders as she stepped out onto the open deck. For a moment, she stood still, her gaze sweeping over the ship¡¯s expansive design, caught between awe and the sheer magnitude of the vessel''s grandeur. Her spirit stirred with anticipation as she surveyed the Pappy Long Legs. Multiple masts reached toward the heavens, colorful flags fluttering in the wind. Giant fans, moist from clouds, hummed rhythmically. Wood and metal intertwined in a symphony of craftsmanship, each component contributing to the ship¡¯s formidable presence. It was a marvel of engineering, its design reminiscent of familiar machines and tools yet transformed into something entirely new. As Amelia marveled at its intricacies, the weight of her worries momentarily lifted, replaced by a sense of awe and excitement for the adventure ahead aboard this extraordinary vessel. She moved swiftly across the deck, her eyes darting to every corner of the ship. She first glanced at the giant rotating cogs that lined the ship¡¯s exterior, their rhythmic movements hypnotic and precise. Then she tilted her head toward the numerous plump pipes bursting with hot steam, blasting into the air like a giant organ. ¡°Spent too much time underground¡­¡± Amelia mused aloud, excitement bubbling up within her. She paused, taking a deep breath to steady herself as she shuffled toward the thick metallic railing encircling the airship. With a hopeful glance downward, she leaned over the railing, her gaze fixed on the world stretching below. And for a timeless moment, she was lost in the vast expanse of the horizon, the weight of her worries forgotten amidst the awe-inspiring panorama. Amelia gazed down at the airship''s lower decks, marveling at the intricate machinery on each level. Rick hadn¡¯t just built a ship¡ªhe¡¯d crafted a mechanical wonder, a living organism of gears and cogs humming with life. Each piece seemed to serve a purpose, yet the entire structure felt as enigmatic as it was efficient. The first platform, situated on the airship''s lowermost level, appeared dedicated to navigation. Levers, knobs, buttons, and peculiar makeshift pulleys adorned its surface like the chaotic notes of an inventor¡¯s symphony. The second level, in stark contrast, resembled a blend of luxury and utility. Gleaming golden pipes snaked through hand-carved wooden furniture, while a glint of polished metal revealed what could only be a luxurious hot tub tucked among the machinery. "Rick! You have a hot bath?! In the air!?" Amelia¡¯s voice broke through the mechanical hum, brimming with disbelief and reluctant amusement. "Unheard of!" She leaned over another barricade, squinting toward the Pappy Long Legs¡¯ bow, where the swirling machinery suggested the engine compartment¡ªa mysterious clockwork heart hidden from view. The ship itself was a marvel, but its purpose and intricacies seemed as layered as its enigmatic creator. Minutes stretched into an hour as the airship soared higher, casting a vast shadow over the fields below. Amelia¡¯s gaze wandered to the endless green stretches of farmland, dotted with stone houses and the occasional windmill, a landscape so different from the stifling confines of the Conkle Mines. This was a world she had almost forgotten, reintroduced now through the Pappy Long Legs¡¯ expansive view. Lost in thought, she didn¡¯t notice Rick approaching until his gruff voice cut through the quiet. ¡°Watch yourself, Crowny. Dangle that noggin¡¯ any further, and gravity¡¯ll snatch ya quicker than you can say ¡®Morsha bread.¡¯¡± Amelia grinned, glancing sideways at him. ¡°Ah yes, gravity and I are old acquaintances. Like you and bread, I suppose.¡± Rick chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped beside her. His spider-like legs moved with a mechanical grace, the faint hiss of steam accompanying each step. ¡°Best we start talkin¡¯, don¡¯t you think?¡± He gestured toward a nearby table cluttered with tools and scraps of metal. ¡°Sit down. Take a breath. We¡¯ve got a moment before we blast through the clouds again.¡± Amelia hesitated before nodding. The idea of sitting, of pausing in the whirlwind of chaos, felt almost foreign. She darted past the catwalk with determined strides and settled onto a stool bolted to the deck. Rick followed, retrieving a blocky remote from his coat pocket. With a flick of a switch, his mechanical limbs retracted, and he lowered himself into a seat opposite her. From a small compartment beneath the table, he pulled out a bowl of warm bread and two stone cups of tea, placing them between them with practiced ease. Lighting a lantern, he pushed half a loaf toward her. ¡°Still hungry?¡± he asked with a smirk. ¡°This one¡¯s got shredded Gochican Fish in it. Quadrant five¡¯s best!¡± Amelia raised an eyebrow but didn¡¯t resist. ¡°Always.¡± She tore into the bread, the familiar crunch and savory warmth stirring memories she hadn¡¯t revisited in years. As she ate, Rick watched her with an expression that was both knowing and solemn. ¡°Oi! Enough starin¡¯, girl. I know I¡¯m a walkin¡¯ memory to you, but let¡¯s not dwell on the past, eh?¡± Amelia¡¯s smile softened. ¡°You¡¯re not just a memory, Tammersmith,¡± she murmured, her voice almost too quiet to hear over the hum of the ship. ¡°Not anymore.¡± Rick¡¯s scowl twitched, almost transforming into a smile before he turned away. ¡°Roy! How long ¡®til the fuel¡¯s ready?¡± he barked toward the far end of the ship, his voice echoing through the mechanical symphony. Roy¡¯s glowing eyes flickered in the distance. ¡°Approximately five minutes, Rick.¡± Rick nodded absently, his attention returning to the table. ¡°Crowny,¡± he began, his tone unusually gentle, ¡°the path we¡¯re on is foggy even to me. I don¡¯t have all the answers, but I know one thing¡ªyou¡¯re not in this alone.¡± Amelia swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on the flickering lantern between them. ¡°An ex-royal and an old man,¡± she muttered. ¡°What a pair.¡± Rick chuckled. ¡°Who else would ya want?¡± Before she could respond, he reached into his coat, producing a violet letter embroidered with gold. The wax seal bore the initials W.W. ¡°Take it,¡± Rick said, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic weight. ¡°It¡¯s from your brother.¡± Amelia¡¯s stomach tightened as she stared at the letter. ¡°Michael? King seat-splitter himself?¡± she spat, the bitterness in her voice unmistakable. ¡°Probably didn¡¯t even write it himself.¡± Rick didn¡¯t argue. ¡°Read it or don¡¯t. But I reckon it¡¯s worth opening.¡± After a long pause, Amelia snatched the letter from his hand. Years of anger and resentment simmered just beneath the surface, but curiosity proved stronger. Slowly, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter, the flickering lantern casting its light over the elegant script. Dear Tammersmith, As you know, Yerro has awoken. Creatures flood the capital, more are taken, and worse yet, our leaders are beginning to fall under his influence. Yerro¡¯s will grows stronger, binding us all to his awakening. I cannot continue to resist him, and as such, I must entrust you with a task of the utmost importance. Forgive me, I cannot disclose all details here for fear of interception. Amelia and Bolton must recover the 13 of what is considering rogue pieces of S-Class Gigarock scattered across each Quadrant of our kingdom. I trust you understand what that means. These pieces are not just fragments; they are critical to our strategy against Yerro. Without them, New Dwarden teeters on the brink of irreversible disaster. Unconventional measures are necessary for our salvation. I must also confess that my condition is deteriorating. Fatigue weighs heavily upon me, and time grows short. To aid in this mission, I have dispatched a trusted member of the Primarian Hammer, skilled in the old ways, to locate Bolton and bring him to the Primarian Royale. Despite the rules of the Greisha Ceremony, the fate of New Dwarden takes precedence over tradition or consequence. If the Primarian Hammer is successful, Bolton will meet you in Veranos. Bolton carries all the knowledge we have regarding this predicament. Time is of the essence. Find Amelia swiftly and show her this letter if she doubts you. I know communicating with her is a risk, but you and I share a deeper understanding of those consequences. Amelia, if you are reading this, you may not yet understand everything. But know this: years ago, I ate your ham sandwich. Forgive me, and smile. Our survival depends on your resolve, Tammersmith. Trust no one outside this circle. With urgency and resolve, King Michael Woltwork Rick eased away from the table, his mechanical legs extending with a graceful hum as he took a contemplative stance. His gaze lingered on Amelia, seemingly captivated by the swift passage of time reflected in her eyes. In response, Amelia carefully returned the letter to Rick, her demeanor shifting to one of quiet introspection, her head bowed in thought. "I-I... why?" Amelia sighed heavily, her voice laden with a mixture of emotions. "I should hate him, but I don¡¯t," she admitted, her gaze unwavering as she looked directly at Rick, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "He¡¯s got Soul Rot, doesn¡¯t he?" ¡°Eh, you don¡¯t know that,¡± Rick replied nonchalantly, though a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. ¡°Besides, it¡¯s about as predictable as a Veranian storm cloud.¡± He paused, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his red circular glasses. With a deliberate slowness, he placed them on the bridge of his nose, the lenses catching the flickering light of the ship¡¯s lanterns. The action seemed more like a shield than necessity, his eyes hidden behind the reflective surface. Amelia raised her gaze from her lap to the man sitting before her. Rick, once legendarily strong and chiseled, now appeared fragile. His lips were dry, his eyes exhausted and detached behind his red glasses, and his head hung low, as if trying to stave off sleep. ¡°Do we know how long?¡± Amelia blurted out, shaking her head back and forth. ¡°Not relevant information,¡± Rick replied sternly, his distant stare silencing her. ¡°Not relevant!? Rick! Soul Rot¡¯s no jest, no joke! You don¡¯t just die from it! You ask for death!¡± Amelia¡¯s voice trembled with dread and concern. ¡°You damn well said it yourself!¡± ¡°Moments ago, you called your brother a brown-nosing seat-splitter, and now we¡¯re supposed to ignore Yerro? How its so-called benevolence has twisted into our curse?¡± Rick¡¯s voice cut through the air, heavy with frustration. ¡°I don¡¯t know all the details,¡± he admitted, his tone softening slightly. ¡°But if Yerro fully awakens, the City of New Dwarden is finished. Our entire infrastructure¡ªeverything¡ªbalances on the glass pinky of a giant. Its veins are our sewers, its head is our government... you get the idea,¡± Rick explained, gesturing vaguely, as though the fragility of it all didn¡¯t need further elaboration. Amelia locked eyes with Rick, her gaze unyielding despite the heaviness in the air. Rising from her stool, she began pacing the room, her steps uneven, betraying her inner turmoil. Finally, she stopped, leaning onto the table, her arm trembling under her weight. ¡°You know more,¡± she accused, her voice sharp and unwavering. Rick didn¡¯t flinch. ¡°I do,¡± he admitted, his tone low but steady. ¡°Then say it,¡± she demanded, the edge in her voice cutting through the tension. ¡°Nothing relevant to you,¡± Rick replied, his words measured, his expression unreadable. Amelia scoffed, the bitterness in her laugh unmistakable. ¡°And I¡¯m supposed to just trust you?¡± she snapped, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t,¡± Rick said simply, nodding slowly. For a brief moment, his eyes seemed distant, as if the room had darkened under the weight of an unspoken truth. Her gaze bore into him, her voice softening as it cracked under the weight of her next words. ¡°Is there a cure?¡± she murmured, the question barely escaping her throat. ¡°No. There ain¡¯t no ancient ale, super ore, or wandering doctor that¡¯ll heal me¡­or your brother,¡± Rick muttered, picking up another piece of Morsha bread, his eyes hiding behind the soft reflection of his red circular glasses. ¡°I got an expiration date like soggin¡¯ milk now. And that¡¯s all there is to it.¡± ¡°Okay, so you¡¯re just another person I care about, ready to leave! Giving up!¡± Amelia blurted, her green eyes vulnerable with pain. ¡°You just met me! I¡¯m old! I was going to die anyway! My mistake! My¡ª¡± Rick yelled, his mechanical legs raising him high over the table, causing a bowl of bread to tumble forward. ¡°Tammersm¡ª¡± Amelia tried to speak. ¡°Responsibility. My responsibility. And my name¡¯s Rick!¡± Rick shouted, cutting her off. The ship fell into a void of silence. ¡°I go by Rick now,¡± he said softly, his voice quieting from the outburst. ¡°WHY¡¯D YOU DO IT!? WHY DID HE DO IT!?" Amelia cried, her voice trembling as she wiped her eyes and refocused. "You don¡¯t have a child. You don¡¯t know," Rick replied earnestly, his tone heavy with gravity. "No! DOES MY BROTHER KNOW!?" Amelia demanded, slamming her arms on the table. "What happened to you, Tammersmith!? What¡¯s going to happen?" ¡°Crowny, don¡¯t talk to me like I don¡¯t know what it feels like to have your heart ripped out! Stomped on, Amelia!¡± Rick blurted out, his mechanical arms flailing in an emotional flurry before settling down. ¡°These are hard choices, child! There is no right or wrong! There are more important things than living a long time¡­¡± ¡°Like what?¡± Amelia whispered, a lump forming in her throat as her stance softened, retreating upon seeing Rick¡¯s rage. ¡°Roy, Amelia,¡± Rick replied sternly, his voice trembling as the sound of ticking gears grew louder from the center of his chest. ¡°The King loves you more than any citizen in this city. New Dwarden be damned if my son is dying,¡± Rick shouted, his voice quivering with silent anger. ¡°I don¡¯t know what he did, but the King¡¯s a better man than me.¡± Amelia stood up from her stool, her balance wavering as she walked toward Rick, whose head was now bowed in rage. She gently placed her hand on his shoulder. ¡°...he¡¯s your son. Roy¡¯s your son,¡± she said, her voice swelling with sadness, as if understanding, for a moment, that things were not as they appeared. Rick looked at Amelia, his clouded brown eyes softening at her pouting face. ¡°Eh, you¡¯re young. There are many ways to tweak a cog anew. I¡¯m old; I prefer one.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Rick,¡± Amelia said softly, adjusting her overalls. ¡°The creature that attacked me¡ªit scares me. Rattles me. And if my brother knows, well¡­ he must be in danger too,¡± she continued distantly. ¡°Guess we all have to consider ¡®unconventional measures¡¯ now, huh?¡± Amelia glanced toward Roy, who was diligently working in the cockpit of the Pappy Long Legs, his focus unwavering. Despite the gravity of their conversation, she felt a warmth toward him. With a small smile, she waved to Roy. He looked up, returned the gesture with a friendly nod, and then went back to his tasks, seemingly without a care in the world. ¡°Not too long ago, Roy fell victim to a bond with a nefarious spirit. The wicked kind. The kind that lures your darkness into sinister spaces. My son... wasn¡¯t perfect. Hell, he couldn''t drown a fly in the rain, let alone use a hammer and chisel, but desperation caught him at his lowest. And like me, he made a terrible deal. Just know, Amelia, the King¡¯s likely got his rear hung on a similarly swirled horn,¡± Rick recalled, his eyes reflecting the sadness that weighed heavily upon him. ¡°What kind of deal?¡± Amelia asked, her voice faltering as she sought answers. Amelia¡¯s hand lingered on the table, her knuckles pale as she steadied herself. The words of her brother¡¯s letter still swirled in her mind like an unwelcome storm. ¡°Doesn¡¯t feel real,¡± she muttered, breaking the silence. Rick, who had been quietly adjusting a few knobs on the wall panel, glanced over his shoulder. ¡°Nothing feels real after somethin¡¯ like that. Trust me, Crowny. Ain¡¯t the first time the world¡¯s cracked open under my boots.¡± ¡°But Soul Rot? And this¡ªthis quest for Gigarock? My brother sending letters like he¡¯s already a ghost¡­¡± She trailed off, her voice wavering. Rick adjusted his red glasses, masking whatever emotion flickered across his face. ¡°The King¡¯s got his reasons, just like we¡¯ve got ours. Ain¡¯t no use in fixating on what¡¯s already written. What matters now is the ink we¡¯re about to spill.¡± Amelia gave a bitter laugh, shaking her head. ¡°Is that supposed to be comforting? Because I¡¯ve been holding this pen for years, and the page just keeps getting messier.¡± Rick chuckled, low and gravelly. ¡°Messy pages tell the best stories. Neat ones usually don¡¯t get read.¡± Before she could respond, Rick cleared the table in a few swift motions, his mechanical arms moving with a precision that seemed at odds with the randomness of the task. As the clinking plates and shuffling tools settled, Rick began tapping out a rhythm on the metallic surface. Amelia¡¯s gaze lingered on the table, her fingers tracing the grooves in the worn surface. The weight of her brother¡¯s words loomed heavy over her. She broke the silence, her voice quiet but resolute. ¡°Is Roy really your son? Does Soul Rot have a cure?¡± Rick paused, his mechanical arms stilling mid-motion as if the question had struck a hidden nerve. He adjusted his red circular glasses, the flickering lantern light reflecting off the lenses and obscuring his eyes. ¡°Crowny, you¡¯re chasin¡¯ shadows with questions like that.¡± His voice softened, but the edges of his tone carried something unspoken, something raw. Amelia pressed on, her voice trembling. ¡°You¡¯re asking me to trust you, to believe in this... this impossible mission. But how am I supposed to trust anything when everything feels like it¡¯s falling apart? When even my brother¡ª¡± She stopped herself, her breath hitching. Rick turned to face her fully, leaning on the table with his mechanical arms, the faint hum of his limbs filling the silence. ¡°Stop. No more about my son. Just look at him.¡± He gestured toward Roy, who was busy at the controls, his movements fluid and purposeful. ¡°He¡¯s alive. I¡¯m alive. Your brother is alive. And so are you. Gamblin¡¯ don¡¯t give ya¡¯ better odds.¡± His voice was firm, but there was a tenderness beneath the gruff exterior, a vulnerability that he rarely let slip through. He straightened, his gaze locking with hers. ¡°You think I don¡¯t feel it too? The weight of all this? The choices I¡¯ve made? But Roy¡¯s proof. Proof that even in the worst damn circumstances, we can still take a swing at the impossible.¡± Amelia¡¯s shoulders sagged, her hand gripping the edge of the table as if trying to anchor herself. ¡°And what happens if we swing and miss?¡± Rick¡¯s lips twitched into a faint smile. ¡°Then we try again. Or someone else does. But either way, Crowny, we don¡¯t stop swingin¡¯.¡± An awkward pause hung in the air, broken only by the steady tapping of Rick¡¯s fingers. Then, without warning, a whistle escaped his lips, soft and lilting, intertwining with the rhythm. ¡°Listen for now,¡± Rick urged, his eyes softening as he glanced at Amelia. The melody caught Roy¡¯s attention across the platform. The mechanical boy paused his work and, almost instinctively, began to hum and whistle along. The sounds of the Pappy Long Legs¡ªits whirring gears and hissing steam¡ªseemed to shift in response. The cacophony softened, transforming into a harmonious backdrop. The clatter of its mechanics fell in time with the beat, creating the illusion that the ship itself was joining the song. Amelia tilted her head, her frown easing. ¡°Is it just me, or is this ship... humming?¡± Rick grinned, his whistling pausing for just a moment. ¡°That¡¯s the old girl for you. She¡¯s alive in her own way. Been waiting for a tune to remind her.¡± Amelia blinked, watching the way the gears turned in time with the beat, the hissing steam releasing in soft, measured bursts that mimicked a sigh of relief. The ship seemed to exhale with them, the weight of their worries momentarily lifted. For the first time since stepping aboard, she felt the Pappy Long Legs wasn¡¯t just carrying them¡ªit was guiding them. She turned back to Rick, her voice quieter now, tinged with nostalgia. "My mother used to say something before every lullaby, every song. It was her way of showing gratitude, like she believed even sleep deserved respect." Rick adjusted his glasses, his expression softening. "The Queen was wise. Nothing silly about that at all," he nodded, his voice steady as he firmly shook Amelia¡¯s hand. "Nothing at all," Amelia agreed, her voice soft yet resolute. With a quiet breath, she closed her eyes, letting the memory wash over her. ¡°Went like this,¡± she recited, her tone shifting to one of gentle reverence: Dear Amelia: Deep in the night, you twist and you turn Hush now and sleep, for peace will return Work through the night, rest through the day In dreams, find comfort, lead worries astray For gears and cogs, cost fingers a day Awake forever, I¡¯m here to stay "I always hum the tune before every song, prance, or dance," Amelia admitted, her voice soft with nostalgia. A chuckle escaped her, though it was tinged with a quiet melancholy. ¡°Unconventional indeed, Crowny!¡± Rick cheered, his tone brightening as if her admission had lifted some of the tension in the air. "And with that, everything will magically fall into place, I assume?" Amelia quipped, arching an eyebrow at Rick. Rick let out a hearty laugh. ¡°Smell the flowers that come after the storm! We simply must embrace all of the signs given to us. Each and every scent! Whether it¡¯s bitter like Quadrant Three¡¯s Barley Beer or sweet as Whistletop¡¯s Candy! That¡¯s the philosophy this New Dwarden has given us,¡± he explained earnestly, his gaze thoughtful yet oddly optimistic. Amelia smirked, shaking her head. "Alright! I¡¯ll bite. Best show you this Yardrat¡¯s secret skill," she remarked, her voice infused with determination as she stood, ready to match their energy. Her movements, hesitant at first, became more fluid as the rhythm of the Pappy Long Legs filled the room, almost daring her to join in. Of gears o'' brass and steam we dwell, Where toil and hustle our feet never fell, A world of wonders, shinin¡¯ and bright, But change creeps in wi'' each comin'' night. (Chorus) Oooooooh, winds of change, they¡¯ve blown so strong, In this steam world below all the fog, Wi'' every cog n¡¯ every gear, Our future''s path been never so clear. Ooooo airships glide o''er skies o'' gold, Tales o'' change are often told, For progress marches to ever-unfold, Through the clockwork mist, our destinies mold. (Chorus) Oooooooh, winds of change, they¡¯ve blown so strong, In this steam world below all the fog, Wi'' every cog n¡¯ every gear, Our future''s path been never so clear. "Enough," declared Amelia, her voice firm yet gentle. "I''ve heard plenty of songs down in the Conkle. I know what you¡¯re doing," she added, playfully pointing at Rick with a twinkle in her eye. ¡°Yardrats are no strangers to tap-dancin¡¯ song, old man.¡± From the corner of her eye, Amelia saw Roy observing her from a distance, his large, spotlight-like eyes softening with a hint of disappointment. "Oh, and what do you reckon I''m up to, dear Amelia?" chuckled Rick, his laughter warm and hearty. "Just trying to make sense of fate''s craptastic joke," he continued, pointing back at Amelia with a knowing grin. "Feelin¡¯ all... cheery... and well¡­ it¡¯s certainly okay, but¡­ Roy¡¯s gotta be finished fuelin¡¯ the ship by now," Amelia grumbled, rubbing the small bump at the top of her head, her mood conflicted. ¡°Albeit, it was a cute and wholesome attempt," she admitted while stealing a glance at Roy, a soft smile of approval tugging at her lips. ¡°And¡­I appreciate it, Roy.¡± "Damn shame we stopped then," Rick lamented, shaking his head lightly. "You''ve got a pleasant worker''s rasp in your voice," he remarked with a playful glimmer in his eye. He patted Amelia''s back with his mechanical arm, inviting her for a cup of warm tea. "Can''t please everyone," he added with a shrug and a smile. "When do I pack my bags?" Amelia asked in a light-hearted tone, quickly taking a sip from her tea. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "No need to rush a spark into the rain!" Rick called out, his voice tinged with urgency and playful energy as he glanced at Amelia. "Pappy''s already scraping the clouds! We¡¯ll hit top speeds soon enough." Amelia stepped closer, redirecting the tea cup Rick had just lifted. "Before we go, and everything gets worse, there¡¯s something you need to hear," she said firmly. Rick arched an eyebrow, surprised at her boldness. "And what might that be, Crowny?" "My day started normal," Amelia began, her voice sharpening. "I didn¡¯t just stumble into that sewer like a blind mouse chasing scraps. There was this... blinding blue light from my locket. It grew, then shrank, and before I could make sense of it, the Little Creek badges showed up, cuffing me on the spot! They were terrified¡ªcalling me a demon. Scared me too. So, I ran." Rick¡¯s expression darkened, his gaze steady but troubled. "And then?" "They chased me into the sewer under the Loshlit Tavern," she continued, her tone faltering. "I thought they had me cornered, but then¡­ this thing appeared. It wasn¡¯t natural¡ªlike an animal and machine fused together. Rage poured off it, Rick, like it lived just to destroy. I¡¯ve never seen anything like it. I don¡¯t want to see it again." Rick nodded slowly, his mechanical arms lowering slightly. "Don¡¯t dwell on it, Amelia. Let¡¯s get far away from here before that beast has another chance to sniff ya out." Amelia hesitated, gripping the edge of the table. "How far is this city?" "Far enough," Rick replied as he approached the helm. The gear-shaped steering wheel gleamed in the rising sunlight, perched on a podium of polished wood and golden pipes. His mechanical limbs moved in harmony, pulling levers, twisting knobs, and spinning the wheel with practiced precision. Amelia smirked, crossing her arms. "About time I see the world from above." Rick grinned, calling over his shoulder. "Like a fish finally getting a look at the land he¡¯s been livin¡¯ under! Now grab a rail or find Roy for a room downstairs¡ªdon¡¯t much care which!" She chuckled softly, the crisp air carrying the scent of steam and oil, mingling with the faint sweetness of the sky¡¯s untouched altitude. She leaned against the railing, gazing at the vibrant hues of dawn spreading across the horizon. The warmth of the sun felt closer than ever, its light brushing her face as the wind rushed past. "Roy!" Rick bellowed, his voice cutting through the hum of the ship¡¯s engines. "Man the controls! We¡¯re heading out! Away from these thirteen bygone quadrants and toward Veranus across the Longhill Plains! Beyond the lands of New Dwarden¡ªtoward machines and mischief!" The Pappy Long Legs thrummed beneath her feet, its steady vibration resonating like a pulse through the deck. Below, fields and scattered towns stretched endlessly, their shadows elongating as the ship climbed higher. Amelia touched her locket, its dim blue glow pulsing faintly in time with the engines. Rick turned from the controls, his tone softening. "Veranus ain¡¯t the safest city, but it¡¯s where we¡¯ll get some answers. And your Crowny brother requested it." Amelia nodded, but her gaze remained fixed on the horizon. Her thoughts wandered to her brothers¡ªBolton and Michael. Were they safe, or had New Dwarden¡¯s politics consumed them both? The ship groaned softly, a creak of its wood and a hiss of its steam blending into the hum of its engines. The Pappy Long Legs felt alive¡ªits rhythmic song shifting as though it were responding to their burdens. Rick¡¯s voice interrupted her thoughts. "Amelia, you¡¯ve got a choice. Stand here worryin¡¯, or grab hold of this adventure we¡¯ve been tossed into. Your brothers would want you to keep swingin¡¯, no matter what¡¯s out there." Amelia clenched her fists, then released them, exhaling slowly. The ship climbed higher into the clouds, the wind whipping around her. The orange-hued dawn painted the horizon in brilliant shades of hope and uncertainty. The locket pulsed again against her chest, the rhythm faint but steady. With one last glance toward the rising sun, Amelia smiled faintly, her resolve hardening as the Pappy Long Legs carried her into the unknown. Bonus Extra 3: Chapter 2 (All-In-One) Bolton Woltwork [Approximately 24 hours earlier] Deep in the heart of New Dwarden, nestled between Quadrants One and Two, lay Whistletop Alley¡ªa vibrant hub where distinctions of status, sex, and species dissolved into the chaos of thickening crowds. By day, the alley buzzed with activity as vendors from across the quadrants peddled exotic goods and street performers entertained families and travelers alike. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, Whistletop Alley transformed into a realm of vice and wonder, unburdened by the exposing rays of daylight. As dusk settled, grills ignited, entertainers donned elaborate costumes, and musicians tuned their instruments to perfection. The tantalizing scent of grilled and spiced meats danced through the air, mingling with the rhythmic hum of melodic performances and the clatter of coins changing hands. Under the amber glow of lanterns, the alley became a labyrinth of temptation and spectacle, earning its local moniker: the ¡°Blown Whistle District.¡± Whistletop Alley¡¯s charm extended beyond its lively atmosphere. Its quaint architecture¡ªorange brick facades, cobblestone streets, and winding alleys¡ªexuded an irresistible allure. Tall rooftops and gaping sewer grates whispered tales of hidden treasures and secrets, beckoning adventurous souls to uncover the mysteries tucked into every nook and cranny. Tonight, however, Whistletop Alley held an even greater allure. Amidst the fire-lit festivities of a warm summer night, a commotion shattered the revelry. Heads turned upward toward the rooftops, where a lithe figure moved with uncanny grace. ¡°By the dog neath¡¯ its tail! It¡¯s that damn¡­ bleedin¡¯¡­¡± a vendor stammered, his voice trailing off in shock. Another onlooker gasped, and the name passed through the crowd like wildfire: the infamous Whistletop Burglar. The crowd erupted in a mixture of awe and fear. Some cheered and raised their mugs in amusement, while others muttered prayers or cursed the silhouette dancing above them. Regardless of their reaction, every gaze was fixed on the young man moving effortlessly among the winding pipes and oscillating cogs that formed the canopy above. Bolton Woltwork, mischief twinkling in his emerald-green eyes, moved as if the chaos below were his stage. Each step echoed like a well-rehearsed note in an erratic symphony. Hot white steam hissed from his boots, trailing behind him like a ghostly plume. ¡°Vermolly! Would ya'' wiggle out of my hat for a moment? Whistletop¡¯s even better than Danny said! Quadrant Seven¡¯s got nothin¡¯ like this!¡± Bolton adjusted his hat, waiting. ¡°Vermolly?¡± he asked, concern creeping into his voice. A tug at his hair answered, and he sighed. ¡°Right. Still babysitting the frogs,¡± he muttered with a grin, scanning the crowd. ¡°This bumpkin¡¯s stealing the spotlight already? I haven¡¯t even done a flip yet!¡± he shouted, his voice carrying over the din. ¡°Guess I¡¯ll name this air contraption later,¡± he added, adjusting his bowler hat theatrically before pausing atop a red tent to plot his next move. ¡°Impure thief! Freak of a half-breed!¡± shouted a group of men from below. Bolton tilted his head in mock confusion, the moonlight reflecting off his goggles. Dressed in a brown bowler hat, dark overcoat, golden suspenders, white shirt, and scuffed brown boots, he resembled the tradesmen of old. Yet his presence stirred unease. Cries of ¡°Demon!¡± and ¡°Burglar!¡± rose from the crowd. Unfazed, Bolton raised his arms in a theatrical gesture. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, I¡¯m back! It¡¯s been too long, hasn¡¯t it? Now, can any of you fine folk direct me to the original Akiyoma Airship?¡± His voice was light and playful, but the crowd¡¯s jeers drowned him out. ¡°Prison¡¯s where you¡¯ll find your directions, thief!¡± a toothless old man bellowed. ¡°Wrong person!? I¡¯m not from here!¡± snapped Bolton, losing balance on the red tent he perched upon. ¡°Wrong person! Tell the Clinkers that! Monster boy!¡± added another from below. ¡°What¡¯s this, then? Did that thief swipe your teeth along with your sense of humor?¡± Bolton quipped. His smile faltered as the crowd¡¯s frustration swelled, and he wiped a chunk of food from his shoulder, hurled from below. With a sigh, Bolton vanished into a puff of steam, leaving the crowd to redirect their attention to a passing parade float: a giant frog puffing on an oversized pipe. Almost offended by how quickly they dismissed him, Bolton¡¯s gaze lingered on the float. Memories of his family surfaced, unbidden. He daydreamed of a time when laughter and connection were his daily reality. A rustling sound drew Bolton¡¯s attention back to the crowd. Among the revelers, he noticed a woman with short black hair, elegantly dressed in a black skirt and top. Her subtle red nose and large, expressive eyes framed by dark makeup drew his focus. She laughed with her friends, their bond evident in every shared glance and gesture. Bolton¡¯s chest tightened as he watched her disappear into the throng. Reaching into his front jacket pocket, Bolton retrieved a small, tarnished pocket watch that held more than just time. Flipping it open, he traced the engraving inside: ¡°Strength for today, hope for tomorrow.¡± Opposite the engraving was a small picture of his family, the same one nestled in Amelia''s locket. The faces stared back at him with a bittersweet familiarity. His eyes lingered on Amelia, her freckled face alight with mischief even in the still image. He chuckled softly, remembering her words: ¡°Stay away from those kinds of girls, Bolton.¡± The memory tugged at his lips, forming a faint smile. Snapping the watch shut, he tucked it away, the weight of it grounding him as his resolve hardened. Far below, the crowd¡¯s attention shifted as towering Clinkers emerged from the shadows. These mechanical beings, their angular faces and rotating cogs casting eerie shadows, stalked the alley like scarecrows. Colorful smoke billowed from their gaping mouths, and their yellow, crosshatched eyes scanned the crowd with an unsettling intensity. Most Clinkers moved with an almost lazy efficiency, but one stood out. Littered with confetti and splashes of random paint, it tilted its head in an oddly human gesture before lifting itself high on metallic stilts. Its eyes flashed red as it focused on Bolton, its movements deliberate and unnerving. ¡°New programming I imagine? My brother¡¯s been busy,¡± Bolton muttered, his voice low. With a sharp burst of steam, Bolton launched himself to another rooftop, his air shoes hissing beneath him. The crowd¡¯s murmurs became a distant hum as he soared above the maze of lantern-lit streets. The whirring contraption strapped beneath his jacket groaned faintly, its cogs and pistons straining with every calculated jump. Suddenly, a high-pitched whistle cut through the air, followed by a loud pop. Bolton¡¯s heart sank. ¡°Vermolly! It might be happening again¡­¡± he groaned, feeling the pressure falter in his left boot. The contraption¡¯s uneven thrust sent him careening off-course, his arms flailing as he slammed into a food stall below. Crates toppled. Skewers of sizzling meat flew in every direction, and a cascade of sticky sauces coated Bolton from head to toe. He hit the ground with a groan, clutching his hat tightly to protect Vermolly and her precious frog cargo. The crowd roared with laughter. ¡°Look at this flying buffoon! Flying high yet can''t afford to fall,¡± jeered a vendor, slapping his knee. Others weren¡¯t as amused. ¡°Laugh somewhere else! Look at this mess!¡± the vendor barked, waving a dripping ladle at Bolton. ¡°Call the Clinkers! He¡¯s ruined my stall!¡± a woman added, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon. Bolton scrambled to his feet, wiping sauce from his goggles. ¡°Relax, everyone! Free samples for all, courtesy of this fine establishment!¡± he announced with mock cheer, gesturing toward the ruined stall. The crowd¡¯s laughter swelled, and Bolton seized the distraction to adjust his contraption, his fingers fumbling over the array of brass valves and leather straps. His ¡°air contraption¡± was a marvel of crude ingenuity, a patchwork of brass tubing, polished copper gears, and stitched leather belts. The main apparatus rested snugly against his back, powered by a small steam engine that hissed and sputtered with every movement. Twin exhaust vents jutted from his shoulders, releasing bursts of pressurized steam that propelled him skyward. Meanwhile, his boots, reinforced with steel plates and outfitted with miniature thrusters, provided additional lift and balance. ¡°Nose up. Feet together. Easy now,¡± Bolton whispered, tightening a valve as the engine sputtered back to life. He adjusted his bowler hat with a smirk, his gaze darting toward the painted Clinker in the distance. It stood eerily still, its yellow eyes gleaming ominously through the chaos. Yet, despite its motionless legs, Bolton couldn¡¯t shake the unsettling feeling that it was somehow drawing closer. Bolton exhaled sharply, steeling himself. ¡°Right then. Onward and upward,¡± he muttered before disappearing once more into the night, leaving a trail of steam and bewildered onlookers in his wake. Bolton landed on a low rooftop, the distant crackle of fireworks breaking the stillness around him. Wincing, he adjusted his stance as a sharp ache flared in his side. ¡°Now, before we willingly... Dammit! Relax¡­ risk everything by breaking the say-sanctity of the Greisha ceremony,¡± he muttered. A pained grin flickered across his face as he shifted his weight and tightened the straps of his air contraption, checking a loose valve. Before he could continue, a sharp mechanical whir from a distant Clinker pierced the air, cutting through the faint murmurs of the crowd below. Bolton froze, his emerald-green eyes darting toward the sound. In the corner of his vision, he spotted the familiar, eerie silhouette of the towering machine as it emerged from the shadowy edges of Akiyoma Square. Lantern light danced off its angular, metallic form, its yellow, crosshatched eyes scanning the bustling alley. A trail of exhaust hissed from its vents, and its head tilted with a disturbing semblance of curiosity. Bolton tensed, instinctively stepping back into the shadows of the rooftop. The Clinker paused, its movements deliberate and unsettling. Then, with a soft whirr and a burst of steam, it turned and disappeared into the swirling haze near the square¡¯s edge. Bolton exhaled, his breath slow and controlled as he reached up to adjust his brown bowler hat. From beneath the brim, a croaky voice emerged. ¡°You can stand to be more patient! And by the powers of earth and sea,¡± Vermolly gasped, ¡°may Yerro bless me with a touch of cool air. Unlike a frog, I cannot endure this warmth for long.¡± Amidst the firework-lit haze, a small webbed green hand emerged from under the hat, lifting it slightly to reveal eight pairs of luminous yellow eyes blinking in rapid succession. Each eye shimmered with colorful slit irises encircled by mesmerizing rotating patterns. Bolton couldn¡¯t help but grin as the faint smell of cooked meats and festival smoke drifted through the air, mingling with muffled laughter and the distant clinking of mugs. The vibrant hum of Whistletop Alley swelled below, accented by the lively notes of an accordion weaving through the commotion. His gaze shifted beyond the alley, toward the imposing outline of the Akiyoma, towering proudly in the square¡¯s center. The airship¡¯s gleaming hull caught the reflection of the fireworks, and its intricate carvings glinted in the lantern light. Despite the distractions around him, Bolton¡¯s focus sharpened, and his grip tightened on the strap of his air contraption. ¡°Best stay clear of those Clinkers tonight,¡± Vermolly muttered as she crawled out from under the hat, dangling in front of Bolton¡¯s face. Her glowing nearly iridescent eyes narrowed as if she shared his unease. Bolton gave a faint nod, his voice low. ¡°Clinkers got an upgrade. Even among the crowds, they might be onto us.¡± With another glance toward Akiyoma Square, his lips twitched into a smirk. ¡°Still, can¡¯t let a little thing like that keep us grounded. Sides, these Gale Frogs have to fly.¡± Among the nine creatures nestled within Bolton¡¯s hat, Vermolly, a pocket-sized Alchemian, crawled out and dangled proudly in front of him. Her webbed fingers gripped the hat¡¯s rim with practiced ease, her glowing yellow eyes gleaming with mischievous intelligence. ¡°I¡¯m afraid the Greisha ceremony is something you are compelled to respect,¡± Vermolly said, her smirk widening. ¡°You can¡¯t just break it because you feel like it.¡± Bolton frowned, fiddling with a buckle on his contraption. ¡°Okay, I get that. But how do you know so much about it?¡± ¡°Collective memory,¡± Vermolly replied with a flick of her tiny hand, her tone dripping with pride. ¡°Ah, right,¡± Bolton muttered, his voice laced with mock understanding. ¡°Memories you can pick and choose from¡ªnothing like humans. You¡¯re the furthest thing from us.¡± Her smirk deepened. ¡°Going back thousands of years, Bolton. How far do your memories go?¡± ¡°Twenty-three,¡± he quipped, flashing a grin before his voice softened. ¡°What happens if I break the Greisha ceremony?¡± The question hung in the air, heavier than he intended. ¡°Soul Rot, to start,¡± Vermolly answered, her voice steady and calm. ¡°Unless Yerro deems the breach to serve a deal of greater value or importance.¡± The faint hiss of a Clinker¡¯s exhaust sounded somewhere below, drawing Bolton¡¯s eyes briefly to the flickering lanterns swaying above the crowded alley. He tugged at a leather strap on his contraption, tightening it. ¡°Or¡­ if someone already broke it.¡± Vermolly tilted her head, her fingers tapping the brim of his hat. ¡°Possibly,¡± she said, curiosity lacing her tone. ¡°But regardless, we Alchemians abide by less divisive customs. Maybe you humans could learn a thing or two.¡± Bolton chuckled dryly, though the tension in his shoulders remained. ¡°Yeah, yeah. Wisdom from a species that spits acid when annoyed.¡± ¡°Wisdom and practical defenses,¡± Vermolly corrected with a sly grin. Her gaze sharpened as she perched on his shoulder. The faint rumble of a festival drum floated up, punctuating the vibrant chaos below. ¡°Let¡¯s hear it, Bolton. Did the black-haired girl remind you of her?¡± Caught off guard, Bolton blinked. ¡°Who?¡± Vermolly smirked. ¡°I don¡¯t need to tap into the Alchemian collective to see that she did,¡± she teased, tapping his nose until he crinkled it. Bolton twitched, ready to sneeze, before gently swatting her sticky hand away. ¡°It wasn¡¯t going to work out,¡± Bolton muttered, his voice heavy with defeat. ¡°What¡¯s not?¡± Vermolly asked, her eyes narrowing as if the city below ceased to exist. Bolton¡¯s hands swept outward toward the sprawling cityscape. ¡°I¡¯m¡­so¡­ SO OUT HERE,¡± he exclaimed dramatically. ¡°And she¡¯s so in there,¡± he continued, pointing to his heart. ¡°It¡¯s stupid, but that¡¯s all I got. It¡¯s like a wolf trying to kiss a hare.¡± ¡°Why limit yourself to just two schools of thought?¡± Vermolly asked with mock seriousness. ¡°...and I take it you¡¯re the tough wolf?¡± ¡°Sure ain¡¯t the hare,¡± Bolton replied with forced confidence. ¡°She¡¯s scared of the world. I¡¯m not. I want to whisk her away. She doesn¡¯t want to go,¡± he murmured, his voice trailing off. ¡°When we¡¯re together, it¡¯s like our eyes burn bright together. But adventure seems to only call for me¡­¡± ¡°Maybe she isn¡¯t ready. Matters of the soul are like seeds,¡± Vermolly said gently. ¡°If we focus on growth, who knows what you both might become? Friends, best friends, lovers¡ªit doesn¡¯t matter when the future is unknown. The best thing we can do is love all the same. Pursue your ambitions and let growth come to you. If it¡¯s her path, she¡¯ll follow. Otherwise, look forward, like humans usually do.¡± Bolton sighed deeply, letting her words sink in. ¡°I almost stayed at the shop today. I didn¡¯t want to risk it all over a fancy letter,¡± he admitted. ¡°How did that ol¡¯ guy even know where I was?¡± ¡°Sounds like you regret snatching the letter from his satchel,¡± Vermolly accused, her tone laced with playful reproach. Bolton shook his head, smirking faintly. ¡°Another royal ready to rope me into rituals or rules? No thanks. I recognized the badge, saw the seal on his hand. That¡¯s all I needed.¡± ¡°Needed for what?¡± Vermolly pressed. ¡°To know he means business,¡± Bolton replied, his grin fading. ¡°In the eyes of the public, Bolton Woltwork is dead. All that¡¯s left is the shop name.¡± Vermolly tilted her head, her webbed fingers tapping on his collar. ¡°Never liked that name.¡± ¡°What? Paxton?¡± Bolton glanced at her, feigning offense. ¡°It¡¯s an inner Quadrant name. Inspired by the Giants who helped build this city. Sophisticated,¡± he added with a wry smile. ¡°Sophisticated,¡± Vermolly echoed with mock solemnity. ¡°Sure, if you¡¯re trying to impress some stuffy Quadrant Four banker.¡± ¡°Hey, best know that names turned heads!¡± Bolton chuckled, adjusting a loose strap on his contraption. ¡°Paxton is a name people trust. A name people think about.¡± ¡°Trust to tinker with their trash,¡± Vermolly quipped, earning a soft laugh from Bolton. Bolton smirked faintly, though his unease lingered. Vermolly positioned herself in front of him, her large eyes meeting his. ¡°The letter. The king is ¡®risking it all¡¯ just meeting with you. Soul Rot is what waits beyond breaching the Greisha Ceremony,¡± she said. ¡°At least, one would hope it¡¯s worth it.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t trust royalty. Unless it¡¯s my brother himself, I¡¯m not dealin¡¯ with them. Everything feels wrong. My brother and I aren¡¯t ever to communicate again¡ªthat¡¯s the condition of that stupid ceremony. As far as I know, the letter still counts,¡± Bolton said, his voice tight with worry. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°And your older sister?¡± Vermolly asked softly. ¡°Think she got a letter too?¡± Bolton hesitated. ¡°Amelia? Last I heard, she walked toward Quadrant Seven. Five years ago.¡± He pointed absently behind him. ¡°She and I were close.¡± ¡°Were?¡± Vermolly pressed. Bolton¡¯s shoulders sagged. ¡°I got nothin¡¯ against her. She just disappeared, ya know? Straight into the crowd, and¡­that¡¯s the last I saw her.¡± He glanced toward the pocket watch hanging from his jacket. ¡°She was good to me.¡± With a satisfying click, Bolton opened the golden pocket watch, revealing a softly glowing Gigarock embedded within. On the opposite side, a small black-and-white photograph captured three children standing with the former King and Queen Woltwork. The faces stared back, frozen in a moment of bittersweet simplicity. Vermolly leaned closer, her luminous yellow eyes narrowing in curiosity as they lingered on the photo¡¯s details. ¡°Every time you open that, I¡¯m reminded of how strange your customs are. Carrying something so much like a beating heart in a pocket watch¡ªit¡¯s unnervingly poetic.¡± Bolton smirked faintly. ¡°I thought you¡¯d take another jab at my goofy picture. Amelia¡¯s buck teeth? My expert ability to look anywhere but the camera?¡± She chuckled, her gaze softening as it swept over the image. ¡°Tempting, but not today.¡± Bolton traced the edge of the watch with his thumb. ¡°Good. I¡¯m not in the mood for heckling anyway.¡± Vermolly¡¯s voice dropped to a murmur, her fond smile curling slightly. ¡°So much changes, yet so little does.¡± Bolton¡¯s gaze lingered on the photo, his thumb brushing over the faint, timeworn scratches on the glass. ¡°If a royal summons you, it¡¯s law to oblige,¡± he said, his voice tinged with resignation. ¡°Break it, and¡­ well, maybe Soul Rot ain¡¯t so bad after all.¡± His words hung in the air, heavy with bitterness as his eyes drifted back to the photo, searching for something long lost. ¡°The letter said, ¡®blah blah blah, of grave importance. The King summons you,¡¯¡± Bolton muttered, his tone dripping with mockery. His thumb idly traced the edges of the photograph. ¡°I don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on with my brother, but if I¡¯m breaking this Greisha ceremony, it¡¯s gonna be on my terms.¡± Amelia smiled with missing teeth, flashing a peace sign as she cuddled next to their mother. Michael¡ªthe current king¡ªstood rigid and unsmiling beside their father, his posture already betraying the weight of his future role. Bolton, meanwhile, had lifted his shirt to proudly display a toy airplane beneath, his carefree grin stark against the prim formality of his siblings. The stain on his shirt¡ªa remnant of some long-forgotten meal¡ªseemed to perfectly encapsulate who he was, even then. ¡°You don¡¯t change, do you?¡± Vermolly observed with a soft laugh. Bolton chuckled, snapping the watch shut. ¡°Neither does my brother. He¡¯s never been one to take risks. I can¡¯t help but be curious about what this is about,¡± he said, perching his chin on his hand as he dangled his feet over the crow¡¯s nest. ¡°So, let¡¯s meet this sewer boy mentioned in that other letter and get back to our humble garage?¡± Vermolly suggested. ¡°We are to wait for a signal near a manhole correct?¡± Bolton grinned. ¡°Yup. It was more like a note on a crumpled napkin, but yeah, let¡¯s not waste time. The signal¡¯s likely to show up any moment now.¡± His eyes shone with determination as he surveyed the ship. Bolton stood, his gaze lifting to the sky as he adjusted his suspenders with a practiced motion. Gently, he scooped Vermolly onto his palm, her tiny fingers gripping his thumb for balance, before tucking her snugly back under his cap. The pocket watch in his jacket vibrated suddenly, and the embedded Gigarock emitted a faint, ethereal glow. ¡°The thing¡¯s mysterious by nature,¡± Bolton muttered, his voice low. ¡°It¡¯s got me nervous¡ªbut the shop won¡¯t run itself, and I can¡¯t shake the feeling my brother¡¯s behind it.¡± He shook off the unease, his steps gaining purpose as he moved toward Akiyoma Square. Excitement mingled with tension, his heart pounding in rhythm with the hum of the festival ahead. As he descended from his perch, the lively hum of the festival grew louder, the streets beneath alive with revelers. Bolton¡¯s sharp gaze darted back to where he last saw the Clinker. For a moment, its silhouette lingered on the edge of the festivities¡ªa rigid, mechanical outline barely veiled by swirling smoke and the kaleidoscope of lantern light. Then, with unnerving ease, it melded into the crowd, its hulking frame moving with a deliberate, almost human fluidity. ¡°This thing¡¯s different from when I was here. Clever bastard,¡± Bolton muttered, his knuckles brushing the cool metal of his contraption. He felt Vermolly shift slightly under his hat, her presence grounding him. The faint notes of accordion music reached his ears, masking the Clinker¡¯s faint mechanical whir as it disappeared deeper into the celebration. Bolton quickened his pace, his boots clicking against the cobblestone as he weaved through the crowd. Akiyoma Square loomed ahead, its expanse bathed in the warm glow of stringed lights and the shadow of the legendary airship. The square pulsed with life¡ªvendors hawked shimmering trinkets and airship memorabilia, while children darted between stalls waving miniature kites designed to look like Gale Whales. Reaching the Akiyoma¡¯s intricately carved helm, Bolton paused to take it all in. The detailed images of Alchemians surfing stars and Gale Whales soaring through clouds stirred something deep within him. His fingers brushed against the etched wood as he read the bold motto carved into its base: ¡°First to brave distant horizons unscathed.¡± With a small smirk tugging at his lips, Bolton whispered to himself, ¡°One day, we¡¯ll see if I can do better. A pilot. A prodigy of society! A real Gearpunk.¡± Bolton tightened the straps of his air contraption, his eyes locked on the massive airship hovering above the heart of Akiyoma Square. The Akiyoma¡ªa meticulously crafted, fully functional replica of the legendary vessel¡ªtowered over the bustling festivities below, tethered by thick cables that gleamed in the lantern-lit night. Its larger-than-life proportions magnified its grandeur without compromising the intricate details: the curved hull, glimmering rotors, and etched symbols of New Dwarden¡¯s rich history. It was a monument to the skies and a reminder of the kingdom¡¯s ingenuity. Crouched low on the rooftop, Bolton surveyed the square. Gale Whale kites drifted lazily above clusters of revelers, their glowing frames flickering in rhythm with the fireworks overhead. Vendors barked out offers for roasted meats and chilled ciders while children zigzagged between carts, sparklers in hand. Yet amidst the lively chaos, Bolton¡¯s gaze kept returning to the Akiyoma. A piece of history, a symbol of hope, and¡ªtonight¡ªhis only way forward. The sharp mechanical whir of a Clinker snapped Bolton¡¯s attention downward. The stilt-legged automaton marched through the crowd, its polished bronze exterior glinting under the warm glow of festival lanterns. Its swiveling head scanned the square, mechanical eyes narrowing as it stopped briefly near a vendor¡¯s stall. Bolton¡¯s pulse quickened as the Clinker lingered, its exhaust venting with a soft hiss. For a moment, he feared it might sense his presence. Then, with a faint mechanical groan, it moved on, blending seamlessly into the festivities below. ¡°That was close,¡± Vermolly croaked from beneath his cap. ¡°Closer than you think. Maybe wait for the Clinker to take a swig of oil? Loosen it¡¯s gears a bit.¡± Bolton smirked, adjusting his hat. ¡°You¡¯re assuming Clinkers stop. These ones seem different¡ªespecially that painted one. Feels like it¡¯s watching, even when it¡¯s standing still.¡± His voice dropped slightly, a flicker of unease breaking through his usual bravado. ¡°Pretty sure they¡¯re not here for ciders and meat skewers, though. If they were, the crowd wouldn¡¯t still be cheering.¡± Bolton trailed off, his stomach rumbling faintly. His gaze drifted toward the crowd, their laughter and cheers rising over the festival hum. ¡°Still¡­ a good ol¡¯ Inner Quadrant feast doesn¡¯t sound half bad,¡± he murmured, his voice laced with faint humor. His thumbs twitched, idly twirling as his tone lingered on the edge of tension. ¡°Everything¡¯s always in excess here.¡± As the words left his mouth, his emerald-green eyes snapped back to the painted Clinker. It stood eerily still, its glowing eyes burning through the haze of smoke and lantern light. Bolton¡¯s smirk faded slightly, the unease tightening his jaw. ¡°And yet, that one¡­ doesn¡¯t look like it¡¯s here to celebrate.¡± ¡°They¡¯re big on spotting fools in the sky,¡± Vermolly shot back. ¡°And if you¡¯re the one it catches, I¡¯m claiming your hat as a parachute.¡± ¡°Noted,¡± Bolton muttered. With a sharp exhale, he rose to his feet, gauging the trajectory toward the Akiyoma¡¯s deck. His contraption hissed softly as he engaged its mechanisms, steam venting in controlled bursts. The crowd below continued their revelry, oblivious to his presence. Bolton launched himself into the air, the contraption roaring to life. A burst of wind rushed past his face as the device propelled him upward in short, powerful intervals. Lanterns swayed in the draft as festival-goers paused briefly, mistaking him for part of the evening¡¯s entertainment. As the ship¡¯s massive helm loomed closer, the noise of the crowd melted away, replaced by the rhythmic hum of his air contraption. He landed with a controlled thud on the deck, his boots clicking against the polished steel. The air up here was cooler, the faint smell of oil and metal mixing with the distant aroma of roasted meats. Bolton took a moment to steady himself, his gaze sweeping over the intricately carved railing. Alchemian figures surfing stars and Gale Whales leaping through clouds adorned the ship¡¯s edges, their metallic forms catching the faint light. The ship¡¯s motto, ¡°First to brave distant horizons unscathed,¡± gleamed proudly above the helm, echoing in his thoughts as he adjusted his hat. ¡°Well, here we are,¡± Vermolly said, poking her head out from under his cap. ¡°You¡¯d think a giant floating relic would feel less¡­floaty.¡± ¡°History¡¯s alive,¡± Bolton replied, his voice tinged with awe. ¡°And tonight, we¡¯re making some of our own.¡± As he stepped further onto the deck, the faint creak of weathered steel under his boots stirred memories of childhood tales. The Akiyoma was no ordinary display; it was a living monument to the daring exploits and tragedies that shaped New Dwarden. Bolton¡¯s fingers brushed against a nearby plaque, its polished surface etched with the name Akiyoma IV. His mind wandered to stories of the ship¡¯s legendary predecessor and the sky battles that defined its legacy. The corridor stretched ahead, a labyrinth of innovation and history. Every plaque and trophy along the walls told a story: the triumphs of engineers, the bravery of crews, and the dangers of the skies. Bolton¡¯s thoughts drifted to his family¡ªhis siblings and the tales their parents used to weave at bedtime. They had all dreamed of the skies once. But only he still did. ¡°Lost in thought again?¡± Vermolly¡¯s voice broke through. She perched on his shoulder, her webbed fingers tapping lightly against his collar. ¡°Focus, Bolton. Your brother¡¯s waiting, remember?¡± He nodded, forcing himself back to the present. ¡°Right. Time to move.¡± Bolton descended a candle-lit stairwell, its arched walls lined with intricately carved wood and gleaming brass. The warmth of the festival above gave way to the cool, mechanical hum of the ship¡¯s heart. As he entered the massive engine room, his breath caught. Gears, tubes, and levers filled the space, their metallic surfaces gleaming in the dim light. The wings of the Akiyoma stretched outward, their intricate mechanisms a marvel of engineering. But one detail held his gaze¡ªa massive, jagged hole in the ship¡¯s hull, surrounded by scorch marks and twisted metal. The plaque beside it told a grim tale: The Whistlin¡¯ Death pirates struck here, capturing the vessel below with a screeching claw that echoed through the clouds. This ship survived. Praise be to New Dwarden¡¯s superior engineering. Bolton traced the edge of the damaged metal, a pang of both awe and unease settling in his chest. This ship had endured, just as he intended to. ¡°We¡¯re not at the shop. Kick up the pace,¡± Vermolly urged, her voice steady but insistent. ¡°The clock¡¯s winding away.¡± Bolton glanced back at the plaque one last time before pressing on. His boots echoed softly against the floor as he made his way toward the exit, the faint hum of the ship¡¯s systems a quiet reminder of its resilience. Tonight, the Akiyoma was more than a relic; it was a symbol of the journey ahead. As he stepped into the cool night air, the vibrant glow of Akiyoma Square greeted him once more. The grand airship loomed above, its silhouette dominating the skyline. Tethered by thick cables and bathed in festival lights, the Akiyoma replica hovered just off its dock, a silent guardian over the celebrations below. The square had quieted, the earlier revelry fading into scattered murmurs and the occasional crackle of fireworks. Bolton adjusted the straps of his air contraption, the name Vaporjet Harness fresh in his mind. He¡¯d borrowed the term from a bronze plaque on the Akiyoma¡¯s mast, which extolled the revolutionary vaporjet technology that allowed the airship to soar at high speeds. The name felt fitting, a small nod to the innovation that fueled both the ship and his ambitions. His gaze drifted to the manhole beneath the ship¡¯s massive hull. Its location was unmistakable¡ªmarked by a single bronze plaque on the nearby wall, engraved with the Akiyoma''s proud motto: "First to brave distant horizons unscathed." The words lingered in his thoughts, a quiet challenge against the risks ahead. From beneath his hat, Vermolly¡¯s voice broke the silence. ¡°You¡¯re awfully quiet. Second thoughts?¡± ¡°Just thinking,¡± Bolton replied, his tone distant as he studied the square. He couldn¡¯t help but recall how, earlier that evening, he¡¯d plucked the Gale Frogs from a simmering stew pot in a food stall, their fate narrowly avoided thanks to his quick interference. Now, the frogs had long vanished into the winds, their pouches inflated like vibrant sails as they twirled gracefully through the air, catching the gales that whip through New Dwarden like natural-born aviators. The last firework¡¯s glow lingered faintly in the sky, and shadows stretched across the cobblestones, broken only by the beams of light from a patrolling Clinker. ¡°Better think faster,¡± Vermolly said, her croaky tone laced with urgency. ¡°The night¡¯s slipping away, and that letter isn¡¯t growing any less important.¡± Bolton smirked faintly, adjusting his hat. ¡°Neither is that crumpled note. No clue what kind of sewer rats we¡¯ve got waiting on us, but I doubt they¡¯re the patient type.¡± He crouched low, eyes scanning the square as the Clinker drew closer. Its mechanical joints hissed softly, its lantern-like eyes casting slow arcs of light across the cobblestones. Bolton held his breath, waiting as its beam passed over the monument, momentarily illuminating the towering bronze bust of a hammer-wielding giant. The Clinker paused, its head swiveling as if sensing movement before it clattered away toward the edge of the square. Bolton exhaled, his hand brushing against the crumpled note in his coat pocket. ¡°Midnight. Purple firework, then green, then the star. Don¡¯t get caught.¡± He straightened, his gaze fixed on the manhole beneath the Akiyoma. ¡°Let¡¯s hope this guy¡¯s as helpful as Selton promised,¡± Bolton muttered, stepping out from the shadows. His gaze lingered on the manhole for a moment. ¡°A straight shot into Quadrant Zero. How¡¯d I miss this while goofing around the Primarian Royale? Maybe it¡¯s for the best¡ªMichael and I probably would¡¯ve handed Amelia the crown back then. Who am I kidding? I was the only one getting caught.¡± Bolton tightened the straps of his air contraption, his pulse quickening as the humanoid figure advanced. The festive hum of Akiyoma Square turned sinister, replaced by the metallic cacophony of Clinkers flooding the area. Their angular forms emerged from the shadows, blocking every exit with a synchronized clatter of grinding gears and glowing yellow eyes. The vibrant glow of festival lanterns gave way to the cold, eerie sheen of machinery. A hiss of colorful gas erupted from one of the Clinkers¡¯ gaping mouths, accompanied by a bone-chilling sound like a rusted metal door grating open. The noise scraped through the air, sending shivers down Bolton¡¯s spine as the gas spilled into the crowd like a creeping fog. A couple of bystanders froze mid-step, their outlines quickly engulfed in the swirling cloud. Before Bolton could react, their silhouetted forms were yanked backward into the chaos, vanishing into the dense haze as muffled cries faded into the festival¡¯s dying hum. The crowd churned uneasily, murmurs of fear spreading like wildfire. Near the edge of the square, a group of drunken revelers staggered toward him, sloshing cider from their mugs. ¡°Oy, lad!¡± one of them shouted, his voice slurred but tinged with urgency. ¡°Primarian party crashers, mate! They¡¯ll gut ya faster than a pig on market day!¡± Another swayed dangerously close, pointing a trembling finger at the advancing Clinkers. ¡°You¡¯d better run, boy, or they¡¯ll have ya shining their gears!¡± Bolton¡¯s chest tightened as he scanned the square for an escape route. Among the horde, one Clinker stood out: its confetti-streaked exterior unmistakable. His stomach dropped as realization struck¡ªthis was the same Clinker that had been trailing him all night, its presence always lingering at the edge of the festivities. It tilted its head unnervingly, its glowing eyes locking onto him with predatory focus before turning deliberately toward the towering figure behind it. The painted Clinker lingered for a moment, as if savoring Bolton¡¯s unease, its mechanical joints hissing in time with the crowd¡¯s growing panic. ¡°Bolton, move!¡± Vermolly¡¯s frantic croak jolted him back to reality. From beneath his hat, a burst of greenish gas hissed into the air, the result of Vermolly¡¯s quick-thinking and expert Alchemian chemistry. Her makeshift emergency concoction spread rapidly, filling the square with a thick, acrid haze designed to confuse and obscure. The green fog clung to the air, causing the Clinkers to falter momentarily, their glowing eyes flickering as their sensors struggled to penetrate the cloud. Without thinking, Bolton twisted a valve on his Vaporjet Harness, releasing a pressurized burst of air that whipped the gas into a circular plume around him. The motion shaped Vermolly¡¯s green haze into a swirling smoke ring, further obscuring the enemies¡¯ vision. The Clinkers faltered within the distorted cloud, their grinding gears clashing as they collided in confusion. Their glowing eyes flickered erratically, struggling to recalibrate. But the hulking humanoid remained eerily unaffected, stepping through the mist with deliberate precision, its glowing red eyes cutting through the swirling smog like embers in the dark. Bolton¡¯s gaze darted through the chaos, landing on two sewer grates in the cobblestone square. One bore the industrial emblem of a roaring bear¡ªthe unmistakable mark of Quadrant Leader Two. The other, gleaming faintly under the moonlight, matched the description from the letter. With the Clinkers¡¯ cacophony closing in, Bolton twisted another valve on his harness. The contraption sputtered to life, hissing and groaning as it kicked into gear. With a sharp exhale, he launched himself toward the second grate, his heart pounding as he tore through the lingering smoke. The air cracked with the sound of mechanical limbs slicing through the haze. Bolton barely had time to process the shadow hurtling toward him before a crushing grip clamped around his ankle. He hit the ground hard, the force rattling his teeth and sending his hat flying. Pain flared through his side as he looked up to meet the source of the grip. Two massive, glowing red eyes bore down on him like smoldering embers, their intensity piercing through the thick haze. The humanoid figure, its metallic skin slick with oil that gleamed under the dim light, leaned closer with an unsettling precision. Its voice rumbled, low and deliberate, like grinding steel: ¡°I am Quadrant Leader Two, Enton, The Boar. You will leave New Dwarden. This is your only warning.¡± Bolton¡¯s breath hitched as the weight of the words sank in. ¡°Enton¡­?¡± he stammered, his voice laced with disbelief and mounting fear. His fists clenched instinctively. ¡°Why me? Why waste your time on someone like me? Are there no Giants, no monsters, no real threats left in the world?¡± The tremor in his voice betrayed his bravado, but his defiance flared briefly, a flicker against the overwhelming presence before him. Enton¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t waver. ¡°A heart will not be taken. Mine will not. Nor will my brethren¡¯s. You, Amelia, and your King must understand this. I do not warn twice.¡± Bolton¡¯s mind spun. Yerro¡¯s will? The Greisha Ceremony? His brother¡¯s ominous message? None of it made sense, and yet the truth stood before him, metallic and monstrous. ¡°I can¡¯t leave,¡± Bolton rasped, his fury bubbling beneath the surface. ¡°I won¡¯t.¡± Enton¡¯s response was a cold, emotionless void. ¡°Understood.¡± The sound of a whirring mechanism exploded from Enton¡¯s arm. Bolton flinched, his instincts screaming to protect Vermolly. But the movement came too fast. A powerful metal hand slammed into his chest, sending him sprawling across the square. His air contraption groaned under the force, a few valves snapping loose as he struggled to breathe. The Clinkers surrounded him now, their glowing eyes fixed and unyielding. Bolton¡¯s gaze snapped to his hat, crumpled under Enton¡¯s massive foot. His breath caught in his throat. ¡°No¡ªno!¡± he choked out, scrambling forward with desperate hands. Vermolly¡¯s small, limp body protruded from the wreckage, her once vibrant yellow eyes now dim and lifeless. Time seemed to grind to a halt. Vermolly, his constant companion and anchor in the chaos, was gone. A wave of rage surged through Bolton, obliterating his pain and fear. His fists clenched, his body trembling with raw emotion. ¡°You traitorous bastard!¡± he bellowed, his voice breaking as he pointed at Enton. ¡°What did she ever do to deserve this?! Huh?! She was innocent! You think this is justice?!¡± Tears blurred his vision as his voice cracked into a roar. ¡°You want to kill me?! Do it! You¡¯re nothing but a coward! My brother would never do this! In front of everyone!¡± Enton¡¯s expression remained eerily unchanged, cold, and detached. ¡°This is justice,¡± he intoned, his voice devoid of any emotion. ¡°An Alchemian aligned with pirates¡ªher fate was inevitable.¡± He bent down, gripping Bolton by the collar as if he weighed nothing, and lifted him effortlessly into the air. ¡°Do not forget this lesson. It is the only mercy you will receive.¡± Before Bolton could respond, a thunderous crack split the air, reverberating through the square. Enton staggered, a fresh burn mark seared across his gleaming metallic cheek. Bolton blinked, disoriented, as his gaze darted toward the source of the attack. A shadowy figure leaped from the Akiyoma¡¯s anchor, their silhouette cutting through the moonlight with practiced ease. Clad in a flowing cloak trimmed with fur, the newcomer brandished a hand cannon that still smoked from the shot. Their wide grin shone beneath reflective orange goggles, which caught the glow of the lanterns like fire. With a dramatic flourish, they landed atop the sewer grate with such force it spun wildly, wobbling like a tossed coin. ¡°Who¡¯s your favorite cousin?!¡± the figure bellowed, their voice brimming with playful bravado as they struck a triumphant pose. Before Bolton could fully process the surreal turn of events, the sewer grate beneath him exploded open with a metallic clang. A monstrous tongue lashed out from the shadows, slick and muscular, coiling around his waist with alarming speed. Bolton barely had time to cry out as he was yanked into the dark abyss below. The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him was the figure¡¯s daring leap into the open sewer after him. Their laughter, tinged with mischief, echoed behind them as Enton¡¯s enraged roar shattered the uneasy silence of Akiyoma Square. Bonus Extra 4: Chapter 3 (All-In-One) Amelia As the Pappy Long Legs ascended into the tranquil evening skies of Quadrant Seven, Amelia pressed her face against the grand circular window at the end of a dimly lit corridor. The window, like a domed pier reaching into the heavens, offered vistas only an airship could provide. Below it, the metallic platform shimmered with a bronze sheen, while sleek wooden rails provided just enough height for Amelia to peer over the edge. Stretching her arms toward the sky, she marveled at the breathtaking panorama. No wind, no scent of flowers, and no dust in the air as there had been in the Conkle mines. Yet, the warm golden glow of the evening sunlight made her feel as if she were flying. For a moment, the weight of her recent fears seemed as light as the clouds wisping around the airship, carried away by the boundless horizon. But the horizon always brought echoes. Her fingers tightened on the railing as memories of the Greisha ceremony surged unbidden¡ªflashes of firelit arenas, spinning platforms, and the judgmental gaze of the thirteen Quadrant Leaders. The images came sharp and vivid, like blades drawn across her mind. The ceremony had been a masterpiece of clockwork and danger. Platforms turned like a giant puzzle, flames flared with each strike or dodge, and above, the Quadrant Leaders loomed in their thrones, each marked by the animal they represented. She could only see three from her vantage point. Enton the Boar, Leader of Quadrant Two, bellowed, ¡°Overwhelming force succeeds where the mind fails!¡± as Bolton¡¯s air nodes launched him across the arena like a human missile. Glassford the Owl, Leader of Quadrant Eight, perched in eerie silence on his swooping throne. ¡°The night is where wisdom shines,¡± he murmured, his deep-blue seat pulsing faintly. And the Badger, Leader of Quadrant One, drew the loudest cheers. His hybridized ladle-weapon clanged against his throne¡ªan ornate cauldron held aloft by metal badgers. ¡°Resourcefulness makes the meal!¡± he declared, laughing at every clever move. Above them all sat her father, motionless, his throne silhouetted against the cosmos. His silent judgment weighed heavier than the crowd¡¯s roars, a reminder of what was at stake. Though obscured from her view, the remaining leaders radiated their own weight of power, like their reputation, their presence undeniable. Amelia¡¯s brothers had fought relentlessly. Bolton, a force of nature, launched himself at her with spinning bo staff arcs. Michael, tactical and sharp, wielded his whip like a thunderclap, forcing her to leap from platform to platform. Her electric gloves crackled with energy, but their limited charge made every use a gamble. The memory played out as if alive. Bolton misjudged his momentum, slamming into Michael with bone-crushing force. Seizing the moment, Amelia stunned him with her gloves and snatched an air node from his pocket. The crowd roared as she propelled herself forward, headbutting Bolton off the platform. ¡°A real gearpunk!¡± the Badger had howled. ¡°Resourceful as every New Dwardian should be!¡± But celebration was fleeting. Michael¡¯s whip lashed across her chest, leaving her breathless. Dazed and gasping, she barely registered his clean right hook before it sent her spiraling toward the farthest platform. Stars blurred above as the announcer¡¯s voice cut through the chaos: ¡°Enough! In the rare fight between triplets, only one can be named a true royal. Only one can be Yerro¡¯s vessel!¡± The words reverberated until a sudden thumping sound tore her back to the present. Her breath hitched as the sound grew louder, insistent. It wasn¡¯t coming from outside¡ªit was coming from her locket. The Gigarock inside pulsed harder than ever before, its rhythm steady and urgent. Amelia¡¯s vision cleared, and she found herself cradling the locket against her chest, instinctively seeking comfort in its weight. Her reflection shimmered in the Gigarock¡¯s surface as she slowly opened the locket. Inside, the faint glow of the Gigarock pulsed in perfect rhythm with the fleshy heart encased within. Her fingers tightened around its edges, her breath uneven. ¡°It¡¯s alive¡­¡± she whispered, barely recognizing her own voice. The locket¡¯s secrets stirred memories of the Greisha platforms¡ªher pounding heart, the mix of fear and determination. The Gigarock¡¯s erratic thumping felt connected, its energy syncing with the echoes of her past. Her unease grew. What was it responding to? Proximity? The airship? Or something else entirely¡ªsomething waiting ahead? Before she could untangle her thoughts, a strange voice broke the silence. ¡°Amelia!¡± it called, faint at first but growing louder, threaded with urgency that sent a shiver down her spine. ¡°Amelia!¡± the voice called again, resonating deeper this time, as if it came not from the locket but from within her very chest. Her fingers tightened around the cool metal, and the hum of the Gigarock inside seemed to amplify, its pulse quickening to match the voice''s rhythm. She whispered to herself, her words almost lost to the wind slipping through the narrow corridor. ¡°Who¡ªor what¡ªare you?¡± Her voice cracked, a mix of frustration and unease. She had faced strange occurrences since leaving the confines of Quadrant Seven, but this was something else entirely. ¡°Talking Gigarock? Every Yardrat on Earth is about to lose their minds,¡± she muttered, trying to steady her nerves. She raised the locket toward the dimming horizon, its golden hues casting a soft glow over her trembling fingers. The locket¡¯s secrets had always been a heavy burden, but now they felt unbearable. With desperation tinged in her voice, she gave the locket a small shake. ¡°If you¡¯re going to talk, talk clearly!¡± she hissed, her movements edged with mounting frustration. The locket¡¯s secrets had always been a heavy burden, but now they felt unbearable. With desperation tinged in her voice, she gave the locket a small shake. ¡°If you¡¯re going to talk, talk clearly!¡± she hissed, her movements edged with mounting frustration. Suddenly, the ethereal voice burst forth again, this time with a startling clarity. ¡°Amelia, calm down!¡± it commanded, a slight tremor of irritation breaking through the calmness. Amelia nearly dropped the locket. ¡°By the green! You¡ªyou¡¯re talking!¡± she stammered, holding the locket closer as though it might somehow confirm what she was hearing. ¡°I¡ªI don¡¯t even¡ªwait, are you alive? Is this Yerro?¡± The voice sighed, its ethereal resonance carrying a strange weight. ¡°What? No!¡± it snapped, then softened. ¡°I mean¡­ yes. In a way. I¡¯m Cameron. I¡¯m your brother¡¯s¡ªThe King¡¯s¡ªKeeper.¡± Amelia froze, the title pulling her focus into sharp clarity. ¡°Cameron?¡± she whispered, the name stirring faint memories. ¡°At Quadrant Zero?¡± Her mind raced, conjuring images of the Primarian Royale¡ªthe sprawling center of New Dwarden, teeming with ceaseless clockwork and towering constructs. Amidst the grandeur, she remembered a small girl who worked tirelessly atop a massive giant. Cameron, smeared in grease and dust, her dark dress perpetually dirtied by machinery. The girl¡¯s dark eyeshadow gave her the eerie appearance of a living puppet, but her cheerful demeanor was anything but. She had always seemed content, handing oversized tools to the towering giant she accompanied, her movements impossibly nimble. Amelia had only seen her in passing, their encounters fleeting. The girl¡¯s constant presence on the giant¡¯s shoulder¡ªapplying grease, balancing effortlessly as the massive figure moved¡ªhad left an impression. The giant itself, two stories tall, dwarfed even the grandest New Dwardian homes. Its muscular frame and dirtied train conductor¡¯s uniform were both a spectacle and a symbol of industry in the Royale. But despite her curiosity, Amelia had never spoken to the girl. There had never been time. ¡°Is this the same Cameron?¡± Amelia murmured, her heart racing as the memories settled uneasily. She tightened her grip on the locket, staring at the faintly glowing Gigarock within. ¡°I got his letter! And where¡¯s my brother? Where¡¯s the King?¡± she demanded, her voice edged with growing worry. ¡°The letter made its way?¡± Cameron¡¯s voice mumbled, relieved. ¡°Good! Means you¡¯re with that stiffler Rick. Aand not to worry. The King¡¯s here. Most of him¡­¡± The way the words trailed off made Amelia¡¯s stomach twist with unease. ¡°Most of him?¡± she echoed, her voice sharpening. ¡°Yes. But on my honor, he¡¯s alive,¡± Cameron replied, though her voice wavered as if caught in some strange interference. Before Amelia could press further, the locket began to hum. The chain tugged at her neck as the pendant levitated, spinning faster and faster. A brilliant blue light erupted from it, bathing the room in an otherworldly glow. Amelia¡¯s breath caught. This wasn¡¯t like the faint glimmers she¡¯d seen before. This light felt alive, calm yet charged with purpose. The necklace spun so fast she feared it might break, but it hovered just above her hand, defying gravity. ¡°This isn¡¯t the time for idle chatter!¡± Another voice broke through¡ªrough, deep, and commanding. ¡°Let me in¡­ l-et me...¡± The voices clashed, and Cameron¡¯s softer tone nearly drowned out as the rougher voice took control. ¡°Hear me, Crowny! I¡¯m Ehmir, a member of the Primarian Hammer. I¡¯ve got Cameron of the Primarian Arc, your fool of a brother Bolton, and the mud puddle of a King holed up in a sewer under the Royale.¡± Amelia blinked, trying to process the rush of words. ¡°Put ¡¯em on the crystal!¡± she shouted, frustration edging into desperation. ¡°It¡¯s not that easy, missy,¡± Ehmir grumbled, his voice rough but tinged with grim humor. ¡°Pass the crystal, no?¡± she snapped, clenching her fists. ¡°Listen, royal. Do you know how to grab a floating crystal? Or ring someone with a bloody rock? Likely not. Well, Dolly, you see the predicament. We¡¯re all playing baseball with two sticks and no ball.¡± Amelia sighed, glancing at the walls of the Pappy Long Legs. If Rick was listening, she could use his help. ¡°Next lesson, Crowny. Your brother Bolton, bless his thick skull, got here in one piece. We just didn¡¯t expect him to show up wedged between a giant lizard and a caveman.¡± ¡°A caveman?¡± Amelia blurted. ¡°In a sewer?¡± ¡°Why not? In a world of giants, monsters, and spirits, let¡¯s add a caveman for fun,¡± she muttered sarcastically. Ehmir¡¯s voice was rough, carrying a hint of urgency. ¡°Focus, girly. Your brother¡¯s got a message for you. It¡¯s about that gem around your neck¡ªthe Gigarock.¡± Before he could continue, Cameron¡¯s soft laughter spilled through the locket, light and teasing. ¡°Listen, Amelia, this is serious! But Ehmir speaks as if drama were a dust storm,¡± she quipped. ¡°Cameron!¡± Ehmir growled, clearly unimpressed. ¡°This isn¡¯t a comedy, Amelia. Pay attention!¡± Their voices were interrupted by a loud metallic clang and a muffled curse. ¡°For Yerro¡¯s gears, Bolton! Get your watch under control!¡± Ehmir barked. ¡°Amelia,¡± Cameron chimed in breathlessly between bouts of laughter, ¡°you won¡¯t believe this, but your brother¡¯s pocket watch is¡­ well¡­ flying.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not flying, it¡¯s¡ªargh¡ªescaping!¡± Ehmir snarled, his voice trailing off as more clattering echoed in the background. ¡°Damn thing has a mind of its own!¡± Amelia blinked at the locket in disbelief, torn between worry and amusement. ¡°You¡¯re telling me my brother¡¯s watch is alive?¡± she asked incredulously. ¡°Not alive, just... overly energetic,¡± Cameron replied, her tone dancing on the edge of another laugh. ¡°Ehmir¡¯s climbing over furniture trying to catch it.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not climbing! I¡¯m strategically maneuvering,¡± Ehmir shot back, his irritation palpable. ¡°Amelia, focus! Keep the fleshy circle safe, crush the blue shell if you must¡ªbut not the core. And for the love of gears, watch your back. Yerro isn¡¯t what you think.¡± Another crash echoed through the locket, followed by Ehmir¡¯s grumbling. ¡°This family and their cursed inventions¡­¡± Amelia tried to seize the moment, her voice cutting in quickly. ¡°Wait! What about my brother¡ªthe King? Is he¡ª¡± Ehmir interrupted before she could finish, his tone sharp and insistent. ¡°Both your brothers are safe for now! Get to Veranus! Cameron may be a goof, but she¡¯s an excellent iron medic.¡± ¡°Learned from the best,¡± Cameron chirped proudly in the background, her voice dripping with playful flattery. Ehmir ignored her entirely, his tone shifting to a gruff urgency. ¡°The light¡¯s beginning to fade, and I can only assume this means our connection will falter. What the Gigarock can do is still a mystery, but trust me¡ªkeep it safe!¡± Amelia tightened her grip on the locket, her knuckles white. ¡°But what do I¡ª?¡± ¡°No time for more questions, Dolly,¡± Ehmir cut her off. ¡°Ya, never know who¡¯s listening. You¡¯ll get your answers soon enough. Veranus. Stay sharp.¡± The glow from the locket began to dim, casting flickering shadows across the walls of the Pappy Long Legs. ¡°We¡¯ll meet again, Amelia,¡± Cameron¡¯s voice softened, the light from the Gigarock now a faint shimmer. ¡°And tell Rick¡­ he still owes me for that recipe.¡± ¡°Enough, Cameron!¡± Ehmir barked, though a hint of warmth crept into his tone. ¡°Amelia, stay sharp. Protect the Gigarock. We¡¯ll find you soon.¡± The locket dimmed completely, leaving Amelia in silence save for the hum of the airship. She stared down at the locket, its weight feeling heavier than ever in her hand. Amelia tightened her grip on the locket, its weight grounding her as she turned her gaze to the horizon. The shimmering lights of Veranus flickered faintly in the distance, a deceptive beacon of hope. For all the warmth of the approaching city, a chill coursed through her veins. Something awaited her there, something bigger than herself, her brothers, or the glowing Gigarock thumping steadily in her palm. ¡°Whatever this fight is,¡± she whispered, staring down at the locket, ¡°it¡¯s far from over.¡± If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Amelia leaned over the railing, deep in thought. ¡°Take in the bloody sights,¡± he said. How can I do that now? she wondered. A story that begins with an attack from a creature should¡¯ve ended just as fast. Am I really just lucky? The vast wilderness below stretched endlessly, a living tapestry of greens and golds, whisping beneath the airship like the world¡¯s grandest canvas. It was a sight meant to inspire awe, yet Amelia¡¯s mind clung stubbornly to darker memories¡ªthe moment the "Devil Dog" had crashed into her life, setting her on this harrowing journey. The beauty of the landscape couldn¡¯t wash away the lingering terror. New Dwarden¡¯s dangers weren¡¯t just confined to the shadows or the mines; they thrived in the open wilds, where creatures as fierce as Kalpin monsters guarded their territories, and spirits roamed with purposes beyond human comprehension. Quadrant Seven was no different. From her vantage point on the Pappy Long Legs, Amelia caught glimpses of the Quadrant¡¯s infamous inhabitants¡ªsome grotesque and imposing, others so small they seemed like mere specks from her height. But none of these beings held the same grip on her thoughts as the Devil Dog. That monstrous entity was more than just some monster; it was a shadow that refused to be banished, a constant reminder of the fragility of life but more importantly of the mystery her life may hold. The terror it instilled had carved a permanent scar in her memory, a scar she couldn''t ignore no matter how stunning the view. She shook her head, forcing herself to focus on the present. The horizon was painted in hues of red and gold as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the landscape. Suddenly, a flock of Ignorpa¡ªcreatures resembling oversized lizards with feathered wings¡ªsoared alongside the airship. Their appearance offered a brief but welcome distraction from her dark thoughts. "I guess¡­ some animals don¡¯t want a fresh slab of you," she muttered, a wry smile tugging at her lips. ¡°Though I wouldn¡¯t mind if things were a bit smaller. And fewer teeth would be nice too¡­¡± The rhythmic flapping of the Ignorpas'' wings cut through the wind, a steady beat that was strangely calming. Amelia¡¯s hand instinctively reached for a weapon that wasn¡¯t there, a reflex born from the countless dangers she¡¯d faced. But there was no need for it now. The Ignorpas, graceful in their flight, were uninterested in her or the ship. She watched them, captivated by their effortless glide through the air, the sunlight catching on their pale wings. A faint, mechanical whirring reached her ears, barely audible above the breeze. Amelia straightened, her attention shifting to the dimly lit corridor behind her. The sound grew louder, interspersed with clicks and faint echoes, as though the ship itself were exhaling. ¡°Am¡­elia?¡± a voice called out from the distance, distorted and faint. Amelia stiffened, her hand dropping from the railing. She scanned the dimly lit interior of the airship, eyes narrowing as she tried to make out the source of the voice. ¡°Bolton!? Ehmir!? Rick?¡± she called out, her voice echoing off the metallic walls. The playful tone she¡¯d used moments ago faded quickly as unease crept in. "See, this is why I¡¯m not sold on the whole ''I¡¯m not being kidnapped'' concept," she muttered to herself, adding more quietly, "...Roy?" But no response came, just the soft sway of the triangular lanterns lining the hallway. The airship¡¯s steady hum seemed louder in the absence of any other noise. She tried again, her voice more urgent this time, ¡°Roy. Roy! Which way¡¯s the hole I¡¯m stayin¡¯ in?¡± Only silence answered. Amelia¡¯s gaze dropped to the blue gem embedded in her locket, her fingers brushing it as if seeking comfort. The quiet pressed in around her, thick and heavy, as she started down the hallway. Each step echoed ominously in the dark, her earlier curiosity now tinged with apprehension. The idea of exploring a city in the sky had once filled her with excitement, but now the ship¡¯s dimly lit corridors felt more like a labyrinth of looming dangers. The memory of the Devil Dog surfaced again, its dark form threatening to engulf her thoughts. Tears welled in her eyes as she muttered, ¡°Fear¡­doesn¡¯t¡­suite me.¡± ¡°In-qui-si-tive,¡± a robotic voice echoed, cutting through the stillness. Amelia¡¯s heart jumped, her eyes darting to the source. The lanterns flickered, casting long, eerie shadows that danced across the walls. The Devil Dog¡¯s ticking shadow receded, replaced by ghostly memories of her Yardrat family and other miners¡ªfigures from a past that urged her forward toward a goal she didn¡¯t yet understand. At the end of the corridor, shadows seemed to swirl and dart from corner to corner. Overlapping whispers filled the air, growing louder as she approached until a bright blue light shone from beneath a door just a few steps away. Cautiously, she moved closer, each step heavy with trepidation. ¡°Rick!¡± Amelia called, panic rising in her voice. ¡°Can you invent some better lights? And maybe a sign too.¡± ¡°INQUISITIVE?¡± the voice responded, now a ghostly wail, followed by another flash of blue light from under the door. ¡°Push a Yardrat!¡± she muttered, puffing up her chest as if to summon courage. ¡°You blast the mines!¡± Her steps were careful, her movements precise as she approached the door, her scowl deepening. The door was unlike any other on the Pappy Long Legs¡ªlarge, wooden, circular, with an orange iron handle and a metallic owl emerging from it. The owl¡¯s dark metal eyes seemed to follow her, its body poised as if ready to leap from the door at any moment. Above the owl, the number two was etched alongside the words, ¡°Perch by night. Stalk the day.¡± Another inscription, in a language foreign to her, added to the door¡¯s mysterious allure. She leaned in, her curiosity piqued by the door¡¯s design. The wood was glossy and inlaid with ornate gems, unlike anything she¡¯d seen before. The owl¡¯s eyes, made from an unfamiliar material, reflected the dim light in a way that made them seem almost alive. ¡°You are inquisitive¡­ like me,¡± a voice whispered from behind her. ¡°By the¡ª!¡± Amelia yelped, spinning around, her fist instinctively ready to strike. She found herself face-to-face with a small metallic being. Its square-shaped head was adorned with tiny rotating cogs and wheels, its eyes gleaming with an otherworldly light, and its mouth a simple round hole, like a mechanical walking jack-o-lantern. ¡°Down in the Conkle, I¡¯ve seen all sorts of automatons,¡± Amelia panted, trying to steady her breath. ¡°So what¡¯s your speed, little guy? Dancin¡¯ or smashin¡¯?¡± She lowered herself to the robot¡¯s eye level, torn between fear and fascination. ¡°I am¡­ Looking¡­ For¡­ Friend,¡± the robot replied, its eyes glowing with a hint of emotion. Amelia straightened, taking a cautious step back as the robot¡ªRoy¡ªopened its head to reveal a tiny gyrocopter. She watched, bewildered, as it began to hover before her, its metallic limbs hanging limp. ¡°Only moles make friends in the dark,¡± she teased, trying to mask her nerves. ¡°And¡­ Owls?¡± the robot pondered, its head tilting in a jerky motion toward the door beside Amelia. ¡°Owl¡­ Like¡­ Dark.¡± ¡°Maybe, little automaton¡­¡± Amelia sighed, relenting. ¡°Mind guiding me to my room? Or at least the hot tub?¡± The robot didn¡¯t answer immediately, its body twitching in what seemed like an idle dance. Something in its eyes¡ªlike the first Roy she¡¯d encountered¡ªlooked almost human, radiating a sense of innocence. ¡°Please¡­ Away from Owl¡­ To home,¡± the machine suddenly exclaimed, launching into another joyful dance, its arms spinning wildly. ¡°Orders. Orders. Orders.¡± ¡°Away from Owl?¡± Amelia repeated, her suspicion growing as she glanced toward the door beside her. ¡°Roy¡­ Life¡­ Inside¡­ We¡­ Roy¡­ Many¡­ Many,¡± the robot explained cryptically. ¡°You¡­ Can¡­ Be¡­ Roy.¡± "See, when automatons talk like that...?" Amelia muttered, her confusion deepening as she tried to make sense of the strange interaction. "Just being me is the better option." She crouched again, meeting the little Roy at eye level as it descended to the ground. Something behind its eyes caught her attention¡ªa faint blue glow, eerily reminiscent of the one in her locket. It flickered deep within its hollow head, as though a tiny spark of life was trying to reach out to her. Before she could examine it further, the machine seemed to notice her gaze and quickly concealed the blue light behind its more prominent yellow glow, shielding a secret. ¡°Little Roy,¡± Amelia said softly, her voice a mix of curiosity and unease. "What did you mean by ¡®life inside¡¯?" Her eyes narrowed, searching for answers in the strange, shifting light behind its gaze. The little automaton didn¡¯t answer immediately. Instead, the walls of the Pappy Long Legs shuddered with a low, resonant rumble, like the groan of a waking giant. Amelia reached out instinctively, steadying herself against the nearest wall as the ship¡¯s innards seemed to shift around her. Panels slid open and closed in a rhythmic dance, as if the vessel were alive, rearranging itself in response to some unseen command. ¡°What now...?¡± she murmured, her heart pounding. The hallway¡¯s dim lighting took on an almost sinister tone, and the faint hum of the airship felt louder, more deliberate, as though the ship was watching her. ¡°Rick. Owl. Heart. More Hearts. One. Soul,¡± came Roy¡¯s response, its voice flat and mechanical, yet weighted with meaning. The light in its eyes dimmed further as it spoke, leaving it momentarily inert. ¡°One soul?¡± Amelia repeated under her breath, trying to piece together the cryptic words. Before she could dwell on it, the ship stirred again. Hidden crevices, vents, and darkened corners seemed to come alive as a swarm of other Roys emerged, their metallic forms clicking softly as they entered the dim light. Each carried the same makeshift appearance¡ªjack-o''-lantern-like heads with glowing eyes¡ªbut subtle differences set them apart. A faint blue glow flickered intermittently behind their collective yellow stares, as though each harbored a fragment of the same mysterious energy. Amelia froze, her unease mounting as the Roys formed a silent assembly. Their synchronized movements felt both mechanical and disturbingly deliberate, as if driven by a singular purpose. The weight of their collective gaze settled on her, making the air in the corridor feel heavier. "Okay¡­ friends? You¡¯re all Roys, right?" Amelia ventured, her voice trembling despite her attempt at humor. "Care to point me back to my quarters? Or maybe the way to a hot tub?" The Roys didn¡¯t respond with words. Instead, they stood eerily still, their collective presence exuding an oppressive silence. Then, as if triggered by some invisible cue, they spoke in unison, their voices reverberating through the corridor. ¡°Friend. FRIEND. Order. Order.¡± Amelia¡¯s heart raced. The word ¡°friend¡± felt less like an assurance and more like a decree. She tried to maintain her composure, glancing nervously at the owl-adorned door ahead. But before she could act, a smaller Roy stepped forward, its movements sharper and more deliberate than the others. Unlike the rest, its eyes lacked the faint blue glow, instead radiating a stale, lifeless yellow. This Roy¡¯s presence was unsettling. Its ticking gears were dissonant and irregular, like a clock wound too tightly. It flicked its wrist in a commanding gesture, shooing the other Roys back into the shadows. The swarm retreated obediently, their glowing eyes dimming as they disappeared into vents and crevices, leaving Amelia alone with the unsettling automaton. ¡°What do you want?¡± Amelia whispered, her voice cracking. The small Roy didn¡¯t answer. It simply raised an arm and pointed at the owl-adorned door, its movements slow and deliberate, like the tolling of a bell. Amelia took a cautious step back, her fingers brushing the locket around her neck for reassurance. ¡°Rick!¡± she called out, her voice echoing in the empty hallway. The small Roy¡¯s unyielding stare made her skin crawl. The silence broke with a sudden, piercing screech from the small Roy. Its gears clicked and whirred in chaotic rhythm, sending shivers down Amelia¡¯s spine. The noise acted like a signal, and the shadows around her stirred as the other Roys reemerged. Their synchronized movements resumed, forming a protective circle around the smaller automaton. "Whisky!" Amelia blurted, pointing at the small Roy in an impulsive attempt to assert control. "That¡¯s your name now. You¡¯re Whisky." The automaton paused, its dissonant ticking momentarily smoothing into a steadier rhythm. ¡°Wh-is-ky?¡± it repeated, as though testing the name. The other Roys shifted, their collective gaze now fixed on Whisky with what almost felt like deference. ¡°Yes. You¡¯re Whisky,¡± Amelia affirmed, forcing a smile. ¡°And I¡¯m Amelia. Not Roy, not Wrenchy. Amelia.¡± Whisky tilted its head, the faint blue glow returning to its gaze. ¡°You. Are. Heart. Rock,¡± it stated cryptically, gesturing toward her locket. Amelia¡¯s hand tightened around the locket instinctively. ¡°This was a gift,¡± she said softly. ¡°A piece of my family.¡± Her voice wavered, but she steadied herself, meeting Whisky¡¯s gaze with determination. ¡°Do you understand family?¡± Whisky didn¡¯t answer. Instead, it turned to the other Roys and let out a sharp mechanical chirp. The swarm retreated once more, vanishing into the ship¡¯s dark recesses like phantoms. Whisky lingered for a moment longer, its gaze lingering on Amelia¡¯s locket before it, too, disappeared into the shadows. Amelia stood alone in the dim corridor, her heart racing. The silence of the Pappy Long Legs returned, but it no longer felt familiar¡ªit was heavy, ominous, and alive with unspoken secrets. She glanced at the owl door, her pulse quickening as she tried to shake off the strange encounter. ¡°Guilty for naming a robot¡­¡± she muttered, her voice laced with nervous humor. ¡°What the hell have I gotten into?¡± The hallway remained still, offering no answers. Amelia tightened her grip on the locket and turned toward the faint glimmer of light down the corridor. ¡°One step at a time,¡± she whispered, her resolve hardening as she moved forward into the unknown. Between the gentle flicker of the warm lanterns, a strange pull tugged at Amelia, drawing her toward the owl-shaped door at the end of the hallway. It hadn¡¯t been there before. Was it calling to her? She hesitated, the memory of the Roys lurking in the shadows still fresh. Too many unknowns. With a sigh, she turned away, deciding it was better to head back, her thoughts still reeling from the Devil Dog. As she ventured deeper into the ship¡¯s labyrinthine corridors, the boundary between life and machine blurred. Statues and busts of frog-like figures lined the halls, their glassy eyes tracking her every step like silent sentinels. The ship shifted around her with every turn, as though the Pappy Long Legs was alive and responding to her presence. Questions gnawed at her¡ªhow many sons did Rick have? What was happening to the Roys¡¯ pupils? Were they even machines, or something more, like the real Roy she had encountered upon waking? ¡°Whisky could¡¯ve at least stuck around to show me back,¡± Amelia muttered, her voice echoing off the cold, metallic walls. ¡°The belly of this ship roars louder than a minecart down a shaft... but at least there¡¯s no monster waiting at the end.¡± Her sense of adventure, once burning brightly, had begun to flicker and dim. The relentless ticking of gears and the hum of machinery filled her senses, each sound a reminder of the Devil Dog¡ªthat monstrous entity whose terrifying form still haunted her. A chill ran down her spine as the memory surfaced again, her heart growing heavier with unease. The deeper she went into the ship, the more the halls seemed to close in around her, suffocating like the weight of an underground cave. The corridors twisted and shifted, sealing up and opening at will. Every turn left her more disoriented. She tried retracing her steps, but familiar paths were gone, replaced by cold, unyielding metal walls. Am I going in circles? The thought of being trapped in this mechanical labyrinth gnawed at her. The lanterns began to dim, their flames shrinking into embers¡ªexcept for one at the far end of the corridor. Its warm glow flickered above a wooden door, cracked down the middle. A sudden weight settled on her chest, her breath growing shallow. Panic clawed at her, pulling her toward the door as if it were her only escape from the growing madness. The mechanical whir of the ship grew louder, drowning her thoughts in chaos. ¡°Can¡¯t turn on the lights there, dear Amelia? Does everything have to look like the ass-crack of a mine to ya?¡± Rick¡¯s voice cut through the noise, sharp yet familiar. With a flick of his wrist and a gruff command¡ª"Lights on"¡ªthe lanterns flared to life with a cool blue glow before settling into their usual warmth. The eerie shadows receded, and the corridor took on a fresh metallic sheen, dispelling the darkness that had threatened to consume her. The cacophony of sounds faded, and Amelia realized she had curled up against the cold metal wall, knees tucked to her chest. Disoriented, she blinked, finding Rick standing over her, his expression a mixture of amusement and concern. ¡°Am I... losing everything again?¡± Amelia whispered, her voice barely audible. Tears stung her eyes, but she fought to keep them from falling. Each breath felt heavier, as though the ship itself pressed down on her chest, forcing her to relive the losses she wasn¡¯t ready to face again. Rick¡¯s mechanical legs clattered as he settled beside her, his expression softening. ¡°It¡¯s a conversation, sure,¡± he said, his tone rough but kind. ¡°We¡¯ve got to learn to trust each other, Crowny. I¡ª¡± "I can''t, Rick! A former royal can¡¯t just dive into her dark pond and expect to swim back up. Eventually, she¡¯ll just drown, right?" Amelia¡¯s head sank deeper between her knees, her voice muffled. "How do I know you''re not like the others? Trying to take me from my home? Or worse, pushing me into someone else''s throne? What if you''re just another criminal wanting a royal head?" Her voice cracked, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. ¡°I mean... I won¡¯t. I can¡¯t lose another home. Not again.¡± Rick leaned back, his mechanical limbs creaking as he gazed into the shadows. ¡°Crowny, I don¡¯t trust ya¡¯ either. Ya smell like Conkle soot, hoard shiny things in your boots, and ya nearly got mauled by my security system¡ªI heard every damn step from down the hall. In fact, the Pappy Long Legs keeps ya here for some reason. Sadistic machine that it is,¡± he added with a dry chuckle. But there was something deeper behind it. ¡°Anyway, your brother¡¯s mess has me inches away from a Primarian Shock Rifle and a soul contract that¡¯s as good as a noose around my neck. Truth is... you¡¯ve made things real complicated for me.¡± Amelia blinked, stunned by Rick¡¯s bluntness. His usually mischievous eyes had softened, lost in thought. ¡°Lucky for me, I¡¯m damn near sawdust as it is,¡± Rick added with a wry grin. ¡°Ain¡¯t much left to ruin at this age. Just a few more creaks, a few more breakdowns.¡± His mechanical fingers clicked lightly as he adjusted his glasses. ¡°But that¡¯s life, Crowny¡ªfalling apart right before your eyes, whether you¡¯re made of flesh or metal.¡± He pulled up his long coat sleeves, revealing his polished mechanical limbs. Adjusting his circular red glasses, he revealed his eyes¡ªone normal, the other gleaming gold under the lantern light. ¡°Never seen someone so dead and alive at the same time, huh?¡± he smirked. Amelia tried to respond but found herself speechless, her thoughts spiraling. ¡°No-no-no. Get up, girl. Your brothers and I can¡¯t hear you from down there,¡± Rick muttered, hoisting himself higher with his mechanical legs. Amelia¡¯s cheeks flushed, a mixture of sadness and understanding washing over her. She stood up, brushing herself off before shooting him a wry smile. ¡°Could you let me finish a sentence?¡± ¡°Just did,¡± Rick grinned. ¡°Now, that Devil Dog didn¡¯t eat ya, sure. But it¡¯s still out there, hunting. But hey, we¡¯re out here breathin¡¯ too. Roy, your brothers, and me too.¡± His voice softened. ¡°Family¡¯s like soup¡ªit sucks when it boils, terrible when it¡¯s cold, but the best thing when it finally settles somewhere in the middle.¡± Amelia wiped her tears and nodded, though her voice remained distant. ¡°I barely remember what happened... just teeth, explosions, and darkness.¡± Rick nodded, his expression turning grim. ¡°It¡¯s a mystery. And monsters like that love to keep it that way. But don¡¯t worry. We¡¯ll get you ready, Yardrat. Bonus Extra 5: Chapter 4 (All-In-One) Bolton The first thing Bolton heard was the steady clinking of glass, the scrape of metal on wood, and a low hum vibrating deep in his bones. His eyes fluttered open to the dim glow of lanterns casting soft shadows across a rustic ceiling. Where am I? His body felt leaden, every movement resisted by a dull ache in his bruised ribs¡ªa cruel reminder of the assault beneath the sewers, just below the hull of the Akiyoma Airship. He tried to sit up, but a sharp, searing pain shot through his side, forcing a groan from his lips. Blinking hard, Bolton struggled to piece together his surroundings. This isn¡¯t the sewers. The air here was warmer, almost stifling, and carried the tang of puffed smoke, rich mead, and roasted meat. The subtle sway beneath him hinted at motion, though he couldn¡¯t quite place it. Lanterns flickered along the walls, their light dancing across thick wooden beams. Nets and ropes hung decoratively from the ceiling alongside barrels taller than any man, giving the space the charm of an old riverboat. The scene was a stark contrast to the dark, twisting corridors of Whistletop Alley. Not the Akiyoma replica. Not the sewers. Where in Yerro¡¯s name am I? Her name struck him like a thunderclap. Vermolly. Panic jolted through his body. ¡°Vermolly!¡± he rasped, trying to push himself upright. Pain erupted across his ribs, sending him crashing back onto the narrow cot. ¡°Vermolly¡­¡± he whispered, the weight of her absence crushing him. Her mangled body flashed in his mind¡ªa cruel specter he couldn¡¯t escape. His hand clutched the edge of the bed, his knuckles white as his heart warred with the grim truth. She¡¯s not here. She¡¯s gone. Bolton forced his gaze downward. Worn bandages were wrapped tightly around his torso and arms. His fingers brushed over the fabric, still faintly damp with blood and sweat. The rhythmic click of train tracks rumbled beneath him¡ªa faint but unmistakable sound. I¡¯m on a train? His pulse quickened, a knot of dread twisting in his stomach. How did I get here? Who saved me? Why am I still alive? Fragments of memory stirred¡ªa fight, a desperate struggle beneath the airship, and the crushing blows of the Quadrant Leader. Darkness had overtaken him then, dragging him under. Yet someone¡ªor something¡ªhad pulled him back. An otherworldly presence lingered in the edges of his thoughts, stinking of oil and sewage. But who? A creak nearby snapped Bolton out of his spiraling thoughts. He wasn¡¯t alone. Across the cart, a large, round-bellied man stormed toward the far end where a bar gleamed beneath a row of glowing lanterns. These weren¡¯t ordinary lanterns¡ªtheir glass casings resembled inverted waterfalls, with flames spiraling upward like liquid fire. Their surreal glow rippled across the wooden walls, hypnotic and unnerving. The man¡¯s boots clunked heavily against the floorboards, rattling the glasses hanging behind the bar. His voice boomed, loud and rough, echoing through the cart. ¡°Pistol! This is yer brilliant Midnight Train, and brilliant for certain!¡± he roared with laughter, his words rumbling through the room. Bolton¡¯s heart thudded in his chest, panic rising. I can¡¯t be here. They¡¯ll see me. They¡¯ll know. He gritted his teeth, trying once more to sit up, but the pain flared, pinning him down. His fingers brushed the rough bandages over his side, memories of the fight flashing vividly before him. The Quadrant Leader¡¯s crushing strikes. The darkness. Then¡ªnothing. But someone had saved him. Who? Bolton leaned slightly over the edge of his cot, scanning the room. Was it the loud man? Could he have dragged me from that nightmare? The scrape of a stool against the floor pulled Bolton¡¯s attention to the bar. ¡°Just boarded and already makin¡¯ noise, Chief Hogswind,¡± muttered the bartender, a wiry man with weathered skin and hair streaked gray like smoke trails. The name struck Bolton like a hammer. Chief Hogswind. He¡¯d heard it before¡ªrumors of a miner turned legend, a roughneck who commanded respect in the Kenton Mines of Quadrant Nine. Hogswind¡¯s booming voice erupted again, raucous and full of wild energy. ¡°Oi, every young¡¯un and ol¡¯ beard here¡¯s heard the stories! Tales of an infinite train, filled with monsters, deadly spirits, and royal arseholes from across the world!¡± The crowd erupted into cheers, their voices thunderous. Bolton shifted uneasily, his heart pounding. He peered over the edge of his cot, his gaze darting to Hogswind. Does he know who I am? Did he save me? The laughter and shouting pressed against Bolton¡¯s frayed nerves. Hogswind¡¯s voice roared above the din, snapping his attention back. ¡°What do we see when we arrive? A fancin¡¯ five-cart train with a tavern, a bath cart rivalin¡¯ the Springs of Veranus, and a whorehouse to boot!¡± More laughter erupted, soot-covered faces breaking into wide grins. ¡°Yardrats! We¡¯ve earned this! Workin¡¯ the hardest mines in all the thirteen Quadrants! After two months of lip smackin¡¯ with our wives, we enjoy today¡¯s final venture ¡®fore we head back to Quadrant Nine to do it all over again!¡± Bolton¡¯s head throbbed as exhaustion and panic warred within him. He clung to consciousness, fighting the haze that threatened to drag him under. Stay awake. Focus. His hand brushed against something crinkled in his pocket. Fumbling, he pulled it out¡ªa small piece of paper, folded with care. As he unfolded it, a faint, citrusy scent drifted up, mingling with the salt-kissed air of ocean wind. Moonberry. The smell hit him with bittersweet clarity. The fruit grew high on the rooftops of Quadrant Four, where he¡¯d scavenged after his expulsion during the Greisha Ceremony. Those days were a blur of survival, the Moonberries a rare comfort before he finally settled in Quadrant Nine and built his shop. On the note, words were scrawled in uneven strokes: "You will be okay," followed by a heart and a smiley face. For a moment, his chest tightened. The small gesture grounded him against the chaos. Someone thought of me. With effort, he turned his attention to the bar. The bartender¡ªPistol¡ªglanced his way, his sharp eyes narrowing. ¡°Don¡¯t move,¡± Pistol¡¯s voice cut through the noise, low and commanding. ¡°All will be explained. Sit tight. You don¡¯t want to make this worse.¡± Bolton froze, his breath caught between defiance and compliance. Something in Pistol¡¯s tone left no room for argument, but the urge to run still clawed at him. Before he could act, a girl about his age strolled up next to him. She wore a barmaid uniform, stitched with mismatched patches and adorned with brass pins and tiny chains. Freckles framed her nose, and her orange hair, tipped with fiery red, shimmered in the swaying light of the lanterns. Large, curious eyes caught his, and when she smiled, her dimples seemed to turn the room on its axis. ¡°Did you¡­ write the letter?¡± Bolton blurted out. She paused, her mischievous smile growing as she gave him a slow, deliberate wink. Without a word, she continued toward Pistol, her stride as confident as ever. From the shadows, her voice called out, light but laced with amusement. ¡°We¡¯ve got a small problem to talk about after these guys leave. Also, where¡¯s this whorehouse you¡¯ve got? Can I join?¡± The woman¡¯s joke drew chuckles from the patrons, but Bolton barely noticed, his mind racing. Something feels wrong. I need to get off this train. Now. Then came a shout¡ªa gruff, primal call that echoed across the cart. ¡°Pistol!!! The royal is here! I smell em¡¯!¡± Bolton¡¯s blood ran cold as the heavy thud of boots drew closer. The train fell into a sudden, heavy silence. Every pair of eyes locked onto Chief Hogswind, his large frame illuminated by the swaying, fiery lamp overhead. Shadows and moonlight brushed across him with each jolt of the train, lending his already imposing figure an almost mythic quality. Bolton¡¯s gaze followed Chief Hogswind as he approached with deliberate, measured steps. A growing unease settled in his chest, tightening as his eyes flicked toward the bar. Behind it stood Pistol, a figure just as formidable as the Chief. Barrel-chested and shirtless, his sweat-slicked skin gleamed under the dim light, barely contained by grease-streaked overalls. His bald head reflected the glow of the lamps, and his long, smoke-stained beard, tangled and streaked with white, hung down his chest like a wild emblem of his strength. He was a mountain of raw muscle, his presence as unyielding as iron¡ªa match for Chief Hogswind in every way. Standing just beneath Pistol¡¯s chin, Sarah moved fluidly around the bar. Her bright orange hair, tipped with fiery red, shimmered beneath the swaying oil lamp, and her large, expressive eyes seemed to catch every flicker of light, including the faint glow from Pistol¡¯s beard. Her uniform was striking, not for its standard design but for the way she¡¯d made it her own. The fitted vest was fastened with mismatched brass buttons, and a small chain dangled from one pocket, ending in a charm shaped like a clockwork key. A slight hitch in her skirt revealed worn leather leggings beneath, their scuffs telling stories of use and care. Around her waist, a utility belt swayed lightly, its pouches and tools suggesting she was prepared for more than just serving drinks. She moved with effortless grace, wisping trays over her head with a flick of her wrist and humming a soft tune that carried through the still air. Her very light skin seemed to glow faintly under the swaying lanterns, lending her an almost ethereal quality that was hard to place. Despite the spark of rebellion in her attire, there was a precision to her movements, an unspoken harmony with her surroundings that defied the chaos of the train. Bolton couldn¡¯t shake the sense that there was more to her than what met the eye, though the thought was fleeting as she glided past him, her hum carrying on like the steady rhythm of the train itself. As Chief Hogswind drew closer, Bolton¡¯s gaze wandered over the dimly lit train car. The miners, scattered in booths along both sides, looked different now. The train''s low hum reverberated through the metal frame, blending with the clink of glasses and the shuffle of boots on wood. Their uniforms caught Bolton¡¯s attention. No longer clad in the black-and-blue of the past, they now wore denim overalls with striped white shirts and flat caps. Though the attire had changed, the grime on their boots remained, clinging stubbornly¡ªa badge of their endless labor in the earth¡¯s veins. His attention shifted back to Chief Hogswind. The man¡¯s black-and-blue overalls were relics of another era, stained and worn from years underground. Dirt embedded itself in every crease, as though the mines refused to let go of him. Before Bolton could linger on the thought, Pistol¡¯s sharp voice broke through the uneasy quiet. ¡°Cut it out, will ya?¡± Pistol snapped, his fist tightening against the counter. ¡°Bolton¡¯s about as useful as a one-winged bird. His crown¡¯s on the ground next to your vacation, my pay, and¡ª¡± ¡°And my conductor¡¯s license?¡± Sarah chimed in, her voice light and teasing. She flashed a fleeting smile before turning back to her work, polishing gourd-shaped glasses and barrel mugs with practiced ease. ¡°I¡¯m in no rush to leave the Yardrat life! It¡¯s all I¡¯ve ever known!¡± Hogswind¡¯s booming voice reverberated through the train, shaking the walls. ¡°It¡¯s all we¡¯ve ever known. You escaped it, Pistol. Bravo! But how many carts does this Midnight Train, this Whisky Sunday, need before you realize it¡¯s just another shaft, another tunnel, another damn cave? You and I¡ªwe¡¯re Yardrats! Born to live in tubes, tunnels, and lamp-lit adventures!¡± Chief Hogswind¡¯s gaze bore into Pistol¡¯s, his cheeks flushed and his flask leaking liquor with every sway of the train. His brows furrowed, not with anger, but with something heavier¡ªa weight borne from years of digging and surviving. ¡°Nicholas?¡± Pistol exhaled, shaking his head. ¡°Life¡¯s just a series of endless tubes and tunnels, no matter how you cut it. You and I both know it¡¯s best to face a bucking horse from the front.¡± The Chief paused, his boots squeaking against a metal sheet laid over the wooden floor. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling like bellows. A single nod passed between the two men¡ªa truce forged in unspoken understanding. Then, Hogswind¡¯s gaze shifted to Bolton. Each step he took grew heavier, the vibrations traveling through the train and settling in Bolton¡¯s chest. His pulse quickened as Hogswind¡¯s massive frame loomed ever closer, the space around him shrinking. ¡°Whisky Cream, anyone?¡± Sarah¡¯s cheerful voice pierced the tension, holding up a bottle with exaggerated enthusiasm. The brightness of her offer clashed awkwardly with the thickening atmosphere. ¡°Bad time for a drink¡­¡± she mumbled, retreating to the bar. ¡°Right time! Always!¡± Hogswind roared with a disarming grin, his tone briefly breaking the tension. Bolton pressed himself further into the booth, his body stiff and aching. His eyes darted between Hogswind and Pistol, frantically searching for an escape. But it was hopeless¡ªhe felt cornered, like prey trapped between two predators. ¡°Best follow me, Prince!¡± Hogswind thundered, his voice cutting through the room with finality. ¡°A New Dwardian denizen would like a chat. A rare opportunity, I imagine.¡± Bolton¡¯s hands instinctively dove into his pockets, his mind racing for a weapon¡ªor anything¡ªto defend himself. His fingers closed around something familiar: his locket. Pulling it free, his breath hitched as something strange caught his eye. The locket trembled faintly in his hand, a vibration pulsing through his palm. Unease crept up his spine as he flipped it open. Inside, the black-and-white family photo stared back at him: Michael, sharp-eyed and composed; Amelia, smiling faintly, exuding quiet confidence; and himself, grinning with an optimism he could barely recall. The sight tugged at something deep in his chest. He could almost hear their voices: Michael¡¯s steady advice, Amelia¡¯s teasing laughter, and their mother¡¯s gentle reminders to stay close. For a fleeting moment, the ache in his ribs dulled, replaced by a pang of longing. But below the photo, the heart of the Gigarock pulsed violently, casting faint blue ripples of light that danced across the locket¡¯s interior. The glow shifted, almost alive, and Bolton¡¯s stomach twisted as the locket grew warm in his hand. The world around him blurred, the rhythmic clack of train tracks fading into the background. The locket¡¯s pulsing light dominated his senses, each beat syncing with his own heartbeat. ¡°What is this¡­?¡± he whispered, his voice trembling as he stared into the strange core. The light flickered erratically, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw something moving within the core¡ªa mechanical-fleshy construct, writhing as though alive. ¡°Why attack me¡­? Why kill Vermolly?¡± he thought, the questions hammering in his mind as his grip tightened on the locket. ¡°What¡¯s that in your hand?¡± Hogswind¡¯s booming voice jolted Bolton from his trance. The Chief¡¯s massive hand clamped down on his shoulder, dragging him back to reality. ¡°I¡¯m trying to inspire here, and you¡¯re fiddling with some freak watch?¡± Hogswind¡¯s sharp tone cut through the fog clouding Bolton¡¯s mind, leaving him wide-eyed and frozen as the train¡¯s swaying motion pressed forward. Hogswind leaned in, squinting at the pocket watch. His eyes lingered on the strange, pulsing core for a long moment, his brow furrowing deeply. Then, with a low grunt, he straightened up and turned away. ¡°Ahhh! Gigarock,¡± he muttered, his voice thick with reverence. ¡°We¡¯ve seen it all down in the mines¡­ But this¡­¡± He jabbed a finger toward the pocket watch, his tone lowering. ¡°This is S-class. Never seen one up close. Beautiful, ain¡¯t it?¡± His gaze grew distant, as if recalling some long-buried memory. ¡°They say S-class Gigarock can encase a soul,¡± he continued, his voice almost a whisper. ¡°Explains the flesh in its core, don¡¯t it? Question is¡­¡± His eyes flicked back to Bolton, sharp and searching. ¡°Whose soul is in there? ¡®Cause we ain¡¯t all chosen to be envoys of Yerro.¡± The weight of his words hung in the air, thick and heavy. Bolton¡¯s grip on the locket tightened, his knuckles whitening as he lowered his gaze to the photo within. The black-and-white portrait stared back at him, haunting in its familiarity. There was Michael, sharp-eyed and composed as always, exuding a confidence that bordered on unshakable. Amelia stood next to him, her faint smirk practically daring the viewer to underestimate her. And then there was Bolton¡ªgrinning with a boyish optimism that now felt distant, almost alien to him. The pulsing core below the photo drew his attention, its faint blue glow rippling like water. Each flicker cast shifting shadows across their faces, the light almost alive in the way it seemed to breathe. The rhythmic pulse synced with his heartbeat, loud and insistent, like a drumbeat he couldn¡¯t ignore. Michael. The name brought a sharp pang of memory, one that made his stomach twist. His mind slipped back to the second trial of the Greisha Ceremony, a race he had thought he would win. The Gearpress race was New Dwarden¡¯s pride¡ªits most celebrated sport. Sleek machines, powered by compressed air and outfitted with sails for gliding, raced through a massive sewer-inspired track. Half of the course had been cut away to give spectators a clear view of the action, turning the trial into a spectacle of skill, cunning, and pride. Bolton had started strong, dominating the early portion of the race. The first trial had already been his victory, and he was determined to secure another. His Gearpress responded like an extension of himself, gliding effortlessly through the tight turns and sharp corners. The roar of the crowd above only fueled his focus as he pushed for the golden ribbon at the finish line. Michael, as expected, had been relentless. He wielded his Gearpress like a weapon, using sharp gusts of compressed air from his sail to disrupt Bolton and Amelia. Bolton could still feel the force of those waves, each one a calculated move to push his siblings off course. But Bolton had countered with precision, weaving through the chaos and maintaining his lead. Amelia, though, was different. She didn¡¯t rely on brute force or clever maneuvers. She stayed close, matching his speed and rhythm with a quiet determination that unnerved him. When he sabotaged her sail with a well-placed kick, bending it just enough to hinder her glide, he had been sure the race was his. But Amelia always found a way. In the final stretch, Bolton¡¯s eyes locked on the ribbon fluttering ahead. He hyper-focused, every muscle taut with determination. And then, she struck. Amelia leapt from her damaged Gearpress onto his, her foot planting firmly on his chest. He remembered the shock, the disbelief as he lost his balance. The cold water below rushed up to meet him, stealing the air from his lungs as he plunged into the current beneath the track. When he resurfaced, sputtering and gasping, the crowd¡¯s cheers had already erupted. Amelia had crossed the ribbon. Her smirk of triumph as she stood on the podium haunted him to this day, but it was Michael¡¯s faint glance¡ªcool, unreadable¡ªthat lingered most. It wasn¡¯t disappointment, nor was it approval. It was something in between, as if Michael were silently asking him, Why weren¡¯t you better? Bolton¡¯s jaw tightened as the memory faded, his fingers curling around the locket. The rhythmic pulse of the Gigarock beat heavier now, almost as if mocking him. His chest ached, not from his injuries, but from the weight of the moment. ¡°Why attack me¡­? Why kill Vermolly?¡± The questions swirled in his mind, colliding with the memory of his failure. His gaze darted back to the Gigarock, its faint glow persistent, relentless, like an unspoken accusation. ¡°Why murder the only somebody who¡¯s been at my side when nobody else was?¡± Bolton¡¯s voice was barely a whisper, the words slipping out like a secret he hadn¡¯t meant to share. His grip on the locket tightened, his knuckles pale as he stared at the faint blue glow of the Gigarock. The pulsing light felt relentless, syncing with his heartbeat and mocking him with every beat. It dragged his failures and fears to the surface, and for a moment, the weight of it all threatened to crush him. Hogswind¡¯s sharp eyes narrowed as he caught the strained, haunted look on Bolton¡¯s face. Without a word, he reached into the pocket of his grease-streaked overalls and pulled out a small silver pocket watch. The surface gleamed faintly in the dim light, engraved with an elegant spiral, its edges worn smooth from years of use. ¡°Take mine,¡± Hogswind said, his tone gruff but not unkind. He held the watch out, and Bolton hesitated before slowly reaching out to take it. Bolton turned the watch over in his hand, its intricate rotating cog system ticking softly. It was cool to the touch, light and functional. Practical. ¡°This one¡¯s better,¡± Hogswind continued, his voice steady. ¡°Got less weight to it¡ªand it actually tells time.¡± Bolton¡¯s gaze shifted back to the locket in his other hand, its pulsing glow faintly visible through his curled fingers. The warmth of the Gigarock radiated upward, heavier than the silver watch. It wasn¡¯t just weight, he thought. It was something else entirely. ¡°Now,¡± Hogswind said, clapping Bolton firmly on the shoulder, ¡°look forward. I¡¯m tryin¡¯ to inspire here. Can¡¯t do that if the only Royal in the car is fiddlin¡¯ with some freak watch.¡± Hogswind¡¯s voice was loud, almost playful, as he turned back to the rest of the train car. His booming presence filled the space, his words carrying an air of command as he addressed the miners. But Bolton barely heard him. He stared down at the silver watch in one hand and the locket in the other. The soft clicking of the gears within Hogswind¡¯s watch was precise, measured, as if it belonged in a world of order. Yet the locket¡¯s pulsing light seemed alive, chaotic, and unrelenting. For a moment, he wasn¡¯t sure which one felt heavier. The rhythm of the Gigarock echoed in his chest, persistent as ever. Bolton tucked the silver watch into his pocket, its weight barely noticeable. His grip tightened around the locket, the warmth of its glow refusing to let him go. Hogswind¡¯s sharp eyes bore into Bolton, the faint flicker of lantern light casting long shadows across his face. His voice rumbled low, carrying the weight of judgment. ¡°Boy, if you were a Yardrat, I¡¯d have ya right behind our canary. Someone with so much to give, waddlin¡¯ down to their knees, givin¡¯ it all up.¡± Bolton¡¯s chest heaved, the words hitting him like a lash. His grip tightened around the larger pocket watch, its glow faint but persistent in his hand. His heart hammered as anger boiled over, surging past grief and self-doubt. ¡°This thing¡¯s got Quadrant Leaders seeing red for it!¡± he shouted, shoving himself to his feet. The sudden movement was jarring, and pain flared in his ribs, but he ignored it. He stood tall¡ªor as tall as he could, staring directly into Hogswind¡¯s imposing frame. Bolton stepped forward, almost chest-to-chest with the Chief, their size comparison laughably different but his defiance unwavering. ¡°Sick of seeing people go! What¡¯s a rock picker like you got anything to do with me!? See what I¡¯ve seen! Do¡ª¡± Before he could finish, Hogswind¡¯s massive hand shot out, grabbing Bolton by the bandages wrapped tightly around his abdomen. With a single motion, Hogswind hauled him forward, and his other fist connected squarely with Bolton¡¯s face. The force sent Bolton spiraling backward, crashing into Pistol¡¯s bar. The impact shattered the tall wooden stools and sent splinters scattering across the floor. Bolton slumped to the ground, dazed, as both of his watches tumbled free from his pockets. The faint metallic clang echoed in the sudden silence. The larger pocket watch lay on the left, its faint blue glow pulsing weakly, while Hogswind¡¯s silver pocket watch rested on the right, its intricate cogs clicking softly. ¡°Pistol!¡± Sarah¡¯s voice rang out, sharp and furious. She turned toward him, her freckled face flushed with anger. ¡°Say something, you old beard!¡± Pistol¡¯s weathered hand came up gently, resting on her shoulder. He shook his head slightly, motioning for her to look toward the rest of the train. Bolton groaned, shifting slightly as his blurry vision cleared. He followed Sarah¡¯s gaze, his eyes landing on the other passengers. The miners, scattered in the shadows of the swaying lanterns, stared at him in silence. Their eyes were sunken, their faces unreadable, as though they were hiding something in the moonlight or the dim glow of the train. The oppressive quiet broke as Hogswind¡¯s voice cut through the air, commanding and sharp. ¡°Pick up the watches, child.¡± ¡°I¡ª¡± Bolton tried to speak, his voice hoarse, but Hogswind¡¯s hand came down hard on the bar. ¡°Pick up the damn watch,¡± Hogswind barked, his words slurring slightly as he took a long swig from his flask, the word Chief etched boldly across its metal surface. Bolton scrambled forward, his trembling hands reaching for the watches. He paused, his fingers brushing over the cracked black-and-white photo in the larger pocket watch. His family stared back at him: Michael, sharp-eyed and composed; Amelia, confident and daring; and himself, grinning with a boyish optimism that now felt like a lifetime ago. His chest tightened as tears welled in his eyes. The watch¡¯s rhythmic pulse throbbed in sync with his heartbeat, almost as if mocking him. The rhythmic pulse synced with his heartbeat, loud and insistent, like a drumbeat he couldn¡¯t ignore. For a fleeting moment, the ache in his ribs dulled, replaced by a pang of longing. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on his shoulders. Bolton closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. Images of Vermolly filled his mind¡ªher mangled body, her laughter, her guidance during his time in Quadrant nine. They would take scraps from old machines, crafting makeshift Gearpresses to fly higher and faster, Bolton always hoping to one day captain an Akiyoma airship. But that dream felt impossibly far away now, lost in the weight of everything he¡¯d endured. ¡°Used to work, you know¡­ the time?¡± Bolton murmured, breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, almost to himself, as he swung open the cracked glass window of his pocket watch and carefully removed the black-and-white photo inside. The train lanterns swayed above him, their flickering light dancing across the worn photograph. Bolton¡¯s fingers brushed over the edges of the picture, his touch soft and reverent. There they were¡ªMichael, sharp-eyed and steady as a compass; Amelia, smirking faintly with her defiant confidence; and himself, grinning with a boyish optimism that now felt like it belonged to someone else entirely. ¡°My pocket watch used to work,¡± Bolton said, his gaze fixed on the photo. ¡°Now it¡¯s stuck turning backwards, and I don¡¯t know why.¡± He tilted the watch closer to the lantern light, peering into its exposed interior. ¡°No matter how many times I break it open and look, the gears are always turning backwards. And somehow¡­¡± He trailed off, narrowing his eyes at the frozen hands of the watch. ¡°Now. Somehow. They¡¯re completely still.¡± The stillness in his voice hung in the air like the faint hum of the train. Bolton exhaled slowly, grounding himself as he folded the photo carefully and slid it back into the watch. The cracked glass window clicked shut, but the faint weight of the moment lingered. He reached out, his hands trembling slightly as he picked up both watches. His larger pocket watch, with its cracked window and broken gears, slipped into the deep pocket of his loose pants, its weight a persistent reminder against his leg. The smaller silver pocket watch¡ªthe one Hogswind had given him¡ªhung lighter, more delicate, as he looped its chain around his neck. The train car was silent now, the swaying lanterns casting shifting shadows across the miners¡¯ faces. Bolton felt their eyes on him, a quiet judgment or curiosity lingering in the air. Hogswind¡¯s gravelly voice cut through the tension, steady but pointed. ¡°See?¡± The Chief¡¯s lips curved into a small, knowing grin as he leaned back in his seat. ¡°They both weigh the same. Don¡¯t they. My watch even¡­tell¡¯s time.¡± Bolton didn¡¯t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced down at the silver watch hanging around his neck, its precise cogs ticking faintly, and then at the weight in his pocket, where his broken watch rested. He could feel it¡ªone heavy with memory, the other almost too light, as if offering him a path forward. His chest tightened as he thought of Vermolly, of the shop they¡¯d built together, the dreams they¡¯d shared, and the makeshift Gearpresses they¡¯d cobbled together from discarded parts. She¡¯d been the only constant in his life after everything else had fallen apart. He swallowed hard, forcing the memories to settle. Slowly, Bolton straightened his shoulders, his grip tightening briefly on the edge of the bar. ¡°They do,¡± he murmured finally, his voice barely audible, though it carried an edge of resolve. For a moment, the train car was silent, the tension heavy in the air. Then, as if a dam had broken, the Yardrats erupted into cheers and hollers, their voices reverberating against the wooden walls and swaying lanterns. ¡°I sniff a Yardrat?! One for the mines!¡± one voice bellowed, followed by another round of roaring laughter. ¡°Who¡¯s just about seen somedie right before ¡¯em?¡± another miner shouted, raising his mug high. Nearly every hand in the car shot up, followed by a roar of laughter that shook the train car. ¡°Might be a Royal, but he¡¯s got grit!¡± shouted another, thumping his fist on the table. The energy surged, the miners clinking their mugs together, stomping their boots against the floorboards in a steady rhythm that matched the hum of the train. The swaying lanterns cast chaotic shadows across their faces, amplifying the celebratory chaos as mugs were raised high and drinks spilled freely. Even Sarah, who had been lingering near the shadows, couldn¡¯t suppress a grin. She leaned closer to Pistol, her voice just audible over the noise. ¡°Is this really how men become friends?¡± Pistol, ever calm amidst the chaos, chuckled softly as he wiped down another mug. ¡°It¡¯s how one becomes closer,¡± he replied, his tone carrying a quiet certainty. Bolton, still gripping the edge of the bar, exhaled deeply, his ribs aching but his resolve hardening. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, his shoulders straightening as if bracing against the weight of the moment. His gaze flicked toward the miners, who roared with laughter and raised their drinks, their energy infectious. The energy surged, the miners clinking their mugs together, stomping their boots against the floorboards in a steady rhythm that matched the hum of the train. Even Sarah, who had been lingering near the shadows, couldn¡¯t suppress a grin. She slid a mug toward Bolton, her freckled face lighting up with a mischievous smile. ¡°This one¡¯s got a burn,¡± she said with a wink. Bolton hesitated, the warmth of the mug seeping into his palms. It was heavy, unfamiliar¡ªjust like everything else in this moment. But Sarah¡¯s grin lingered, coaxing him to take the plunge. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and raised the mug to his lips. The sharp heat of the drink hit him instantly, burning down his throat before settling warm in his stomach. He coughed once, unprepared for the intensity, but forced himself to swallow it down. A soft laugh escaped Sarah as she leaned against the bar, clearly amused. ¡°First time tryin¡¯ something stronger than ginger ale?¡± she teased, her tone light but kind. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. Bolton wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to mask the burn still tingling in his throat. ¡°Is it that obvious?¡± ¡°Little bit.¡± Sarah¡¯s grin widened. ¡°But hey, even alcoholics start somewhere.¡± The raucous cheer of the Yardrats swelled again as mugs clinked and laughter echoed through the car. Bolton allowed himself a small, fleeting smile, the warmth of the drink mingling with the strange, almost comforting energy of the room. For a brief moment, the weight he carried felt a little lighter. Pistol didn¡¯t answer immediately, a quiet pride flickering in his eyes as he wiped a mug clean. ¡°it¡¯s how one becomes closer,¡± he said with a small nod, his voice low enough that only Sarah could hear. Meanwhile, Chief Hogswind leaned back, his massive arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the car with a broad, toothy grin. ¡°Yardrats! Prepare for a feast! We¡¯ve less than half a day¡¯s trip before we arrive in Quadrant nine again! Smile and thank Pistol! Ain¡¯t no better host than a former Yardrat!¡± The crowd roared louder, their energy infectious, sweeping even Bolton into its tide. He stood at the bar, his chest still tight but his stance steady, the faint hum of the pocket watch in his pocket grounding him amidst the chaos. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the weight of the train¡¯s energy didn¡¯t crush him¡ªit lifted him. ¡°You¡¯ve got a lot of faith in that boy, Pistol,¡± Hogswind said, his tone sharp and edged with disbelief as he cast a pointed glance at Bolton before turning back to Pistol. The noise of the train car didn¡¯t seem to bother him; if anything, the cheers and boisterous laughter only made his voice resonate louder. ¡°Not the boy, Nicholas. Like I said, just a favor,¡± Pistol replied, his voice calm and casual, as if discussing the weather. He didn¡¯t even look up, his focus on the mug he was wiping down. ¡°The Legendary Rock Brawler, ¡®Pistol¡¯ of the Kenton mines, doing a favor?¡± Hogswind barked, his booming voice cutting through the din of clinking mugs and stomping boots. ¡°Tell me that doesn¡¯t sound like the beginning of¡ª¡± ¡°¡­another complicated bare-assed adventure,¡± Pistol interrupted with a half-smile, swaying his head in disbelief. ¡°Ah, who¡¯s to know what the future holds anyway!¡± Hogswind¡¯s scraggly laughter rose above the raucous chatter of the Yardrats, his voice carrying a rough, unrefined joy. Around him, miners thumped their mugs on the tables in rhythm with his laughter, adding to the growing chaos. He took a seat at the bar, settling into Bolton¡¯s right with a wide grin. ¡°Now. Do I drink with this potential threat?¡± Bolton tensed, his chest tightening as his ears caught every word. The car¡¯s noise seemed to press in on him¡ªthe rhythmic stomp of boots on wood, the cheers rising and falling like waves. Still, he kept his gaze down, pretending not to listen. ¡°Threat?¡± Pistol cut in, his tone smooth and unbothered, standing out amidst the rowdy crowd. He raised a barrel mug to his lips, taking a long, deliberate swig before continuing. ¡°Sounds to me like you¡¯re afraid of¡ª¡± He lowered the mug with a sly grin, ¡°¡ªa mere boy.¡± ¡°Mere boy?¡± Hogswind chuckled, his voice dipping low and rough like gravel. ¡°Since I met you many ticks ago, I¡¯ve learned not to underestimate what a mere boy is capable of.¡± The train car erupted into laughter, the noise cascading like a burst dam. Miners slapped their knees, shouted over one another, and raised their mugs in exaggerated toasts. The swaying lanterns overhead cast chaotic shadows on the walls, flickering like firelight in a cave. Bolton¡¯s heart pounded, but he stayed still, straining to hear more as the noise of the car swirled around him. Hogswind leaned back in his seat, letting the chaos simmer for a moment. His sharp eyes flicked to Pistol, and his grin widened. ¡°Now, let¡¯s try that legendary drink. Ain¡¯t too often a ¡®mere¡¯ Yardrat gets to ride the Midnight Train. These things are legendary. Learned not to questions why we get picked for rides on these things.¡± Pistol nodded in agreement, finally setting his rag aside. The raucous energy of the room seemed to hum with anticipation as he grabbed a mug and moved toward one of the massive barrels mounted on the walls. The miners¡¯ cheers subsided slightly, replaced by the rhythmic clinking of empty mugs as they tapped them against the tables, waiting impatiently. "How many of these Midnight Trains are there? And do they all serve drinks?" Hogswind asked. "Thirteen that I know of," Pistol responded. "Like everything in New Dwarden¡ªsecrets wrapped in secrets." Hogswind let out a low chuckle. "That number sticks to everything New Dwardian like flies on shit." He took a swig from his mug. "In my thirty-plus bleedin¡¯ years as a Yardrat, I¡¯ve only been on Harry¡¯s and Bart¡¯s trains. Sadly, no mead on one and no talking on the other." Sarah slid behind Hogswind, refilling mugs with practiced ease. **"Each conductor runs their train their own way. Midnight Trains are almost alive in a way. They see and feel the heart of their conductor¡ªand those who ride within." She glanced at Bolton, who was staring into his reflection in one of the large, barrel-shaped mugs¡ªcommon as the rails themselves on this train. "Lucky we got the one with you, innit?" Hogswind said with a grin. Pistol scoffed. "Greater powers decide who steps on and off this train. Luck¡¯s got nothin¡¯ to do with it. You want predictable transport, stick to the regular routes." Hogswind barked out a laugh and raised his mug. "No thanks. Mead¡¯s better here anyway." Golden, frothy liquid flowed from the barrel, and the miners gripped their mugs tightly, their eyes following every drop. The scent of the drink¡ªwarm, spiced, and comforting¡ªfilled the air, quieting even the rowdiest of the Yardrats as the first mug overflowed. When Pistol snapped the tap shut, a collective sigh of anticipation rippled through the car, quickly followed by murmurs of approval. He had the train car prepared¡ªmugs and glasses neatly arranged in compartments that seemed designed to survive the rowdy energy of its passengers. The flickering firelight reflected off polished glass, lending the scene a warm, almost surreal glow. All eyes were on Hogswind as Pistol slid the frothing mug across the bar to him. The Chief caught it in his massive hand, his grin widening. The room fell into an expectant hush, save for the faint hum of the train¡¯s movement and the soft creak of swaying lanterns. All eyes were on Chief Hogswind now. The men watched with bated breath, eager to see his reaction as he wrapped his massive hand around the mug. Pistol, too, stood still, his rag forgotten over his shoulder as he leaned slightly forward, waiting. The glow from the fire reflected off the drink, casting an inviting shimmer as Hogswind slowly lifted the mug to his lips. Every miner leaned in, the moment drawn out, thick with anticipation. Even Bolton, despite everything, found himself caught in the moment, watching intently as Hogswind prepared to take his first sip of Pistol¡¯s alleged ¡®legendary¡¯ drink. ¡°By the damn green, Pistol!¡± Hogswind bellowed after a long gulp, his voice slicing through the air. ¡°You¡¯ve outdone any man, god, or Colossus. I¡¯d drink this off the rim of a loo!¡± Laughter erupted through the train car, quickly followed by a roaring cheer that seemed to shake the very walls. ¡°The Yardrats will drink good tonight!¡± Chief Hogswind shouted, rising triumphantly from his seat, his booming voice igniting another wave of celebration. ¡°I know it¡¯s been decades, but you know this boy ain¡¯t no threat,¡± Pistol said, chuckling deeply. ¡°I¡¯ve known you to sniff out a spent cigarette in a loo.¡± ¡°Why not let the act play out?¡± Hogswind grinned, wiping foam from his mouth as he glanced at Bolton. ¡°Bolton, this is Nicholas Hogswind! Always makes a grand entrance. Exclusively drunk too,¡± Pistol teased, tugging at his beard. ¡°Call me Chief,¡± Hogswind said warmly, leaning back into his seat at the bar. ¡°A friend of Pistol¡¯s is a friend of mine. Practically an obligation.¡± He settled in, his posture relaxed but his presence still commanding. ¡°The name¡¯s Sarah,¡± sprang a voice to Bolton¡¯s left. ¡°I¡¯m something of an assistant here.¡± Bolton turned to see Sarah standing next to him, her fiery orange hair flaring at the tips. As she slipped off her orange gloves, Bolton noticed her freckled face, the spots tightly packed around her nose like scattered embers on her pale skin. She leaned her elbow on the bar, a grimace on her face that even made Pistol uneasy. ¡°The old guy in front of us?¡± She nodded toward Pistol. ¡°He¡¯s the sweetheart who made sure you were doing okay,¡± she said with a large smile. Her eyes sparkled in a way that made Bolton momentarily forget his pain, lost in the warmth of her gaze. ¡°Delivered to you by¡ª¡± ¡°Someone¡­ who really cares for you,¡± Pistol interjected, guarding the secret. ¡°Yes,¡± Sarah added, her voice softening as she caught Bolton¡¯s eye again. ¡°If you need anything, just let me know. I know you¡¯ve got questions, but for now, sit tight and enjoy a drink. Sounds like you¡¯ll need it.¡± Bolton stole a glance at Sarah, his mind briefly drifting. The soft hues of her loose skirt contrasted with the warm firelight, and her bright eyes flickered with a quiet kindness. For a moment, he found her undeniably charming. But now wasn¡¯t the time. He tore his gaze away, refocusing on the looming figure of Chief Hogswind. Chief Hogswind downed the last of his drink before leaning in with a broad smile. ¡°Now, what¡¯s Primarian ex-Royalty¡­¡± he burped, grabbing the top of Bolton¡¯s and forcing him to meet his eyes, ¡°doing on a Midnight Train?¡± Bolton heard Sarah recede into the shadows behind him, her boots softly thudding as she tended to the booths. He had no choice but to meet Hogswind¡¯s reddened, weary eyes. The smell of liquor was heavy on his breath. ¡°Leave the boy alone. He doesn¡¯t know much. Got banged up from a fight,¡± Pistol interrupted, pouring another drink for Bolton. ¡°With whom?¡± Hogswind¡¯s voice turned sharp. Pistol glanced at Bolton, eyes narrowing, as if warning him to remain silent. Bolton leaned forward slightly, eager to piece together how he ended up on this train, how much time had passed since the fight. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. He ain¡¯t dead,¡± Pistol said firmly. Bolton frowned, struggling to remember. "It wasn¡¯t a fight. I didn¡¯t stand a chance," he muttered, looking down at the stained bandages wrapped around his waist. "... My friend... she was killed. Then¡ª" "What kind of drink did ya serve me, Pistol?" Hogswind cut in, his voice light but firm, steering the conversation away as Bolton¡¯s words faltered. Pistol raised an eyebrow. "To name a few ingredients¡ªOrange Smooth Honey from the Gallup Mountains. A kick of allspice from the Essessel Woods." "Well, give it to Bolton¡ªand double the potency!" Hogswind boomed, his laughter filling the car. "Everyone on this train deserves more than just a drink, huh?" he roared, riling up the passengers once more. "Here¡¯s a secret, my royal... eh, understudy!" Hogswind¡¯s deep belly laugh shook the air as he smoothly swiped a shot of liquor from Pistol¡¯s hand and passed it to Bolton. "Drink makes things a little easier, but money..." Pistol smirked, finishing the thought with a knowing gleam. "Money is always the result of someone¡¯s hard work¡ªno matter how you''ve swiped it." He gave a satisfied nod, watching as Bolton hesitated... then, reluctantly, downed the drink. Hogswind stood tall, raising his mug high. ¡°On my mark, Yardrats! We cheer! We drink! And we forget the damn night! Cold as it is!¡± The miners, their empty mugs clutched in eager hands, leaned forward, eyes flicking between Bolton, Pistol, and their Chief, waiting for the signal. Then¡ªthe roar came. "Chief! Hogswind! Chief! Chief Hogswind!" The chant erupted from the crowd, voices rising between the booths lining the train. Boots pounded against the wooden floorboards, shaking the car in a rhythmic thunder. Mugs slammed onto tables. The energy surged like steam building in an overworked engine. "Oi, Yardrats! Half past the time to scratch your arses! If you want the drinks ya earned, then eyes on me!" Chief Hogswind bellowed, his voice booming through the train, rattling the flames of the lanterns above. "Sir, MY HEART IS FOR SIR!" one side of the train cheered. "Sir, MY ARMS IS FOR SIR!" the other side shouted even louder, eager to outdo their rivals. Hogswind leaned over the bar, scanning the rows of oddly shaped bottles¡ªmeads, exotic juices, liquors¡ªbefore settling his gaze on Bolton, who was still reeling from his first swig of mead. "Boys! Some bigwig from Dwarden City, maybe a Quadrant Leader¡ªhell, could even be the King¡ªsaw fit to reward those who keep the pistons pumping and gears churning by lettin¡¯ us ride this Midnight Train! A rare honor!" His voice boomed over the crowd, commanding their attention. He gestured toward Bolton. "But rarer still, we got royalty among us. This here is Bolton Woltwork, a man who''s likely been through¡ª" Bolton stiffened, his fingers tightening around the rim of his mug. "Celebrate without me," he muttered. His voice was even, but the weight behind it was undeniable. Hogswind paused, his grin not quite fading. "A man who''s likely been through¡ª" "I¡¯m not royalty. Never will be." Bolton¡¯s tone was calm, but it carried an edge. "And I ain¡¯t rich. Never will be," Hogswind shot back without missing a beat. "Yet here I am, lungs full of soot and dirt, and still breathing just fine." He leaned forward, his massive frame casting shadows in the lantern light. "Breathin¡¯s enough, ain¡¯t it?" Srah let out a small breath, shaking her head. "Look around you, Bolton." Her voice was softer now, but sure. "These guys don¡¯t see ya as some crown polisher. You may as well be King Michael to them." The train car seemed to exhale, the rowdiness dimming¡ªnot gone, just waiting. From behind the bar, Pistol took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing on Bolton with quiet interest. Sarah stood still, tense, her gaze flicking between the Chief and Bolton. "Lay off! He''s clearly been through a lot, you rock ogre!" Sarah snapped, stepping forward. Her tray wobbled precariously in her hands, but her voice was steady. Hogswind didn¡¯t even glance her way, his focus entirely on Bolton. The train car fell into a thick silence, the lantern flames swaying in the still air. ¡°Nicholas,¡± Pistol called, his voice calm but deliberate as he wiped down a glass, ¡°you remember when we were first conscripted as Yardrats?¡± Hogswind exhaled, his expression shifting. "Ah, yeah¡­ we¡¯d just finished kicking some teeth in at Whistletop¡¯s adult section. Four sorry excuses for men and their monster, knocked down into the dirt like human pegs." Pistol¡¯s lips twitched in amusement before turning somber. "...You remember why?" ¡°We were rounded up quickly. The Primarian Arc¡¯s just as ruthless with children as with adults.¡± Hogswind¡¯s voice grew heavier. ¡°The rest¡­ well, we know how that went.¡± Sarah eased her stance, glancing at Bolton. He sat quietly, watching the two men recount their past, his gaze flicking between them. His fingers curled around the rim of his mug, the weight of everything pressing on him like a vice. Seizing the moment, Sarah leaned in toward Bolton. ¡°Trust Pistol,¡± she whispered, her voice softer now. ¡°He¡¯s the conductor of a Midnight Train. These things run on a little more than just steam¡ªthink goodwill and soul magic.¡± Pistol visibly tensed. "Wha¡ª?" His confused voice cut through, his eyes darting toward Sarah. She gave him a playful glance before turning back to Bolton. "He¡¯s a good guy, and he knows your brother. More importantly, he knows the Quadrant Leader who saved you." She hesitated, then added with a wink, "And hey¡ªyou¡¯re still breathing, so that¡¯s something." Bolton sat up suddenly. ¡°Who saved me?¡± Sarah tilted her head. "Aurous," she said, matter-of-factly. "Smelled like a sewer, but yeah¡ªQuadrant Leader One. Aurous." The name hit Bolton like a lightning strike. ¡°Aurous!¡± Bolton shot up from his seat. Pistol, mid-conversation with Hogswind, froze, the glass hovering just short of his lips. His jaw tightened¡ªbarely, but enough to notice. Sarah, catching it, grinned mischievously before gently tapping Bolton¡¯s shoulder. ¡°You¡¯re not invincible,¡± she murmured, nudging him back toward his seat. ¡°But you¡¯re very protected.¡± Bolton¡¯s body tensed, his muscles aching from the sudden movement. His mind was still racing, struggling to piece everything together. Sarah, watching him carefully, let out a small sigh. ¡°If you¡¯re lookin¡¯ for that harness you were wearin¡¯ when we found you, don¡¯t bother. It¡¯s done for.¡± Bolton blinked, his breath catching slightly. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Whatever that air compression thing was, it was wrecked beyond repair,¡± she explained, nudging him gently back into his seat. ¡°Torn to shreds, and what¡¯s left of your clothes are in the far cart. We had to get you out of it just to stop the bleeding.¡± His fingers twitched at the mention of it. He vaguely remembered the harness, the pressure of it against his chest, the way it had whined as it strained against gravity before¡ªbefore everything went black. Sarah leaned against the bar, arms crossed. ¡°You were lucky Pistol pulled you in when he did. Whatever happened before this train found you¡ªyou weren¡¯t walking away from it.¡± Bolton¡¯s gaze drifted downward, his mind clouded with fragmented memories. The hum of the pocket watch against his leg, the rhythmic sway of the train¡ªit was all grounding him now, but the weight of what happened before still lingered in the back of his mind. Pistol, catching Bolton¡¯s distant stare, exhaled through his nose. "Don¡¯t overthink it now, kid. You¡¯re breathing. That¡¯s what matters." Sarah gave a light shrug. "Yeah. And at least now you¡¯re dressed proper. That scrap heap of an outfit wasn¡¯t exactly royal material." Bolton exhaled, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips¡ªbut it felt like someone else¡¯s. The name Aurous echoed in his mind. A man of legend within the Primarian Royale¡ªso boisterous and enigmatic that his very presence commanded respect. Aurous, the creator of Quadrant Nine. His name was spoken with equal parts reverence and fear. Bolton had heard the stories¡ªhow the man¡¯s strength and cunning had shaped an entire Quadrant, his laughter shaking the halls of the Royale as easily as he moved armies. The idea that Aurous had saved him? Surreal. Impossible. His thoughts swayed¡ªor maybe that was just the drink finally catching up to him. He steadied himself, blinking through the dull warmth settling behind his eyes, his mind trying to line up the names in order. Quadrant Four¡ªEnton, the Bear. Unyielding. Immovable. Quadrant Five¡ªHios, the Giant. Quadrant Six¡ªDrock, the Toad. Sly. Adaptable. Quadrant Eight¡ªGlassford, the Owl. Silent. Wise. Quadrant Nine¡ªAurous, the Ape. Boisterous. Cunning. Quadrant Ten¡ªDavina, the Cat. Graceful. Elusive. Quadrant Eleven¡ªNewton, the Ignorpa. A beast of instinct and speed. And the others¡ªhe knew them. He did. But their names drifted just out of reach, slipping from his grasp like spilled mead over a bar top. Sarah¡¯s voice yanked him back before he could chase them further. ¡°Oi, Woltwork¡ªdon¡¯t pass out on me.¡± Bolton blinked, realizing he had been staring too long at nothing, his head dipping slightly forward. "Don¡¯t think I can. Too much on my mind." He pushed himself up, trying to stabilize himself. "Said the man with a swish and sway in his step," Sarah laughed, shaking her head. "Almost had me convinced we were sailin¡¯ off from Quadrant 13¡¯s shoreline." Her smirk flickered in his periphery, but her presence felt grounding, pulling him back from wherever his mind had started drifting. The bar top felt cool beneath his fingertips as he planted his hands against it, exhaling slowly. He smirked faintly, but even as the warmth of the drink settled in his stomach, a thought lingered in the back of his mind¡ªthose missing names. They were there. Just out of reach. Before Bolton could recall the rest, the weight of the present dragged him back. That creeping sense of unease tightened in his chest, the feeling that danger was still out there, waiting. But then¡ªSarah. Her calm expression, paired with the revelation that an old friend had come to his aid, took the edge off the panic clawing at his ribs. His heartbeat slowed. His breath, once caught in his throat, evened out. Then he felt it. A warmth creeping through his limbs, his thoughts just a fraction slower. Not enough to be noticeable¡ªbut he noticed. The drink had settled in heavier than expected. Damn. His brows furrowed slightly. How strong was Pistol¡¯s brew? Sarah¡¯s fingers drummed lightly against the counter, a barely-there motion that caught Pistol¡¯s attention. She didn¡¯t speak¡ªshe didn¡¯t have to. The old man caught the signal immediately, letting out a small grunt before turning his back, already cutting Bolton off from another pour. Bolton barely had time to register that exchange before Sarah¡¯s hand found his elbow, a light but deliberate touch as she helped guide him back onto the barstool. He wasn¡¯t exactly stumbling, but she did it anyway. And she knew it. ¡°You¡¯re steady enough,¡± she murmured, her fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary before she let go. Bolton huffed. ¡°I was fine.¡± Sarah smirked. ¡°Sure.¡± He exhaled, sinking into his seat, his gaze shifting toward Pistol and Chief Hogswind on his right. Their conversation pulled him¡ªreluctantly¡ªback into the moment. Pistol cleared his throat, speaking a little louder, as if signaling Bolton to pay attention. ¡°Anyway, that memory is growin¡¯ dust. We did the right thing back then. Just got caught in¡­¡± ¡°In the fuckin¡¯ middle,¡± Hogswind finished, nodding in agreement. Pistol leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. ¡°I¡¯d suggest we¡¯d be in something similar today. Quadrant Leader Aurous rides with us on the Whisky Sunday¡ªtwo carts ahead, near the front of the train. He expects the boy at a destination, to meet with another. The less we know, the better.¡± Hogswind scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. "The boy¡¯s been through hell¡­" he muttered, almost as if thinking aloud. ¡°Should recruit him into being a Yardrat at this point.¡± Pistol¡¯s voice cut through the space between them, quieter but heavier. ¡°Aurous saved the boy after he saw his best friend murdered in front of him.¡± Bolton¡¯s shoulders tensed. His fists clenched¡ªbriefly¡ªbefore he forced them to loosen. His eyes burned with disgust as they flicked to Pistol, but the anger drained from his expression the moment he met the old man¡¯s steady, knowing gaze. Pistol didn¡¯t say anything else. He didn¡¯t need to. The slight nod he gave Bolton said more than words could. ¡°Familiar,¡± Hogswind muttered, watching the silent exchange. Sarah exhaled sharply. ¡°So maybe we take a little more caution when speaking with Bolton,¡± she chimed in, her voice gentle but firm. Pistol¡¯s lips twitched into a soft, knowing smile as he gestured for her to leave it be. There was no disapproval in his expression¡ªonly something quieter, warmer, as if silently thanking her. Sarah caught the look, and for the first time, her usual teasing edge softened. Without another word, she slipped behind the counter, her hands already moving to prepare the next round of drinks. But Hogswind wasn¡¯t done. He exhaled through his nose, his fingers drumming against the bar before speaking¡ªnot to Bolton, but to the train itself, through the mead¡¯s reflection before him. "The title of Yardrat is a prestige¡­ awarded to those who don¡¯t quite fit¡­ New Dwardian social standards." His voice was loud, but measured, carrying through the air like an old sermon. "It is for those who need a second chance. For those caught by the Primarian Arc for merely the thought of a crime. Or for those who crave a thankless adventure." He lifted his mug slightly, turning his head toward the scattered Yardrats seated throughout the car. "For the stinky. The sublime. The shitty. The ones who don¡¯t make it on time." A few of the Yardrats grinned, raising their mugs. The rumble started slow¡ªa deep, rhythmic thump-thump as wooden cups hit tables, boots tapped against the floorboards. Hogswind¡¯s eyes met theirs, the grin returning to his face. "A Yardrat serves his time!!" The chant erupted, the words rolling through the train car in ragged, boisterous voices. "A Yardrat serves his time!!" Mugs slammed, boots stomped, and the swaying lanterns above flickered wildly in the growing momentum. Bolton barely had time to process the shift before Hogswind turned back to him. He leaned forward, his sharp eyes locking onto Bolton. "Are we certain we don¡¯t understand each other, Bolton Woltwork?" Bolton¡¯s gaze flicked up, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. ¡°You were exiled, weren¡¯t ya? At eighteen?¡± Bolton¡¯s breath hitched¡ªbarely noticeable, but enough. He slumped back in his seat, the weight of the words settling into his chest. ¡°Right!?¡± Hogswind barked, his massive hand grabbing the edge of Bolton¡¯s stool and spinning it sharply to face him. The thunder of boots, clanking mugs, and roaring voices didn¡¯t stop¡ªif anything, it surged. The chant had become a beast of its own, pulsing through the train like a living heartbeat. Hogswind, emboldened by the moment, threw his massive arm around Bolton, his grin wide, his breath thick with mead and mirth. ¡°Clearly, we choose to live again!¡± he bellowed, swigging deep from his flask. ¡°The monsters fail again! And we¡ªwe drink again!¡± His words were met with a fresh wave of cheers, fists pounding on tables, boots hammering against the floorboards. The very walls of the train seemed to rattle in agreement. Hogswind turned to Pistol, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. ¡°So, with your permission, Pistol¡ªare we ready?¡± Pistol smirked, knowing full well that permission had already been granted by the riotous energy in the air. ¡°What say you, Sarah? Ready for a night on the tracks?¡± he asked, his voice lifted just above the growing chaos. Sarah exhaled, wiping an imaginary bead of sweat from her brow. ¡°Glasses and mugs are served,¡± she sighed, standing behind him with a tray full of fresh pours. ¡°Guess all we gotta do is open the tap.¡± Pistol chuckled, then turned to Bolton, his voice steady beneath the storm of voices. ¡°What say you, Bolton? Our destination is still half a day¡¯s journey. Care to join us?¡± The question hung in the air for a moment, and for the first time since stepping onto the Whisky Sunday, Bolton hesitated. His fingers tightened around his mug. His mind drifted¡ªto his father, Daniel Woltwork, the former king, and the words he had once spoken: A parent¡¯s duty is to smile alongside his children when possible. The memory hit him like a wave, pulling him between past and present. His father¡¯s voice seemed to linger, urging him forward, reminding him that even in the darkest of times, there was still room for joy. His grip relaxed. He took a deep breath, lifted his mug¡ªthen, with a grin spreading across his face, he shouted: ¡°OPEN ¡¯EM!¡± The train car erupted. Mugs slammed together, voices roared, and the footfalls of miners swarmed toward the center bar like a stampede. Sarah rushed to refill tankards, the swaying lanterns above casting flickering light over the wild, pulsing energy below. The celebration had truly begun. Music emerged from the chaos¡ªat first, just humming. Then, the rhythmic banging of mugs against tables, boots stomping in perfect unison, the train itself seeming to rumble with them. Pistol leaned toward Bolton, speaking just loud enough for him to hear, his voice steady amid the storm of laughter and song. ¡°In times where life seems its bleakest, it¡¯s important to celebrate with those who may very well carry you from the darkness,¡± he said, his eyes sharp with something deeper, something that held weight. ¡°And Yardrats¡ªformer or otherwise¡ªare adept at fighting things from the dark.¡± Before Bolton could respond, a miner leapt up onto a table, slamming his mug down with enough force to send ale flying. His voice, raw and bold, boomed above the crowd. Coffins With Mead Miner 1: My mother once told me, It''d be best if she¡¯d left for a bucket of mead (Miners together: Ha!) She bit her lip, her lip quivering pissed, and she spat her rum on me! (Miners Togethers: Ha!) All Together: She was a whore! A stinkin fat boar! A pig foul indeed!(Together) One hundred adored, a hundred on four, for being on her knees! (Together) We drink to the whores, we drink out the door, We¡¯ll drink a barrel on me (Together) Brothers and sisters! Fuckers and fisters! Prepare our coffins with mead Miner 2: My mother once told me, love is a bet, my lassie¡¯ but a dream (Miners Together: Ha!) She quivered her lip, the cunt royally pissed, and she poured her rum on me (Miners Together: Ha!) All Together: She was a whore! A stinkin fat boar! A pig foul indeed!(Together) One hundred adored, a hundred on four, for being on her knees! (Together) We drink to the whores, we drink out the door, We¡¯ll drink a barrel on me (Together) Brothers and sisters! Fuckers and fisters! Prepare our coffins with mead Miner 3: My mother last told me, life is best, licken those accursed bottles clean (Miners together: Ha!) She ran her lips, her breath burnin¡¯s of piss, then she- The swaying lanterns of the Whisky Sunday¡¯s train car flickered wildly, the raucous Yardrat cheers reverberating through the air. Bolton stood at the bar, the faint warmth of leftover mead still clinging to his lips as he struggled to push away the storm of his own thoughts. Then, the train lurched. The floor shuddered beneath them as a guttural, distorted howl split the air. The sound was unholy¡ªa broken symphony of growls, mechanical grinding, and the screech of metal tearing against itself. Every Yardrat froze mid-celebration, their mugs clutched tight, faces pale. The far doors to the train car burst open, splinters flying as hinges screeched. A heavy, unnatural thudding echoed into the space, rhythmic and deliberate, like the heartbeat of something not meant to live. A shadowy grotesque creature stepped into the light. It was a grotesque amalgamation of raw flesh and exposed metal, its massive, muscular body glistening with sinew and oil. Tufts of fur jutted out in patches, mismatched like a botched taxidermy experiment. Thick pipes twisted along its ribcage, hissing steam with each breath. Its limbs were disturbingly uneven¡ªone leg thick and powerful, the other spindly and threaded with wires, its exposed bones plated with jagged steel. Its tail whipped behind it, a chain-tipped horror that clattered against the floor with each step. But its face¡ªits face froze them all. The creature¡¯s head was canine in shape, but wrong in every way. Skin stretched too tightly over a metal skull, jaws overextended and packed with jagged teeth that didn¡¯t align properly. The glowing red lenses of its eyes swirled erratically, like a machine struggling to process the world around it. Despite its grotesque appearance, it radiated a primal, predatory malice, its snapping jaws producing sickening clicks as it advanced. Pistol remained stoic behind the bar, his hand calmly wrapping around the handle of a heavy iron wrench. Chief Hogswind, in stark contrast to the trembling Yardrats, stepped forward, his massive frame looming, arms crossed. His voice boomed with defiance. ¡°Yardrats!¡± Hogswind barked. ¡°This is what we fight in the dark! If you still call yourselves tunnel men, then stand tall now! And if you run¡ªbest not turn your head back this way!¡± His words struck like a hammer, but the fear in the car was thick. Mugs trembled in shaking hands. The word monster passed between them in hushed whispers. Bolton couldn¡¯t move. His breath caught as the creature tilted its head unnaturally, jaws snapping at the air as though testing the sound. Then, its glowing eyes landed on him. And it crouched. It was preparing to pounce. Then came a new sound¡ªthe dull thunk of mugs lifted from uncertain hands. Enton stepped from the shadows of the doorway, plucking two mugs of mead from the miners without so much as a glance. He raised them, as if weighing their worth, before taking a slow swig from both. His sleek black robe clung to his broad shoulders, and the pistons along his spine hissed softly, releasing thin trails of steam. His expression was unreadable. Cold. Calculating. ¡°Not used to these in the dark, eh?¡± His voice cut through the air, smooth and unshaken. ¡°A machine¡¯s interpretation of life. Flesh and steel, melded in perfect chaos. Creatures known as Malice¡ªthe will of Yerro, in its truest form. Here to collect.¡± He stepped forward, resting a hand on the creature¡¯s grotesque head. The Malice rumbled low, but did not snap at him, its attention still fixed on the crowd. ¡°If your name isn¡¯t Michael, Amelia, or Bolton Woltwork, you¡¯ve got nothing to fear,¡± Enton murmured, stroking its patchy fur. ¡°Do not mistake these for the fodder in the mines.¡± Bolton¡¯s pulse pounded. He clutched the counter behind him as Enton¡¯s gaze locked onto him, sharp and unyielding. ¡°Your brother fought well, Woltwork,¡± Enton said, voice measured. ¡°Even managed to save your life, with the help of a traitor.¡± He gestured toward the train car door. A shadow filled the doorway. Aurous. The Quadrant Leader¡¯s four massive arms gripped the frame as he ducked inside, his towering, ape-like form nearly scraping the ceiling. His human torso gleamed with sweat, and his loincloth swayed as he moved. A grin stretched across his face, teeth flashing like a crescent moon. ¡°Free will now, brother!¡± Aurous bellowed, voice rich with wild energy. ¡°Free to choose! Life from death! Machine to life! Honey from ham!¡± He grabbed a nearby tap, poured himself a beer, guzzled it down, then slammed the dented mug onto the counter. The wood cracked beneath his fingers. He crouched, his massive upper body shifting into a ready stance. ¡°Care to test my choice?¡± Enton didn¡¯t flinch. His voice, however, sharpened. ¡°Go ahead. Keep pretending you¡¯re human or otherwise. Since when does a cog question where it spins.¡± His gaze swept the Yardrats. ¡°Look at me. Remember this moment. I am not your enemy.¡± He placed his hand once more on the Devil Dog¡¯s patchy fur. ¡°This creature¡ªthis is the truth of Yerro¡¯s will. Yerro wants to awaken. The King refuses to allow the natural order. I am it¡¯s selected envoy.¡± Bolton exhaled, his voice barely a whisper. ¡°Wake Yerro and¡­that¡¯ll destroy all thirteen Quadrants.¡± For the first time, Enton hesitated. A flicker of something¡ªpain? Frustration?¡ªcut through the iron in his voice before he pushed forward, his words harder now, desperate. ¡°Yardrats! Tell me¡ªhow many of your own have been killed?¡± His gaze swept the room, the flickering lanterns casting long, uneasy shadows. ¡°How many have been dragged underground? How many have vanished into the dark, leaving nothing but blood in the dust?¡± A silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, from the back of the train, a voice. Weak. ¡°M-My brother. He¡­ he was pulled under by a Mud Gutter.¡± Enton turned, eyes narrowing. ¡°Spider-like, yet easy to dispatch¡­ except as of late, correct?¡± A low murmur of agreement rippled through the train. "Yerro suffocates beneath this city. And as he withers, the things below grow stronger. The creatures grow bolder. The mines run barren." Enton¡¯s voice cut like a blade. "The Quadrant Leaders must submit their souls. Or more of you will be dragged into the sewers, your names lost in the dark." "Yerro was corrupted long ago!" Aurous snapped. "Little by little, sure¡ªbut now we have something like free will! Do as Yerro says, and we lose it! We go back to being nothing but spinning cogs!" Enton¡¯s face twisted, frustration bleeding into his voice. "That¡¯s exactly what we are! Cogs! Machines, organics¡ªit makes no difference! We all have a place! Tell me you don¡¯t feel the confusion gnawing at you!" "Confusion?" Bolton¡¯s voice came quiet but firm. "That¡¯s choice." He wasn¡¯t looking at Enton anymore¡ªhis gaze had drifted past him, distant and unreadable. The eerie blankness in his eyes sent a rare ripple of unease through Hogswind. Enton¡¯s jaw clenched. "We lost our purpose, Royal. Just like you. Now we meander broken roads, waiting for something to set us right again." "So we gather all thirteen of us¡ªthen what?" Aurous challenged, stepping forward. "The Colossus wakes up and just walks away? You understand that Malice ain''t that much different from what we used to be!" Enton exhaled sharply, his patience fraying. "Cooperation is ideal, but not required!" He threw a hand toward the Malice, its jaw snapping at the air in agitation. "This is what awaits us all if we keep suppressing Yerro. Lawless husks, thrown to the wind, our souls harvested into beasts until Yerro awakens anyway. Why must I explain this to you, brother? We are stealing what was never ours to begin with!" The tension thickened. The Devil Dog let out a guttural growl, its fangs glinting under the swaying lanterns. Pistol exhaled slowly. His voice came steady, calm. Certain. ¡°Sarah. Take Bolton to the back.¡± Sarah hesitated, shifting from foot to foot. Her hands clenched at her sides. ¡°But¡ª¡± ¡°Now.¡± Pistol¡¯s grip tightened on the wrench. ¡°This fight ain¡¯t ours. Not yet.¡± Aurous cracked his knuckles, the sharp pop echoing through the silent train car. His grin widened, wild and sharp as a beast let loose from its cage. ¡°Come on then, brother.¡± His stance shifted lower, massive hands ready. ¡°Let¡¯s see if Yerro¡¯s will is enough to stop me.¡± Bonus Extra 6: Coffin Of Mead (Song) Coffins With Mead Miner 1: My mother once told me, It''d be best if she¡¯d left for a bucket of mead (Miners together: Ha!) She bit her lip, her lip quivering pissed, and she spat her rum on me! (Miners Togethers: Ha!) All Together: She was a whore! A stinkin fat boar! A pig foul indeed!(Together) One hundred adored, a hundred on four, for being on her knees! (Together) We drink to the whores, we drink out the door, We¡¯ll drink a barrel on me (Together) Brothers and sisters! Fuckers and fisters! Prepare our coffins with mead Miner 2: Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. My mother once told me, love is a bet, my lassie¡¯ but a dream (Miners Together: Ha!) She quivered her lip, the cunt royally pissed, and she poured her rum on me (Miners Together: Ha!) All Together: She was a whore! A stinkin fat boar! A pig foul indeed!(Together) One hundred adored, a hundred on four, for being on her knees! (Together) We drink to the whores, we drink out the door, We¡¯ll drink a barrel on me (Together) Brothers and sisters! Fuckers and fisters! Prepare our coffins with mead Miner 3: My mother last told me, life is best, licken those accursed bottles clean (Miners together: Ha!) She ran her lips, her breath burnin¡¯s of piss, then she sickd¡¯ her rum on me (Miners Together: Ha!). All Together: She was a whore! A stinkin fat boar! A pig foul indeed!(Together) One hundred adored, a hundred on four, for being on her knees! (Together) We drink to the whores, we drink out the door, We¡¯ll drink a barrel on me (Together) Brothers and sisters! Fuckers and fisters! Prepare our coffins with mead Bonus Extra 7: Short Story "Perfect" Xx1318xX The journey to Luman¡¯s Tower was nightmarish¡ªits looming shadow fell across the landscape like a scar on the earth. From afar, it was grotesque, a jagged black spire that pierced the sky, its surface crawling with unseen horrors. The closer Katelyn and her devout came, the heavier the air became, thick with an otherworldly pressure that made their lungs ache and their skin crawl. Yet as they approached the base of the mountain, something shifted. The horror faded like a receding storm, leaving behind an intoxicating allure. The Tower¡¯s rough, black stone shimmered, softening into delicate alabaster veins. The jagged edges smoothed into a graceful spire, towering yet elegant. The oppressive dread transformed into an almost irresistible pull¡ªan illusion of divine beauty. It beckoned to them, drawing them closer with every step. Katelyn¡¯s heart thrummed in her chest. She could feel it¡ªperfection, waiting for her. The devout behind her trembled with fear, but she was mesmerized by the Tower¡¯s beauty. The allure whispered promises to her: that here, finally, she would erase every flaw, every blemish. She would become more than a goddess. She would be the embodiment of the unattainable. At the top of the mountain, a door appeared¡ªits surface was flawless, reflecting her image back at her. For a brief moment, Katelyn hesitated. Was that... a wrinkle near her eye? No. Impossible. She was still perfect. She pushed the door open. Xx1320xX Inside, the illusion deepened. The air shimmered like a mirage, and Katelyn felt her breath catch in her throat. Luman¡¯s Tower was impossibly vast inside, stretching endlessly in every direction. The walls seemed to pulse, alive with a soft glow, as though the Tower itself was breathing. In the center of the chamber, illuminated by an ethereal light, sat a throne¡ªbeautiful and terrible. It was carved from black stone, but vines of glistening obsidian twisted around its arms and legs, writhing like living creatures. On the throne sat a figure¡ªa figure both monstrous and alluring. Its body was a tapestry of contradictions: limbs twisted and unnatural, yet with a sculpted elegance. The vines coiled around its form, merging with its flesh. Its face, however, was flawless¡ªsmooth and perfect, radiating a beauty so overwhelming it sent a shiver through Katelyn''s body. The figure smiled¡ªa smile that was as seductive as it was dangerous. "Katelyn," it purred, its voice a velvet caress. "You have come." Katelyn stood tall, refusing to let the creature''s allure unnerve her. "I have come for my perfection," she declared, her voice firm. "You will give it to me." The creature laughed softly, a sound like silk sliding across bare skin. It rose from the throne, its movements sinuous, and began to circle her slowly. The obsidian vines from the throne crept toward her, curling around her ankles, her wrists. Katelyn glanced down, but she didn¡¯t flinch. "Perfection?" the creature whispered, its voice wrapping around her like a lover¡¯s embrace. "Do you know what that truly means?" Katelyn¡¯s eyes narrowed. "I am a goddess. I define perfection." The creature leaned closer, its breath hot against her neck. "Oh, Katelyn... so confident. So beautiful." The vines tightened their grip around her, slithering up her body, brushing against her skin like teasing fingers. "But even you cannot escape time, can you?" Its lips brushed her ear. "What of the wrinkle, Katelyn? The one near your eye?" Katelyn stiffened, her heart pounding. "There is no wrinkle," she hissed. "I am flawless. I am perfect." "Are you?" the creature whispered, its voice dripping with dark amusement. The vines wrapped tighter, binding her body against the cold stone. "Perhaps... you are only perfect because I allow it. Perhaps... you need me to remain so." Katelyn¡¯s defiance surged. She jerked against the vines, but they only tightened, pulling her closer to the throne, closer to the creature. "I need nothing from you," she spat. "I will sit on that throne, and I will be more than perfect. I will become a true goddess." The creature¡¯s smile widened, predatory. "Is that what you desire, Katelyn? To sit upon the throne? To surpass even the gods?" Katelyn¡¯s breathing quickened as the vines coiled tighter, their cold touch sending a shiver down her spine. Despite the fear gnawing at her, her desire burned hotter. "Yes," she whispered, her voice trembling with both rage and need. "I will have it." Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. The creature''s eyes gleamed with dark pleasure. "Then sit," it whispered, its voice sultry, intoxicating. The vines lifted her, cradling her body as they guided her toward the throne. As she was lowered onto the stone seat, the vines wrapped around her limbs, her waist, her throat, pressing her into the cold embrace of the throne. The moment she sat, the power surged into her¡ªa rush of energy so pure, so divine, that she gasped in pleasure. The warmth spread through her body, erasing every flaw, smoothing every imperfection. Her skin glowed with a radiant beauty, her hair gleamed like fire, her body felt weightless, ageless. "I am perfect," she whispered, her lips curving into a smile. But then... the warmth turned to heat. The pleasure turned to pain. Xx1322xX Katelyn¡¯s smile faltered as the heat became unbearable, burning through her veins. The vines tightened their grip, no longer caressing but suffocating, constricting her body as the black stone of the throne began to meld with her flesh. The creature, no longer standing apart, began to twist and slither, its obsidian vines wrapping around her more tightly, pressing into her, sinking deeper. The pleasure she once felt from the throne began to warp into something darker. The vines pierced her skin, binding her soul to the stone as if she were becoming part of the Tower itself. Her limbs twisted in agony, her once-perfect body writhing and contorting as the creature absorbed into her. ¡°No!¡± she gasped, struggling in vain. ¡°This wasn¡¯t... what I wanted...¡± But the creature¡¯s voice was soft, seductive, and overwhelming in her mind, whispering as its form merged with hers. "We¡¯re perfect together, Katelyn," it purred, its words curling around her thoughts like the vines around her flesh. "You and I... we shall be one. There will be no more imperfections... only us." Katelyn¡¯s breath hitched, her mind clouding as the blissful agony became overwhelming. Her skin, once smooth and radiant, now pulsed with heat as it was swallowed by the black stone. She could feel the creature inside her¡ªits essence spreading through her veins, entwining itself with her soul. And in that moment, a bliss so complete, so intoxicating washed over her that her defiance collapsed. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her lips parted, whispering... "My skin... it¡¯s not smooth enough..." The words slipped out, unbidden, her mind now fractured. "My breasts... too small... my eyes... too wide..." Her voice grew softer, faster. "My nose... crooked... my thighs... too thick..." The creature purred in delight, its voice a hum deep in her core. "Yes, Katelyn. Together we are perfect." She gasped as the last of her consciousness slipped away, her body sinking deeper into the stone, the black vines consuming her completely. All she could feel was the perfect, painful bliss as the creature became part of her¡ªits dark perfection coursing through her very soul. Her mind shattered, and with it, the illusion of flawlessness she had so desperately clung to. And as her awareness dissolved into the Tower itself, her voice never ceased. It muttered, over and over again, naming her imperfections in rapid, breathless succession: "My hair... dull... my lips... uneven... my skin... my skin..." The words echoed through the chamber, never stopping. Katelyn was gone, but her fractured mind remained, endlessly reciting the flaws she had sought to eradicate. Her once-goddess voice, now reduced to a broken mantra of imperfections. Xx1324xX Outside Luman¡¯s Tower, time moved differently. Her followers, all men, knelt in eternal devotion. They had waited, first for days, then for weeks. Now, they waited for years, decades, and centuries. The line stretched far down the mountain, growing longer with each passing year, each man clutching a gift¡ªeach one more expensive, more lavish than the last. Golden crowns, jeweled necklaces, rare silks, the finest perfumes from across the realms¡ªall were brought before the Tower, placed at its base as offerings to the goddess they believed still resided within. But she would never emerge. Yet the line grew, the gifts more extravagant. The men whispered amongst themselves, desperate to gain her favor, to catch but a glimpse of her divine beauty, even as the truth¡ªif they had ever cared to notice¡ªwas that no gift would ever be enough. No devotion, no wealth, no sacrifice could summon her from the black stone in which she now rested, absorbed and forgotten. And still, the Tower beckoned. Its allure remained, unchanged¡ªan illusion of divine beauty so powerful that those who approached were seduced by the promise of perfection. The dreadful weight of the Tower, the creeping horror of its black stone, was masked by the shimmering vision of a flawless temple, drawing more and more into its fold. The line of men grew longer, snaking around the mountain like a silent procession, each one hoping to be the one worthy of her grace. But the goddess was gone, consumed by the Tower¡¯s dark embrace, and all that remained was the hollow shell of what once was. Inside, Katelyn¡¯s voice whispered still. "My thighs... too thick... my skin... too dry... my nose... imperfect..." Her endless litany of flaws echoed in the dark chamber, a haunting reminder of the vanity that had destroyed her. And as the years passed, the gifts piled higher and higher, the line of men longer and longer¡ªan endless cycle of devotion to an empty shrine. They would wait forever. Xx1327xX The Tower, now entwined with Katelyn¡¯s essence, pulsed with a seductive energy. The men who came to offer their treasures felt its pull, and each one believed they were special¡ªeach one believed they would be the one to win her favor. But none of them saw the truth. None of them heard the whispers of imperfections that echoed within the stone. For what could a goddess of beauty, now lost to her own obsessions, offer them? Only the same hollow pursuit that had consumed her. The Tower stood tall, dreadful and eternal, casting its shadow over the mountain and the world beyond. It was beautiful. It was perfect. And inside, the woman who had once been Katelyn, the Fire Goddess of Beauty, was now forever entombed in her own vanity. Her mind, fractured beyond repair, would repeat its broken song for all eternity. "My skin... not perfect... my breasts... too small..." Forever perfect. Forever broken. Bonus Extra 8: Chapter 5 (All-In-One) Amelia The low moan of metal bending rippled through the ship before the first scream. Then came the screech¡ªhigh, sharp, and unbearable. The sound of the Whistlin'' Death tore through the air like knives scraping glass, sending shivers down Amelia¡¯s spine and rattling her bones. It felt as though the ship itself were crying out in agony. She had heard tales of this sound¡ªships collapsing under pressure, entire structures reduced to splinters. Bolton and Michael used to tell her stories like this¡ªthe Whistlin'' Death turning ports into graveyards¡ªhalf history, half bedtime horror. But now, it wasn¡¯t just a story. It was all too real. Explosions pounded the halls. The notorious whistle vibrated the ground beneath her feet, each pulse heavy enough to make her wonder if the ship could survive. Yet before the chaos erupted, there had been warning signs¡ªthe faintest hum through the floorboards, the way the lanterns flickered just off-beat, and the air growing too still, too heavy. She glanced at Rick, confused, her hand instinctively reaching for her knife¡ªonly to find it missing. Then the Pappy Long Legs¡¯ lanterns flared a sickly red, casting a pulsing, ominous glow down the corridor. The ship seemed to writhe in anticipation, its lights a heartbeat counting down to disaster. Amelia and Rick clutched their ears, crouching against the vibrating walls as the relentless cacophony battered them. Each second stretched as the ship trembled, threatening to collapse. "Rick?! The stories?! What do we do?" Amelia screamed, her voice lost in the noise. Rick didn¡¯t answer. His mechanical arms dug into the walls, leaving jagged impressions in the metal, his eyes wild but locked onto hers. Then he pointed¡ªurgently¡ªtoward a door shaped like an owl at the far end of the hall. Amelia didn¡¯t need further explanation. She bolted, but the ship¡¯s violent shuddering threw her off balance. She staggered, catching herself against the wall. The vibrations didn¡¯t stop, rolling through her chest like thunder. At the door, her fingers fumbled with the handle, trembling as sound waves pulsed through her body. She yanked, then pushed¡ªnothing. The noise wasn¡¯t just sound anymore. It was pressure¡ªa force pressing down on her, grinding her movements to a crawl. Her eyes darted back to Rick, panic widening her gaze. This can¡¯t be it. It can¡¯t end like this. Rick was close behind, his thinner arms covering his ears while two larger mechanical limbs worked feverishly on the door. His fingertips extended, transforming into a crude, sparking saw that screamed nearly as loud as the ship. He motioned for Amelia to stay low, his face tense as the blades carved through. Before Rick could finish, the original Roy¡ªthe mechanical guide Amelia had half-grown to trust¡ªemerged from behind the door. His metallic fingers beckoned them forward, his spotlight eyes cutting through the chaos like a guiding beacon. ¡°YOU are not allowed. However, exceptions have been made,¡± Roy said, his tone light, almost too casual, as if they weren¡¯t seconds from disaster. They rushed through, passing a crackling veil of blue light. Static buzzed against Amelia¡¯s skin, prickling as she stepped through. The screech faded into a muffled rumble, but even in the silence, a suffocating weight lingered¡ªas if they¡¯d only stepped into the eye of the storm. ¡°My new directive is to ensure your safety, Amelia,¡± Roy intoned, his voice devoid of emotion. ¡°Take a breath before speakin¡¯, Crowny,¡± Rick warned, brushing past her. Relief washed over her¡ªbriefly. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, dread clawed its way back. The space was vast, its walls streaked with soot and shadow, lit by flickering flames and electric arcs that framed a towering mechanical figure. It loomed in the atrium, half-suspended in midair. Half of its body was a mangled metallic skeleton, battle-worn and scarred. Exposed wiring sparked sporadically, barely holding together. The other half was disturbingly familiar¡ªwhite coat tails speckled with black dots and a frayed bomber jacket hanging loose like a corpse¡¯s skin. A cracked, bird-shaped helmet crowned its head. Amelia¡¯s breath hitched. Glassford. Quadrant Leader Glassford, the Owl of Quadrant 8. She had seen him countless times¡ªpristine, calm, untouchable. But here, he hung like a broken marionette. A horrifying thought hit her. He¡¯s a machine. The realization twisted her stomach. Glassford¡ªthe leader, the legend¡ªwas a lie. ¡°A...machine,¡± she whispered. ¡°Rick¡­ one of Father¡¯s best friends. A machine.¡± Her mind reeled. This wasn¡¯t just machinery¡ªit had lived, fought, and now, it was dying. The gashes, ruptured cables, and worn patches told a tragic story. Was leadership itself a lie? Were the others like him? What if my brothers are already machines too? Rick¡¯s voice snapped her back. ¡°Crowny! Listen! If the Whistlin¡¯ Death wanted this airship gone, it¡¯d already be in pieces. They didn¡¯t bring a fleet¡ªjust their damned heavy weight. They¡¯re not here to burn us out¡ªthey¡¯re here to take.¡± They¡¯re here to collect something... Or someone.¡± He jabbed a finger toward Glassford. ¡°The Owl of Quadrant 8. If they can¡¯t get him, they¡¯ll settle for you!¡± Her gaze fell to the tubes snaking from Glassford¡¯s body into the walls, faintly pulsing. He was being drained¡ªa Quadrant Leader reduced to fuel. ¡°Quadrant Leaders don¡¯t get assassinated,¡± she muttered, disbelief shaking her voice. ¡°They¡¯re the best of the best¡­¡± Rick¡¯s patience snapped. ¡°By the blasted Tumbling Greens! You Woltworks wouldn¡¯t trust the stink of shit in front of you! Yes, that¡¯s Glassford! And no, I didn¡¯t kill him. But I sure as hell didn¡¯t save him! Now hide or pick up a weapon before this mess takes you too!¡± Amelia¡¯s gut screamed to press Rick for answers, but the urgency in his voice forced her to act. Survive now¡ªquestions later. Her gaze shifted to the tubes snaking from Glassford¡¯s ravaged body into the walls, faintly pulsing. His energy was being drained¡ªa Quadrant Leader reduced to fuel. She pressed a hand to her chest, betrayal mingling with a creeping fear. ¡°Rick. Quadrant Leaders don¡¯t get assassinated. Killed lik- like any other person! They¡¯re the best of the best! This is¡­impossible,¡± she muttered, disbelief shaking her voice. If Glassford could be taken down, what did that mean for the others? For everything she believed untouchable? Rick¡¯s patience snapped. ¡°By the blasted Tumbling Greens! You Woltworks wouldn¡¯t trust the stink of shit right in front of you!¡± His voice cracked. ¡°Yes, that is Glassford! And yes, I¡¯m not innocent! Didn¡¯t kill him but¡­ didn¡¯t help him either! Now hide or pick up a weapon, unless you want to get permanently tangled in this mess as well!¡± Amelia hesitated. Her gut screamed to press him for answers. Could she trust him? ¡°I¡¯m not doing a damn thing until you explain¡ª¡± Tried shouting Amelia. ¡°Explain what? The infinite void that is the spirit world? You want it carved into a damn popsicle stick?!¡± Rick roared, his voice cracking under the weight of desperation. ¡°Crowny! I don¡¯t know how it works! I¡¯m just a father who screwed up¡ªa mistake I¡¯d make again!¡± He shouted, his words raw and unsteady, even as his eyes darted past Amelia, scanning the shadows behind her. ¡°Believe me or don¡¯t¡ªbut I found him like this. Half-dead, and fading fast.¡± Amelia looked away, the thundering pistons of the Pappy Long Legs pounding in her ears like war drums. She stumbled, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. ¡°Get up! Scurry over here, damn it!¡± Rick hissed, his voice barely cutting through the hum of the machinery. His red sunglasses hid his eyes, but the tension in his stance betrayed his urgency. ¡°Pick up a stick, a bolt¡ªhell, anything sharp! Something¡¯s coming.¡± He paused, his voice softening but no less desperate. ¡°By the Goblet and Green, don¡¯t do it for me. Do it for Roy¡ªand for yourself. We need to be ready.¡± He swallowed hard. ¡°Extraction Protocol Q8.¡± ¡°Extraction Protocol Q8?¡± Amelia¡¯s eyes darted to Rick, who shifted uncomfortably and avoided her gaze. ¡°Another invention?¡± ¡°Another one that saves your life yes,¡± Rick snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. ¡°Our ticket outta here... should yous still feel comfortable breaking bread with me.¡± Amelia¡¯s brow furrowed as her gaze drifted toward the platform housing Glassford. The hum of circling engines sent vibrations through the glass beneath her feet, pulsing with flickering lights like veins. A cage. A containment system. Her breath hitched. What kind of monster needed a cage like this? The subtle vibrations beneath her feet reminded her of the Yardrat chambers¡ªglass prisons designed to hold creatures too dangerous to roam free, captured during the average supply run. Her mind flashed back to the glistening tanks and reinforced walls, each structure built to either study¡ªor destroy¡ªwhatever was trapped inside. Depending on the interest of it¡¯s captur. The idea unsettled her. She hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on her chest. Her hand hovered near the locket around her neck before she quickly lowered it, frowning as if the action had betrayed her uncertainty. Her eyes flicked toward the tall, narrow windows lining the walls, revealing slivers of the outer evening sky. Through the dim glass, the faint glow of the horizon seemed distant¡ªcold and indifferent. The pulsing blue light from Glassford flickered against the glass, casting jagged shadows of small automatons poised in defensive positions. Their metallic frames glinted sharply, reflecting the hum of the containment platform like predators waiting for a signal. For a moment, Amelia remained still, her breath catching as the machines¡¯ dark outlines twitched ever so slightly¡ªalive, but dormant. Her fingers curled into fists. The vibrations grew stronger beneath her, a low, mechanical growl building from the depths of the ship. Hesitation wasn¡¯t an option. She glanced at Rick, who was furiously welding the door shut, his posture tense, shoulders hunched as if holding the weight of the ship¡¯s chaos on his back. The clang of metal against metal echoed through the room. His movements were frantic, sharp, as though fighting against time itself. Meanwhile, Roy tinkered with a small ventilation unit, his mechanical fingers clicking away with precise, playful indifference. The platform hummed louder. The engines seemed to come alive, the faint vibration now pulsing through the glass beneath her feet. Amelia shifted uneasily, glancing down as if the ground could fall away at any second. ¡°Where¡¯s my knife, Rick? The one that should¡¯ve been in the front pocket of my uniform,¡± Amelia asked, her voice cold but measured. ¡°By the Goblet and Green! Grab somethin¡¯ that at least looks like a weapon!¡± Rick shouted, frustration spilling over as debris crashed from the ceiling, cracking one of his lenses. Amelia shot him a sour look, her frustration still simmering, but without a word, she knelt to pick up his cracked glasses. Rick kept welding, the sparks casting fleeting shadows across his face, but there was an unspoken tension in the air. Gently, almost reluctantly, she slid the damaged frames back onto his nose. Her fingers brushed against his skin, and for a moment, his mechanical limbs stilled. His frown, once hard and set, softened at the edges. Neither of them spoke, but in that quiet gesture, the argument seemed to fade, leaving behind a fragile truce. He grunted, his tone quieter. ¡°Roy¡¯s got your knife,¡± he said, his voice still rough but with a hint of reluctance. His gaze lingered on her briefly, almost as if weighing his next words. ¡°Get it. Help me fight. Live another day.¡± With that, he nodded toward Roy, leading her in the direction of the small machine, his previous gruffness easing into something a bit more protective. She nodded in agreement, quickly making her way toward Roy, who was standing just a few steps away, manning a console that controlled the pistons galloping in the room. ¡°Rick said you have my knife.¡± ¡°This is TRUE,¡± Roy said, his spotlight eyes dimming slightly. ¡°So hand it over,¡± Amelia demanded. ¡°WHY?¡± Roy tilted his head. ¡°Whisky requested something of yours. It was going to USE it.¡± ¡°Whisky?¡± Amelia asked, her confusion growing. ¡°Yes. The security bot YOU dubbed Whisky. It is currently... dancing in the incinerator,¡± Roy said flatly. ¡°Really?¡± Amelia blinked, then shook her head. ¡°Never mind that, Roy! Give me the knife. Rick¡¯s orders.¡± Roy turned toward Rick for confirmation before opening a compartment and retrieving the knife. Amelia quickly strapped it to her waist with a loose wire. ¡°Wait. AMELIA.¡± She froze. ¡°What is it, Roy?¡± ¡°Your hat.¡± Roy extended her Yardrat cap¡ªnow patched with a tiny metallic smiley face. Amelia blinked. ¡°You¡­ fixed it?¡± Roy¡¯s eyes flickered. ¡°You leak too much.¡± Amelia blinked, taken aback. Her Yardrat hat¡ªthe simple flat cap she had worn countless times in the mines¡ªsat in Roy''s hands, as pristine as ever. But something was different. Roy had added a patch, a small metallic smiley face, its dull sheen catching the flickering light. It was an odd, almost childlike touch, completely out of place amid the noise and destruction around them. ¡°Y-you fixed it?¡± Amelia whispered, reaching out to take the cap, her fingers brushing against Roy¡¯s cold, mechanical ones. The weight of it in her hand felt strangely comforting, a relic of a simpler time before the weight of machines and broken truths had pressed down on her. Roy¡¯s spotlight eyes flickered, dimming slightly as if unsure of how to respond. ¡°Yes. You are¡­ Yardrat. UNIFORM must be whole.¡± She stared at the hat, her mind struggling to reconcile the innocence of the gesture with the chaos unfolding around her. For a moment, the cacophony of battle and the screeching of the Whistlin'' Death seemed to fade, replaced by the simple truth of this small act of kindness. Roy, for all his oddities and mechanical nature, had fixed something. And not just anything¡ªhe had fixed something that mattered to her, something tied to her identity, her history. "Your eyes... they leak too much," Roy observed, his spotlight eyes dimming slightly as if unsure how to respond. ¡°Thanks, Roy,¡± Amelia muttered, her voice softer than she intended. Her fingers brushed over the small patch¡ªthe metallic smiley face, a strange and innocent addition that now felt like an anchor in the chaos. The air hummed with tension as Rick hunched by the door, welding in swift, furious strokes. Outside, Pappy Long Legs groaned under heavy blows, the metal walls trembling with each impact. Yet, in that sliver of time, Amelia felt something different¡ªsomething quiet and unbroken amid the storm. She pulled the cap on, a faint smile tugging at her lips. The world hadn¡¯t made sense in ages¡ªmaybe it never would¡ªbut Roy¡¯s simple gesture left her with one clear thought: not everything was broken. Not yet. Her thoughts snapped back to the chaos as her eyes caught the blue glow of the gem embedded in her locket. Her hand instinctively closed around it, her pulse quickening. The screeching. The danger. The timing. It all felt connected to the gem¡ªlike it was beating at the storm¡¯s heart. Is it going to float again? Should I have crushed it earlier? Her mind raced. ¡°Rick!¡± she shouted over the cacophony of falling debris and pounding pistons. ¡°Whatever¡¯s happening¡ªit¡¯s because of this damn locket! I¡ªI¡¯m going to crush it, to get the gem... probably!¡± Rick whipped around, alarm flashing in his eyes as his welding torch clattered to the floor. ¡°Are you sure, Crowny? You¡¯ve got no idea what that could mean! This isn¡¯t just some rock in a locket¡ªit could be your soul, your brothers¡¯, maybe even a piece of Yerro¡¯s own!¡± ¡°If you crush it, young lady, you might trigger something wild¡ªsomething we can¡¯t take back.¡± Her hand tightened around the glowing gem, its pulse thudding in time with her heartbeat. Throw it down. Crush it. End this. Rick¡¯s voice softened. ¡°This ain¡¯t somethin¡¯ to walk off the chin, Amelia.¡± But the chaos outside¡ªthe Whistlin¡¯ Death, the mechanical screeches, the roar of imminent collapse¡ªonly grew louder. ¡°It¡¯s like your friend Ehmir said¡ªwe¡¯re playin¡¯ ball without a stick!¡± she snapped back. ¡°My brothers aren¡¯t dead, so staying alive is all I¡¯ve got!¡± With a final look at the patch Roy had sewn onto her hat¡ªa quiet symbol of innocence in a world on the edge¡ªAmelia pressed the cap firmly onto her head and straightened it, a grim smile tugging at her lips. The gesture grounded her¡ªif only for a fleeting moment. ¡°I¡¯m choosing to trust only my brothers! For now! Anyone else is still up for discussion,¡± she muttered through clenched teeth, locking eyes with Rick. ¡°We¡¯re all lickin¡¯ dice today.¡± ¡°Fresh outta my book, Crowny! Well¡ª¡± Before he could finish, a thunderous crash shook the room. Amelia ducked as debris rained down from the ceiling. The sound reverberated like a monstrous roar, and through the sudden cloud of dust and smoke, something large, something menacing, descended into the room. Who? Or worse¡­ what? Her gaze fell to the locket in her hand. A faint blue light seeped through its cracks, flickering in rhythm with her racing heartbeat. It pulsed¡ªalive, restless¡ªcasting soft, shifting shadows across her fingers. Throw it down. Crush it. End this. The thought struck like a hammer, but her hand refused to move. ¡°What if it ended the chaos¡ªor them?¡± Suddenly, the room fell silent. The once-constant rumble of the Pappy Long Legs ceased, leaving Rick, Roy, and Amelia frozen. Their eyes locked on a silhouette emerging from the swirling gray and black dust. The oppressive quiet pressed down on them, amplifying the tension. ¡°Crushing what you don¡¯t understand¡ªthat¡¯s ignorance. And a disregard for the flesh that¡¯s still warm inside. You wouldn¡¯t crush the egg of an Ignorpa without witnessing the powerful life within.¡± Amelia¡¯s gaze narrowed as she eyed the glowing gem. ¡°W-why shouldn¡¯t I?¡± she demanded, but the figure said nothing. Smoke poured from the ceiling¡ªthick, heavy, and almost sticky. It clung to her skin, dragging through her lungs like oil, curling around her feet. A sound followed. Jagged laughter rippled through the smoke¡ªdeep, unsettling, and far too human. But something about it was wrong. Off. It scraped at the edges of her mind, each breathless rasp sinking deeper, twisting what should have been laughter into something hollow and broken. Two glowing blue eyes pierced through the haze, the same hue as the gem in her locket. The figure¡¯s tall, lanky frame wavered, with large protrusions jutting from its back and long, stilt-like legs. Amelia¡¯s breath caught as razor-sharp strings dangled from above¡ªtwisted puppet wires swaying with the figure¡¯s every movement. ¡°The gem¡­ awarded to you and your siblings at the Greisha ceremony. It carries a piece of Yerro¡¯s soul¡ªsomething I now intend to claim. No hard feelings,¡± the voice threatened. ¡°Unless you crush it, that is.¡± The strings didn¡¯t just connect to the figure¡ªthey extended into the smoke, controlling other shapes. More Whistlin'' Death pirates emerged, similar in appearance, their movements marionette-like, dragged forward by the same glistening, knife-edged strings. Their jerky movements hummed with tension, the strings tightening with every step. Rick¡¯s sensors flared as razor-sharp strings snapped into focus, bursting from the smoke like fangs from a predator¡¯s maw. ¡°I hear shitty puppets could always use more string,¡± Rick mocked, though his voice carried the weight of concern. Before anyone could react, a giant metallic ball zipped along the taut razor wires, gliding and twisting as if it had a mind of its own. It spun closer, each rotation gleaming in the flickering light, its polished surface gleaming wickedly in the flickering lantern flames. Then it plummeted, slamming into the floor with a deafening crash. It rolled for a single heartbeat¡ªthen burst open. A web of razor wire unraveled outward, pulling taut with chilling precision. The wires lashed out, slicing through the air with terrifying speed, their edges glinting like teeth. Sparks flew as they tore into the walls, leaving jagged cuts. Amelia dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the deadly strands. Rick wasn¡¯t so lucky. Two of his mechanical arms were caught, razor wire digging deep into their frames. Sparks shot out as he grunted in pain, his body jolting under the brutal impact. The red lights from the Pappy Long Legs flickered ominously, casting an eerie glow that pulsed like a heartbeat. Amelia¡¯s breath hitched. It had flashed like this before¡ªa warning. Her gaze darted to Rick. His silence said everything. This wasn¡¯t just another fight. The ship trembled as if it sensed the danger too, echoing Rick¡¯s own sinking unease. Rick, still recovering from the last attack, shot her a look¡ªgrim, sharp. More trouble was coming. ¡°So, you believe me to be this ¡®Devil Dog?¡¯¡± a voice slithered from the haze. The silhouette stepped closer, its glowing, jagged grin slicing through the smoke. ¡°Humorous name for an anim¡ª¡± This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it ¡°Animal like you!¡± Amelia¡¯s voice cut through, sharp and trembling. She tightened her grip on the knife, the cold edge pressing against her palm. ¡°I remember the smoke. That thing nearly killed me. It¡¯s not¡ª¡± ¡°Wrong!¡± the silhouette barked, and a thin wave of razor wires hissed out of the fog. Amelia barely flinched in time. A sting burned across her cheek as warmth trickled down. She stumbled back¡ªinto something worse. Her back hit a web of razor-like strings. The edges bit into her skin. She froze. Each shallow breath felt like a mistake. Every movement¡ªanother gamble with blood. Her clothes hung in shredded strips, leaving her exposed and trembling. A voice dripped through the mist, mechanical and cold. ¡°I am Number Two. Behind me stand Numbers Three, Seven, and Twenty-Two.¡± The silhouette leaned closer. ¡°And you, my delusional ex-princess, must be Amelia Woltwork.¡± "Girl. Do you want to know what Gigarock can do?" Number Two¡¯s voice sharpened, each syllable a scalpel drawn slow. "The gem embedded in your locket0. Do you even understand what it truly is?¡± Amelia hesitated, casting a quick glance at her torn clothing. Blood dotted the fabric. Her hands trembled slightly, but she forced herself to meet Number Two¡¯s gaze. Only its cold, mechanical eyes pierced through the thickening mist, glowing with a light that matched her locket. Behind him, figures emerged¡ªhalf-seen shadows shifting in the fog. The faint outlines of the others¡ªNumbers Three, Seven, and Twenty-Two¡ªhovered in the haze. Their eyes blinked in unison, an eerie orchestra of mechanical intent. ¡°How it acts as a cage for souls? Its rarity? Its forms? Its value?¡± The words hung in the air, heavy and calculating, like a threat wrapped in a riddle. Number Two¡¯s eyes twitched toward her locket, the glow reflected like a smoldering ember. His movements were stiff¡ªpuppet-like¡ªbut wrong in ways Amelia couldn¡¯t name. The others remained still, their mechanical gazes adding to the dread that pressed against her chest. ¡°That tattoo¡ªdo your brothers carry the same? Does it tingle in the presence of Yerro¡¯s soul?¡± The silhouette¡¯s voice dropped to a murmur, unnervingly direct. As if in response, her locket glowed faintly blue, casting an eerie shimmer through the fog, illuminating the twisted metal threads snaking through the mist. Amelia¡¯s eyes flashed with defiance. ¡°Metal or man?¡± ¡°Why the concern?¡± Its metallic teeth clattered from the fog, accompanied by the faint sound of winding gears. ¡°You¡¯re either some rogue muscle of the Primarian Arc or an ex-suit from the Primarian Royale. Human has been optional lately. Which one is it?¡± Amelia challenged, her voice steady despite the dread twisting like ice in her stomach. Number Two chuckled, a hollow sound that scratched the walls like nails. Outside, the Pappy Long Legs¡¯ rumble faded to silence, leaving only the sinister whisper of sharpening wires behind him. ¡°I¡¯m just Number Two,¡± he replied, his voice dropping to a slow, deliberate tone. ¡°And I¡¯m here to extend a deal. Otherwise, you¡¯d already be dead. Down. With. The. Ship.¡± Thick smoke curled around him, consuming Number Two¡¯s form entirely, leaving only faint, haunting glimpses of his glowing blue eyes piercing through the haze. The coat it wore hung in tatters, swaying like loose skin. Amelia slipped the locket back into her pocket, her fingers brushing its cold surface as though to keep it close. Her other hand tightened on the knife. The blade¡¯s edge quivered slightly. From the corner of her vision, a thick, corded wire shot from Rick¡¯s mechanical arm, hissing like a viper. It extended into the smoke, aimed directly at Number Two. The wire moved with a fluid, sinewy strength, pulsing with a deep red light that flickered in rhythmic bursts, mirroring the lamps of the Pappy Long Legs. Amelia squinted, barely able to make out the faint shape of the coat clinging to Number Two¡¯s form, its hard edges softened and warped by the swirling mist. She couldn¡¯t see Rick¡¯s precise hit, but the red charge arced through the wire, crackling as it struck. The silhouette absorbed the current. It twitched but didn¡¯t fall. Its stance stayed loose. "And that must be Rick," Number Two sneered, his voice carrying a mocking edge from somewhere in the haze. "The legendary Rick. Former Primarian Hammer, am I right? Those wires look familiar." Rick¡¯s voice broke through the tension with an experienced calm. ¡°They should be. Now get out.¡± ¡°Violence first, questions later? Isn¡¯t that what got you into this mess, Rick the Primarian Hammer?¡± Number Two mocked. ¡°One. Of. Five.¡± Rick¡¯s mechanical limbs tensed. ¡°What do you know about¡ª¡± Number Two¡¯s eerie gaze shifted toward a giant metal ball hanging just above Roy¡¯s head. ¡°Ah, perhaps it¡¯d be wise to listen before you act,¡± he replied smoothly. Roy remained blissfully unaware, focused intently on Glassfor, the former Quadrant Leader. The ball swayed ominously above him. ¡°This fog,¡± Number Two continued, his voice curling like smoke, ¡°only grows thicker. It strangles organic life¡­ but electrifies and ignites machines. Gives us a little extra oomph.¡± Roy paused, his curious eyes lingering on the thick cables feeding into the walls of the Pappy Long Legs. The machinery surrounding Glassford¡¯s remains hummed with ominous energy. Rick¡¯s voice broke sharply. ¡°Boy! Where¡¯s your mind!?¡± Roy hesitated, quickly withdrawing his hand, though his gaze remained fixed on the large wires, his fingers twitching. ¡°Tammersmith! Where did you put his mind!? In a deal best served by royalty!? Which King did you ask for the favor!? Michael or his puppet father!?¡± Before he could finish, a barrage of thick, tendon-like wires shot from the walls, each ending in spear-tipped edges that slammed into Number Two. The impact rang out like gunfire. Black oil leaked from its body, pooling beneath the writhing strands. Electricity crackled, searing it one last time before subsiding. Number Two sagged, its mechanical frame trembling but not falling. Amelia¡¯s breath came in shallow gasps. ¡°What about the deal, Rick?¡± she asked, her voice tight with unease. Rick¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°Should¡¯ve kept its mouth shut about my son. Don¡¯t forget¡ªit¡¯s not alone. Whatever it is, it¡¯s using Primarian Hammer tech.¡± ¡°The wires?¡± Amelia pressed, glancing toward the thick strands. ¡°It seemed¡­ familiar with them.¡± Rick nodded grimly. ¡°Modified, sure, but I recognize the shotty yet particular design.¡± Amelia¡¯s gaze shifted back to the fog, catching eerie shadows hovering beyond. ¡°And the others?¡± she whispered, her voice barely audible. ¡°I can see their shapes¡­ unmoving. They¡¯re just¡­ waiting.¡± ¡°Still as stone,¡± Rick confirmed, his voice hard. ¡°My security bots are on em'' like a living wall. Even those things know better than to test it.¡± ¡°Whisky¡­¡± Amelia murmured under her breath, grounding herself amid the tension. Rick¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°That ¡®number whatever¡¯ isn¡¯t dead because it was never alive,¡± he muttered, glancing her way. ¡°This is all a game to one man¡ªa puppet master pulling strings on machines that should¡¯ve stayed buried. Worse is, I once looked up to him¡­ back when I was an apprentice Primarian Hammer. Never one for subtlety.¡± Amelia¡¯s eyes narrowed, suspicion and defiance flickering within them. ¡°And now he¡¯s after you? Or¡­me?¡± Rick nodded grimly. ¡°Like anythin¡¯ lately, can¡¯t say for certain. But the Whistlin¡¯ bastards tore apart my shop in Veranus lookin¡¯ for something I may or may not have had¡ªa rare piece of Gigarock. Not your typical Yardrat street grade; this is S-Class. Straight from Yerro¡¯s heart, like the Gigarock in your locket. The kind that keeps a Quadrant Leader ticking.¡± ¡°The kind of power that¡¯s a nightmare for New Dwarden¡¯s enemies,¡± Amelia murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes flicked to Roy, who remained transfixed by the wires. Like the machines behind Number Two, he stood still¡ªtoo still. Her gaze hardened. ¡°Rick¡­ what did you do? What is Roy?¡± Rick exhaled sharply. ¡°Your Crowny brother, the King, knew about Glassford¡¯s disappearance three years ago.¡± His voice dipped lower, rough with fatigue. ¡°It¡¯s a mystery for the ages¡ªthe original Glassford was never recovered. So, the King and I fashioned a convincing replica, powered by the Gigarock in his locket.¡± He hesitated, his jaw tightening as if the words themselves burned. ¡°After long nights and seat-denting research, the fake Glassford started appearing in public, steady as clockwork. But it wasn¡¯t long before it started showing signs of¡­ autonomy. Its creation was a secret kept tightly among the Crown and the Primarian Hammer. Fact is, only the King or Queen of New Dwarden could scrounge up an S-Class Gigarock, and even then, only in dire emergencies. It was risky¡ªbarely tested and volatile.¡± Rick¡¯s expression darkened. He looked down, shoulders heavy. ¡°It was a penny-knicked setup from the start. The damn replica would fail constantly, and I was left to keep it ¡®alive¡¯ between appearances like some shitty wind-up doll. But something¡­ changed. Over time, a small piece of the King¡¯s Gigarock must¡¯ve fused with the machine. The replica started to believe it was Glassford¡ªlike it had a mind of its own. Even wandered off, far beyond New Dwarden. I found it half-dead.¡± His voice dropped lower. ¡°Talked to the King. That¡¯s when we knew it had to be taken out of commission. It¡¯s been hidden away in the Pappy Long Legs ever since¡ªa ghost running on borrowed life. Been salvagin¡¯ what I could.¡± Amelia felt a chill creep down her spine. She glanced at her locket, its faint glow casting a soft light against her trembling fingers. This same power¡ªuntamed, unpredictable¡ªwas hanging around her neck. Her hand closed over it, protective yet uneasy. Rick¡¯s gaze lingered on her, regret pooling in his eyes. ¡°Eventually, I paid the price for this deception, and so did others. After an unsuccessful attempt to remove its heart, one of us Hammers¡ªMarta¡­ didn¡¯t make it out.¡± His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. ¡°The kind of power that can breathe life¡ªor something close to it¡ªinto a machine¡­ it doesn¡¯t come without consequences.¡± Amelia¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line, her suspicion rising. ¡°How much does my brother know?¡± Her voice cut through the fog, low and demanding. Rick flinched. His silence spoke louder than any answer. Amelia exhaled through her nose, bitterness creeping into her tone. ¡°Are you scared to destroy what¡¯s left of its heart? What¡¯s left of the Gigarock¡¯s flesh?¡± Rick¡¯s eyes dropped toward the ground. ¡°On the day Marta died, we concluded that the flesh held within a Gigarock cannot be destroyed¡ªonly contained. Worse yet, any attempt to can result in¡­ situations far worse than death.¡± ¡°What now?¡± Her voice softened, wavering between wonder and fear. ¡°You want me to repair it? Destroy it? That¡¯s your plan?¡± Rick¡¯s head dipped toward the dangling shell of Number Two while the silhouettes of the other Whistlin¡¯ Death pirates seemed to crawl closer from the fog. His jaw tightened, his words sharp. ¡°You were never part of the plan, Amelia.¡± Rick¡¯s voice faltered, carrying something almost wounded. ¡°My objective was to figure a way to contain Glassford¡¯s remnant.¡± He gestured toward Roy. Amelia¡¯s breath hitched. ¡°Your son? You used your son!?¡± Her words cracked like glass. Rick flinched but held his ground. ¡°One of many ghoulish spirits that inhabit Yerro offered me a reward¡ªfor returning what it called a ¡®Raa¡¯Tas,¡¯ or a ¡®tainted piece¡¯ of Yerro¡¯s heart.¡± He swallowed hard, his voice roughening. ¡°It preyed on my insecurities, made promises it knew I wanted to hear. My son was teeterin¡¯ on life. And now, the thing¡¯s left me barely breathing, my son without flesh¡­ and here I am, talkin¡¯ about what¡¯s alive and what isn¡¯t. I¡¯m beginning to lose my wonder for this world.¡± Amelia¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°My brother has you cleaning this up, doesn¡¯t he?¡± Rick let out a hollow laugh, but it died quickly. ¡°Furious was he. Had to make up for a terrible thing. Now I¡¯m out lookin¡¯ for Glassford¡¯s original and a permanent way to contain the Raa¡¯Tas, yes,¡± Rick admitted wearily. ¡°Now caught up in whatever you are and the puzzle you fit into. You¡ª¡± Before Rick could finish, the fog thickened, shifting into hulking shapes¡ªmechanical bodies with jointed limbs and hollow faces. They loomed in the mist, twisting like ghosts awakened from their graves. Amelia¡¯s breath quickened. Tendrils of fog wrapped around her ankles, curling like living vines. WAmelia¡¯s breath quickened. What is this? Rick smirked, his voice cutting through the tension. ¡°You didn¡¯t think they¡¯d get rid of all my security forces just like that, did ya?¡± The ship rumbled, and the walls of the Pappy Long Legs came alive. The ¡°little Roys¡± clung to the bulkheads like spiders, their glowing red eyes blazing. Their mouths opened¡ªwires uncoiling, spears snapping outward. Suddenly, the vents began to hum, sucking in the fog like the breath of some massive beast. Swirls of mist coiled toward the walls, leaving only the metallic phantoms behind. Rick stepped closer, his voice dark with grim humor. ¡°I hear shitty puppets could always use more string,¡± he muttered, never taking his eyes off the lifeless husk of Number Two. ¡°Now, let¡¯s find who¡¯s in control and end this mess.¡± Amelia wiped sweat and soot from her hands, her fingers tightening around her knife. She opened her mouth to speak but froze as something crashed down in front of Rick. A massive metallic ball dented the floor before rolling back into the fog. A voice followed, smooth and unnervingly calm. ¡°Why ruin the fun?¡± The smoke parted, revealing a towering figure with metallic stilts for legs and a mechanical arm. Brass goggles glinted under the dim light, and his tattered coat carried the marks of storms and smoke. He swung a pneumatic weapon in his hand¡ªa chain-bound ball of steel hissing softly, like a predator stirring in its sleep. Amelia shuddered. He wasn¡¯t just a machine. He was a statement. The figure grinned, his glowing blue eyes locked on her. ¡°Number Two? Three? A hundred?¡± He leaned closer. ¡°Let¡¯s just say I¡¯m not your enemy. But I am.¡± His voice cracked with sharpness. ¡°Omission¡¯s still lying. And I won¡¯t kill you¡ªyet. You see, I need that Gigarock in your locket. Dead bodies don¡¯t work.¡± The fog shifted again, revealing four more figures¡ªtwisted reflections of the first, their frames sharp and skeletal. Each bore crude titles like IRON 1 and GOLD 1, etched in harsh lettering. Rick¡¯s voice broke the tension. ¡°Why ranks? Why numbers?¡± He gestured subtly for Amelia to move toward Glassford. ¡°Wake him or destroy him.¡± Rick¡¯s tone dropped, urgent. ¡°If this thing¡¯s a rogue Primarian Hammer, we¡¯re going to hell either way.¡± Amelia hesitated, her knife trembling. What if waking him makes things worse? Rick¡¯s golden eyes softened. ¡°No time, Crowny. Trust your instincts. Before she could react, the machine¡ªNumber Two¡ªlunged. Nearly invisible razor wires hissed as they snapped taut, propelling it forward with breakneck speed. Its metallic limbs blurred, a whirlwind of aggression and smoke, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Thick, dark fumes poured from its mouth, swallowing the air in the acrid stench of burning oil¡ªlike the Clankers that haunted Whistletop Alley. Amelia¡¯s mind screamed move, but her legs stayed rooted, frozen by terror. A massive arm struck her. The impact sent her crashing into the cold metal wall of the Pappy Long Legs. Her vision flickered, the edges darkening, but the sight of the ¡®little Roys¡¯ beside her burned clear. Their glowing eyes blinked wide with concern as she gasped for air, pinned by the machine¡¯s weight. Number Two loomed closer, its joints groaning with each lurching step. Instinct seized her. Her hand shot to her waist, finding the knife. She drove it forward without thinking. The blade struck true. It sank into Number Two¡¯s chest with a metallic screech, the machine¡¯s momentum forcing it deeper. Sparks erupted¡ªelectric-blue flares mixed with fluorescent black oil laced in rainbow streaks. The viscous liquid sprayed in arcs, reflecting eerie patterns against the walls and across her face. The weight pressed harder. Her breaths came fast and shallow as the machine froze, shuddering under the sudden impact. The little Roys sprang into action, their small hands pressing against the cold frame, shoving in a desperate attempt to free her. Their efforts barely moved it. The machine¡¯s weight held firm, its glowing eyes flickering¡ªnot with defeat, but amusement. For a moment, only the hiss of steam escaped the wound. The machine¡¯s light dimmed, pulsing erratically, but it did not collapse. Then it spoke. ¡°You¡­¡± The voice rasped, glitching with static, and then chuckled¡ªa sick, distorted sound. ¡°Sometimes I wonder¡­ do I even have the privilege of dying?¡± It paused, its light flickering again. ¡°Too bad.¡± Amelia froze. Her grip on the knife tightened as she watched it move¡ªdeliberately, consciously. With unsettling calm, it slid further up the blade, forcing the weapon deeper into its chest. Each inch sent arcs of electricity crackling outward, spraying oil in rainbow-hued bursts, but the machine didn¡¯t stop. Its glowing eyes burned brighter, reveling in her horror. Suddenly, its free hand darted into her pocket. Before she could react, it yanked out her pendant, holding the locket up like a prize. The chain swung, catching the dim light, mocking her helplessness. ¡°Don¡¯t miss this moment.¡± Its voice softened, savoring her shock. ¡°Look at me, girl! What does a machine need with a soul?¡± Its fingers curled around the locket, metal joints creaking as if ready to crush it. The glow from its eyes flickered, locked onto hers, unblinking. ¡°Ahh,¡± it murmured, almost tenderly. ¡°Your eyes¡ªso full of life.¡± Its voice dropped lower, twisted with greed. ¡°I, too, can be greedy.¡± The words sank like hooks into her chest, but anger snapped her back. ¡°As if a Yardrat has anything to fear in the dark!¡± she spat, her voice sharp and defiant. The machine tilted its head, a cruel grin carved into its motion. It leaned closer, pressing harder against the knife, almost daring her to act. But her fury flared brighter. Her hand shot out, wrenching the pendant free from its grasp. The chain snapped as she tore it away, shoving it into her pocket and sealing it closed with a fist. Her breaths came in ragged gasps. She pushed against Number Two¡¯s frame, straining against its weight, but it didn¡¯t budge. Her chest burned, pinned by the limp yet unyielding mass. Then¡ªa metallic groan. Rick¡¯s voice cut through the chaos. ¡°You didn¡¯t think they¡¯d take out all my security forces that easily, did you?¡± Before Number Two could react, Rick¡¯s mechanical arm splintered outward like an uncoiling piston. Bolts snapped, gears cracked, and the impact smashed into the machine¡¯s body. Number Two staggered back, freeing Amelia in a burst of movement. She stumbled forward, dragging in gulps of air as she scrambled to her feet. Her gaze locked on Rick¡ªawed, terrified, and desperate all at once. Rick steadied himself, his splintered arm twitching, but his eyes burned with focus. Then, without a word, his hand disappeared beneath his shirt, gripping something inside¡ªa pulsing core of blue and orange light, wrapped in mechanical threads. Amelia froze at the sight. It was alive. Or something close to it. ¡°Rick!¡± Her voice cracked. ¡°Dammit! If you die, Roy dies!¡± But Rick didn¡¯t stop. Instead, he gritted his teeth and yanked the core free. Before he could respond, a harsh, rattling cough cut through the chaos. Amelia spun. Roy hunched over, hacking up a vile mixture of black oil and dark, blood-red fluid. The iridescent drops trickled down his chin¡ªan unnatural blend of machine and life, tangled like some macabre alchemist¡¯s brew. Amelia¡¯s stomach churned. ¡°Roy?¡± Rick¡¯s gaze darted around the room. The fog thickened, curling low across the floor before being pulled into the Pappy Long Legs¡¯ vents¡ªsilent, deliberate, like the ship itself was breathing. Along the walls, razor wires unfurled, and massive iron balls hung poised on their tracks, ready to strike. Rick wheezed. ¡°If you die¡ªRoy dies anyway.¡± His voice cracked, raw with effort. ¡°He¡­ has my human heart. But I damn well wonder¡­ if that¡¯s all he has.¡± Amelia froze. ¡°He¡¯ll live,¡± Rick rasped, forcing the words through gritted teeth. ¡°You¡¯ll find a way in Veranus! The blasted recipe¡ªMorsha Bread!¡± Before she could speak, Roy straightened. His pale face was waxy, his eyes dulled to faint embers. Slowly, with an almost mechanical motion, he reached to his chest for the heart still beating. ¡°No¡ª¡± Amelia started. Roy¡¯s trembling fingers hovered, hesitating for just a moment. His gaze flickered toward her, and something human¡ªfear?¡ªsurfaced behind the mechanical glaze. Rick¡¯s voice cut through. ¡°It¡¯s all right, Roy.¡± His voice softened, raw but steady. ¡°You¡¯re still here, son. You¡¯re still here.¡± But Roy¡¯s fingers moved again. Rick¡¯s own hands mirrored the motion, tearing into his sternum. Sparks danced as his chest split open like a cabinet. Wires and glowing veins pulsed beneath the surface, twisting and writhing in a fragile, alien web. Amelia stumbled back, her breath hitching. The sight hollowed her stomach¡ªboth horrifying and mesmerizing. Rick¡¯s eyes burned with resolve. Without hesitation, he gripped his core¡ªa heartlike mass glowing blue and orange, wrapped in taut, mechanical tendrils¡ªand twisted. Sparks erupted as he crushed it in his palm, the raw energy bleeding through his fingers. ¡°This is what happens¡­¡± His voice faltered but didn¡¯t break. ¡°When you make the wrong deals¡­ for the right reasons.¡± The Pappy Long Legs shuddered. Gears groaned to life, pistons churning with thunderous force. Walls shifted, snapping into place, and the ship itself seemed to wake, trembling in response to Rick¡¯s sacrifice. Amelia screamed. ¡°Rick, stop!¡± But it was too late. Rick turned to her, his cracked red glasses catching the dim light. He tossed them her way, the reflection of the burning core dimming in his eyes. His smile¡ªfaint but defiant¡ªfroze her in place. ¡°Live for something better, Crowny,¡± he said, his voice breaking. ¡°Promise me.¡± Then the light flickered out. ¡°Activating. Protocol. Q8.¡± Roy¡¯s voice rang out¡ªflat, mechanical, hollow. The words echoed in the silence, sealing Rick¡¯s fate. The Pappy Long Legs roared to life. Its walls twisted, gears locked into place, and compartments exploded open, revealing weapons that snapped into position. The ship shifted as if breathing¡ªits massive bulk pulling inward before exhaling into motion. And then Roy moved. His eyes, once dull embers, blazed with a sudden, unnatural fire. Metal veins beneath his skin pulsed to life, glowing with the same eerie blue and orange light that had burned within Rick¡¯s core. The mechanical groan of the Pappy Long Legs amplified, its vibrations rumbling through the floor as Roy¡¯s body stiffened. His voice deepened, distorted. ¡°Command recognized,¡± he intoned. ¡°Veranus destination locked. Objective¡ªunwavering.¡± Amelia¡¯s heart slammed against her ribs. ¡°No.¡± She stepped forward, reaching for him. ¡°Roy¡ªwait¡ª¡± But Roy didn¡¯t move. His gaze¡ªcalm, mechanical¡ªwas already locked forward. A pulse of energy rippled through the ship, rattling the walls. The razor wires unfurled, snapping into place, and the iron balls on their tracks lurched forward with deadly purpose. Amelia¡¯s breath quickened. She clenched Rick¡¯s cracked glasses in her fist, her knuckles white. The Pappy Long Legs wasn¡¯t just awake. It was alive. The Pappy Long Legs responded with a mechanical roar. Compartments hissed open along the walls, releasing weapons and defensive systems that snapped into position like waiting jaws. The little Roys sprang to life, scrambling into position. Tiny cannons locked onto the invading puppets, their glowing red eyes blazing with purpose. Red lights pulsed brighter, bathing the room in an ominous glow as gears ground and twisted. It felt alive¡ªawakened not as a ship, but as a fortress. A beast defending its wounded heart. Amelia barely breathed as the chaos unfolded. Awe and dread tangled inside her, tightening her chest. The ship revealed hidden mechanisms¡ªgun barrels sliding from panels, spiked rails lining the floors, and iron traps snapping shut. The little Roys fired first. Their tiny cannons spat fire and lead, tearing through wires and limbs. Sparks rained as the fog was sucked away through vents, unveiling Rick¡ªstanding, barely upright, at the room¡¯s center. He was fading. Amelia saw it¡ªthe heat rippling off his skin, the unsteady tremor in his hands. Yet, even as he teetered, Rick¡¯s eyes burned with focus, his determination holding the ship together. The walls shifted again, crushing razor wires and slamming invaders into grinding gears. Panels snapped shut, sealing paths. The Pappy Long Legs moved like a living machine¡ªrelentless, precise, and terrifying. Amelia¡¯s pulse quickened. She couldn¡¯t tear her eyes from Rick. His jacket hung open now, exposing the raw blue-orange glow pulsing in his chest. It flickered, struggling, feeding the ship even as it devoured him in return. The room pulsed with him. Each breath. Each beat. The little Roys moved in sync, falling into rows, their red eyes glowing as they pressed forward, cannons still firing. Amelia swallowed hard. It wasn¡¯t just Rick¡¯s creation anymore¡ªit was his body, his blood, his soul welded into the ship. But it was breaking him. Her throat tightened. Her voice cracked as she shouted, ¡°R-Roy, what is Protocol Q8?¡± Roy, still hunched and dripping oil, straightened. His voice emerged hollow, mechanical, yet laced with something too human to ignore. ¡°To clear the objective,¡± he said, staring ahead. ¡°No matter the cost.¡± ¡°No!¡± Amelia¡¯s voice sharpened. ¡°Get me to Glassford¡ªnow! I made my choice!¡± Roy¡¯s eyes flickered, as if something inside him heard her desperation. He stepped closer, his movements calm despite the chaos. His metallic fingers gripped her arm, steady but gentle¡ªa touch that grounded her. He glanced briefly at Rick, then turned back to her. ¡°He cannot fully die until I die.¡± The words hung between them, heavier than the grinding metal around them. Amelia¡¯s breath caught. ¡°What does that mean? Roy¡ªwhat does that mean?¡± His glowing eyes softened¡ªjust for a moment. ¡°I¡­ still live,¡± he said. ¡°I am¡­ alive.¡± The words struck her harder than the chaos around them. She bit back the lump rising in her throat and set her jaw. ¡°Roy.¡± Her voice steadied. ¡°Toss me¡ªnow.¡± Roy¡¯s grip tightened. With a smooth, powerful motion, he launched her through the air. Amelia soared, her arms outstretched, before crashing onto Glassford¡¯s massive frame. She grabbed hold of the tangled cables hanging from the Quadrant Leader¡¯s body, her breath ragged, her determination blazing. ¡°This ship¡¯s still heading to Veranus, right?¡± Roy¡¯s voice rang out, loud and certain. ¡°At all costs.¡± Around them, the Pappy Long Legs came alive again. The little Roys adjusted like soldiers, their cannons spitting fire into the retreating pirates. Iron tracks groaned, sending massive balls of steel careening through the remnants of enemy machines, flattening them in bursts of sparks and shrieks. The room shifted¡ªwalls folding, gears grinding, stairs unfurling from hidden compartments. Narrow windows slid open, slashing beams of light through the swirling steam. Vents hissed, releasing clouds of heat, and the ship trembled, its full strength finally unleashed. Roy¡¯s head snapped up. ¡°Amelia!¡± His voice rose above the chaos. ¡°The Whistling Pirates¡¯ ship¡ªits magnetic grip is gone. Rick¡¯s protocol broke it!¡± Amelia¡¯s fingers dug into the cables. ¡°And the Pappy Long Legs?¡± Roy¡¯s eyes brightened. ¡°It flies again.¡± A thunderous groan shook the room. The ship parted down the middle, gears and pistons grinding as it pulled itself free. Wind howled through the gaps, carrying the scent of metal and rain. The sudden rush of air sent Amelia¡¯s hair whipping back as debris from the destroyed machines scattered into the horizon, disappearing into the swirling clouds. Her gaze darted upward. A colossal airship loomed above, casting its shadow over the chaos¡ªa polished galleon fused with sepia-toned metal, its rotors humming like thunder. The hammer-and-flame insignia of the Whistling Pirates gleamed against the hull, flickering in the light. The Pappy Long Legs trembled but held firm, its walls and beams locking into place with a final, resonant snap. Amelia¡¯s grip tightened. The ship wasn¡¯t just fighting¡ªit was claiming itself, reborn in fire and steel. The little Roys pressed forward, dismantling the last of the pirate automatons in bursts of sparks and shredded metal. Weapons folded back into their compartments as the room settled, its hidden defenses ready for the next assault. Amelia climbed higher, her hands stinging from the jagged edges of Glassford¡¯s frame. The light in its chest pulsed faintly, beating in time with the Gigarock in her locket. Amelia¡¯s voice softened as she climbed, moving carefully from one mechanical rib to the next toward Glassford¡¯s chest. ¡°Roy! We¡¯re family now! Got it?!¡± The wind surged, whipping her hair back as she lost her grip. Her fingers slipped against the cold metal, and her body began to slide. Panic flared in her chest, but before she could fall, strong metallic arms caught her. Roy¡¯s hands shot out, clamping down around her wrists. Metal scraped against metal, his joints creaking under the strain. For a moment, it felt like he might buckle, but then his grip tightened¡ªunyielding, solid. Amelia gasped, her breath shaky as she clung to him. The hum of his inner mechanisms vibrated through her arms, and for a fleeting second, she wondered if she could feel the faint echo of Rick¡¯s pulse still beating inside him. ¡°I¡¯ve got you,¡± Roy said, his voice softer now¡ªmechanical, but steady. Her heart pounded at the certainty in his words, even as faint sparks flared along his elbow joint. She tightened her grip on Glassford¡¯s massive frame, swallowing the lump in her throat. Roy¡¯s expression flickered¡ªsomething unreadable passing through his dimmed eyes. Then, with a quiet resolve, he nodded. Amelia¡¯s heart pounded at the certainty in his words. She tightened her grip on Glassford¡¯s massive frame, swallowing the lump in her throat. ¡°Good,¡± she said, her voice raw but steady. She let out a shaky breath, then grinned¡ªjust barely. ¡°By the Goblet and Green¡­ we¡¯ll get through this.¡± Her fingers tightened on the jagged edges of Glassford¡¯s frame. ¡°One piece at a time. And if we don¡¯t¡ª¡± Her grin sharpened as she braced herself against the wind, ¡°¡ªthen let¡¯s make it loud enough they remember we tried.¡± Bonus Extra 9: Chapter 6 (All-In-One) Bolton Aurous burst in from the opposite end of the train, his massive frame backlit by the shattered windows as moonlight spilled through the broken glass. He didn¡¯t hesitate¡ªhis four massive arms moved like coiled pistons unleashing at full force. Bolton saw the attack a second too late. Aurous grabbed him by the collar and hurled him backward like a tossed ragdoll. Bolton barely had time to brace before he slammed into a booth near the bar, the impact rattling his bones. Wood splintered beneath him, and for a moment, his vision blurred. But he couldn¡¯t focus on the pain. The train was a battlefield. Tables lay overturned, lanterns swung wildly, their flickering glow casting jagged shadows over the carnage. The entire length of the train stretched before him, booths lining both sides like the ribs of a beast. And at the far end¡ª**past the overturned chairs and shattered glass, past the haze of steam and the wreckage of a broken world¡ª**the Malice loomed. It hadn¡¯t reached him yet. It twitched where it stood, its form grotesque and unstable, its muscles flexing like a thing in the process of becoming. Then¡ªit moved. The Malice surged forward, a blur of sinew and metal. Its limbs piston-fired as it lunged. And something huge swatted it aside. The Malice hit the opposite end of the train with a sickening crunch, crashing into an empty booth. Wood splintered. Metal groaned. The entire frame of the train car shuddered under the force. The creature let out a garbled hiss, steam venting from its pulsating sinews. Its glowing red eyes flickered in and out, glitching, struggling to stabilize. It twisted on the ground, half-crushed beneath the wreckage. A low rumble rolled through the train. Not from the engine. From the miners. Bolton gritted his teeth, breath still uneven. His body ached, but his mind was sharp. His fingers twitched. He wasn¡¯t just going to sit here. His eyes locked onto a Yardrat hunched at a booth nearby¡ªa burly, scarred miner gripping a tankard. The icepick at his belt loop gleamed under the swaying lanterns. The man wasn¡¯t moving. Frozen. Just watching. Bolton didn¡¯t think. He moved. His fingers snatched for the icepick¡ª But before he could grab it, a hand caught his wrist. Sarah. Her grip wasn¡¯t tight, but it was enough. Cold. Not the kind of cold from fear, nor the fleeting chill of nerves. Something deeper. Something unnatural. Yet¡ªbeneath the ice of her skin, her pulse was hammering. Fast, steady, relentless. Like a machine running too hot, too fast, inside something that should have been lifeless. Bolton swallowed hard. He didn¡¯t understand what he was feeling¡ªonly that it was wrong. She didn¡¯t speak. She didn¡¯t have to. Her blue eyes flicked to the icepick, then back to him. No panic. No anger. Just understanding. And something quieter. Something sadder. Bolton¡¯s fingers hovered, pulse hammering. Then¡ªa whip-crack of sinew snapping tight. The Malice lunged. It closed the distance in an instant. Its grotesque hybrid fist slammed into a Yardrat¡¯s chest, lifting the man off the ground like a ragdoll. The miner whipped backward, his spine colliding with the ceiling in a sickening thud. The Malice didn¡¯t let go. Before the Yardrat could even scream, its other arm shot up, clawed fingers locking around his throat. His boots kicked uselessly in the air. The thing¡¯s muscles pulsed, sinew glistening under the dim lantern light, stretched too tight over its grotesque limbs. Steam hissed from its joints, filling the cabin with the stink of scorched metal and raw meat. The Yardrat gasped, his voice a desperate, choked rasp. "SOMEONE GET THIS BLOODY THING OFF ME!" Chief Hogswind didn¡¯t hesitate. His massive boots slammed onto a table, shaking the entire train car. His voice was a roar. "WHAT¡¯RE YOU LOT WAITIN¡¯ FOR? AN INVITATION?!" he bellowed. "Aurous gave us an opening! THAT THING''S DOWN¡ªTEAR IT APART!" The cabin erupted. The miners surged forward¡ªa wall of grit, steel, and fury. Mugs shattered over the Malice¡¯s skull, ceramic splinters raining down like shrapnel. Boot knives flashed in the dim light. Fists met sizzling flesh. The pinned Yardrat was ripped free as his comrades barreled into the Malice, knocking it to the ground. One miner ripped off his suspenders, wrapping them around the Malice¡¯s thick neck, hauling back with a snarl as steam spurted from its torn sinews. Another jammed a rusted wrench between its joints, twisting hard until something snapped. Bolton could only watch as the fight turned savage. Blood hit the floor. Steel clashed against bone. The Malice didn¡¯t go down easily. But for the first time¡ªit wasn¡¯t winning. It shuddered, writhing beneath the assault, its once-mighty form buckling under the sheer weight of the attack. The train car shook from the violence, metal groaning under the onslaught. And then¡ªEnton spoke. "Why die for the royal boy?" His voice cut through the chaos, smooth yet laced with a dangerous edge. His stance was unshaken, despite the battle raging around him. He hadn¡¯t lifted a finger to fight yet¡ªnot fully. Instead, he stood among the carnage, the very picture of control, his dark coat barely rustling despite the wind whipping through the broken train windows. He tilted his head slightly, his black paperboy cap casting a shadow over his sharp, monstrous features. "Surely the Yardrats of Quadrant Ten have more to live for than some royal who doesn¡¯t give a damn whether they breathe or rot in the mines." Bolton¡¯s pulse spiked, but before he could speak¡ªChief Hogswind did. ¡°Interesting theory.¡± The words were slow, deliberate. Then¡ªHogswind threw his mug. The heavy ceramic tankard, still full of mead, slammed into Enton''s chest, drenching his pristine military-style coat. A blatant, dripping insult. Silence. Bolton felt his stomach knot. No one disrespected a Primarian Hammer like that. The air crackled between them, tension humming. ¡°One,¡± Chief Hogswind continued, his voice thick with amusement, ¡°you present your point with a giant monster. Not dissimilar to those we fight every day. Mind some that have killed our own daily.¡± He gestured vaguely at the raging Malice, still thrashing under the miners'' assault. ¡°That¡¯s a piss-poor start.¡± Enton¡¯s golden, inhuman eyes narrowed. ¡°Two,¡± Hogswind continued, ¡°this gives us grounds for a royal favor. Tit for tat. Knuckles for Blood.¡± "A royal favor?" Bolton repeated aloud, blinking. He turned to Sarah, who silently mouthed: that¡¯s not a thing. Hogswind grinned. ¡°And three¡ª¡± He cracked his knuckles, flexing his massive hands. His smile turned razor-sharp. ¡°You fucked with a really really old Yardrat.¡± His voice dropped low, words heavy as iron. Bolton barely had time to register the meaning before he followed Hogswind¡¯s gaze¡ªdown the aisle of the train, toward the bar. Pistol stood behind the counter, hand resting lazily on his massive hand cannon, the smirk on his face as sharp as a whetstone. Enton¡¯s coat still dripped with mead. The train lurched beneath them. And the fight wasn¡¯t over. Aurous was in motion¡ªa force unto himself, too fast, too fluid for Bolton¡¯s eyes to track. One second, he was dodging Enton¡¯s strikes with an almost playful grace. The next¡ª A sound. A sharp, splintering crack. Bolton barely registered what had happened before he saw it¡ªa jagged shard of metal, flung loose from the chaos, slashing across Aurous'' cheek. Bolton barely had time to process it¡ªuntil he saw the blood. Not just black like the oil-stained ichor of machines. But red. A sickening mix of both, swirling together in a color that should have made sense¡ªbut didn¡¯t. Something inside Bolton twisted. The Quadrant Leaders had never been Yerro¡¯s chosen. Never blessed with strength beyond their own. They had been machines all along. Sarah exhaled sharply beside him. ¡°I don¡¯t think we were meant to see Quadrant Leaders fight.¡± Then, she hesitated¡ªcorrecting herself. ¡°Actually, we weren¡¯t meant to see them lose.¡± His stomach churned. Enton wasn¡¯t losing himself. He wasn¡¯t broken. He was becoming aware. Bolton swallowed hard, shaking the thought away. He didn¡¯t want to know what that meant. Not now. He stepped forward again, his knuckles aching, the heat of battle roaring through him. He didn¡¯t care if he was still weak. He had to fight. And then, Aurous¡¯ voice boomed across the chaos. "Pistol! If I don¡¯t die, you owe me the recipe to that Golden Mead of yours!" Pistol barked a laugh, but his eyes gleamed with something deeper¡ªsomething dangerous. ¡°This is my train, I¡¯m fighting too." Then, he moved his hands in a tearing motion. Bolton barely had time to process what was happening before the roof of the train was ripped open. The sound was deafening¡ªmetal shrieking, rivets popping loose, the very structure of the Midnight Train bending to Pistol¡¯s will. A sharp gust of night air rushed through the car, sending shattered glass and loose scraps spiraling into the darkness beyond. Above them, the sky opened up¡ªmassive, endless, and impossibly celestial. A deep purple-blue canvas, streaked with silver clouds and constellations shifting in patterns Bolton didn¡¯t recognize. But more than that¡ªthe train wasn¡¯t on tracks anymore. And then¡ª A voice, raw and strained, cut through the rushing wind. "I remember killing your friend! Bolton!" Bolton¡¯s breath hitched. His pulse faltered. His body turned before his mind caught up, something primal seizing his chest. Heat rose to his face, fingers twitching at his sides. He barely noticed Sarah¡¯s hand gripping his sleeve¡ªa small tether against the raw, gut-deep instinct to lunge. It wasn¡¯t just Vermolly. It was every loss. Every moment of helplessness. Every Yardrat whose screams had rung in his ears long after they¡¯d gone silent. It was the fear that he was just like Enton¡ªjust another broken machine pretending to be whole. And now Enton wanted to be fixed. Bolton wanted nothing more than to tear him apart. Enton¡¯s fists clenched at his sides, his frame trembling¡ªnot with fear, but with something worse. Something broken. "Yerro will fix this," he seethed, each word growing sharper, more dangerous. His voice twisted into a near snarl, his desperation curdling into something else. "Yerro must." The words hung there. The wind rushed through the broken train, cold and empty. The lanterns flickered. Bolton could hear his own breath, ragged in his throat. And then¡ª If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Aurous laughed. A dark, knowing chuckle, carried by the wind. "This beautiful WONDERFUL morning, I cut my hand open on a piece of paper," he mused, voice thick with something resembling amusement. "Small, shriveled things with a straight corner." His eyes gleamed as he dodged another strike. "And it was a wonderful thing." Enton lunged again, his movement deceptively fast for his massive frame. The air cracked as his fists swung through it, each strike brushing away the wind itself. He wasn¡¯t just fighting¡ªhe was carving through the space around him, his sheer force distorting the air. Aurous met him head-on. He didn¡¯t slip beneath the blows like a dancer but braced against them, absorbing the shock before retaliating with piston-powered punches of his own. Four fists struck in quick succession¡ªeach impact reverberating through the train car. His fingertips glowed orange-hot, the heat trailing behind his strikes like molten embers. Enton barely flinched. The blows landed, rattling the metal of his body, but he stood his ground, brushing off the force as if shaking off dust. His sleek military-style coat barely rustled, and his paperboy-style cap remained perfectly poised atop his monstrous frame. Aurous grinned, recognizing the challenge. He took a step back, his boots scraping against the shifting floor of the train car, and snatched a half-full mug of mead from a nearby table. He raised it to his lips, taking a long, exaggerated swig before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ¡°Sarah¡¯s got my heart, boy!¡± he bellowed, his laughter booming over the chaos. ¡°Ain¡¯t just metaphorical!¡± Bolton barely had time to register the words before the Malice surged¡ªflesh, metal, and something worse twisting into an amorphous mass that no train car could hold. The walls bulged, stretching like wet paper. Sinew-laced limbs shot out, twisting through steel beams, peeling back the train¡¯s ribs. Bolton¡¯s breath caught. "Where!?" Aurous'' grin didn¡¯t waver. If anything¡ªit widened. Then¡ªthe Malice struck. Sinews snapped around him, yanking him into the chaos. His laughter didn¡¯t stop. It grew wilder, more fevered, as the darkness swallowed him whole. "MOVE IT, BOY!" Pistol¡¯s voice cut through the storm, sharp and commanding. The train shook beneath them, the clash of Aurous and Enton rattling through the air like a drumbeat of war. Malice swelled, an amorphous tangle of flesh and metal, writhing with unnatural hunger. A sinew lashed out¡ªwhipping toward Bolton like a razor-sharp tendon snapping loose. A deafening BOOM cut through the chaos. Bolton barely registered the motion¡ªPistol, wide as a boulder and twice as unshakable, had moved faster than the eye could follow. From beneath the bar, his massive hand had drawn something out¡ªa cannon, thick-barreled and black as iron, its weight effortlessly cradled in his grip. The shot roared like a thunderclap. Not a bullet¡ªsomething heavier, something denser, a cannonball of unknown make. It collided with the rogue sinew midair, obliterating it in an explosion of raw force, sending chunks of blackened, writhing mass splattering against the walls. Smoke coiled from the cannon¡¯s muzzle as Pistol rested it back against the bar, unfazed, his broad frame casting a long shadow against the lantern light. "You don¡¯t wanna die, do you?" His voice was steel, cutting through the madness. The train groaned as the Malice swelled again. Pistol didn''t blink. "You¡¯ll find some of your answers at the front of the train. As for the rest¡­" He smirked, flexing his grip around the cannon¡¯s barrel. "Well, that¡¯ll depend on our friends here." Bolton¡¯s fingers twitched. His boots shifted¡ªhalf a step toward Aurous, half a step toward the battle that still clawed at his chest. Aurous'' laughter was still echoing, but now it sounded further away¡ªdistant, unraveling into the void. The train lurched beneath them, the air thick with gunpowder and smoke from Pistol¡¯s shot. The Malice wasn¡¯t stopping¡ªit pulsed, shifting, adapting, stretching into something even larger. Aurous and Enton still clashed like living titans, the force of their battle shaking the very bones of the Midnight Train. Bolton clenched his fists. He couldn¡¯t just run. Not yet. His voice cut through the chaos, raw and desperate. "And the Yardrats!? What about them?" His chest was heaving now, fingers twitching, torn between self-preservation and the sickening guilt of leaving others behind. He knew how this went. He¡¯d run. He¡¯d survive. But how many wouldn¡¯t? Pistol didn¡¯t even glance at him¡ªjust chambered another round into his massive hand cannon, jaw set, shoulders squared. "Go," he rumbled. "They¡¯ve got their own fight." The words hit harder than the cannon¡¯s blast. Bolton¡¯s breath stilled. His muscles tensed. One more second. Then¡ªSarah yanked him forward. Her grip was ironclad, unyielding. The door to the next train car slammed open, swallowing them into darkness. She dragged him through the wreckage, past splintered booths and flickering lanterns. His feet stumbled beneath him, but she didn¡¯t let go¡ªcutting through the chaos with a determination that never wavered. The Malice roared, its form swelling, forcing itself into impossible spaces. Steel groaned. Glass shattered. Bolton threw one last look over his shoulder¡ªat the chaos, at the fight still raging. At Aurous, vanishing into the dark. His feet twitched, the instinct to turn back screaming inside him. Then¡ªSarah pulled him forward, and the moment was gone. Pistol¡¯s voice rang out one last time¡ª "NOW GO!" The train lurched. The wind roared. Sarah shoved open the door to the next train car and pulled Bolton inside. Darkness swallowed them whole. The sounds of battle¡ªthe roaring wind, the clashing metal¡ªfaded, like a distant nightmare. Bolton¡¯s breath was still ragged, his heartbeat uneven. Then, he felt it¡ªthe train groaned beneath him. It didn¡¯t sound like steel anymore. It sounded softer. The metal beneath his boots had changed, the very structure of the train warping. Then¡ªflickering shapes. Tiny firefly-like creatures drifted in slow, weightless arcs, their faint golden glow pulsing like dying embers. They moved without rhythm. Without order. Watching. Sarah¡¯s hand was still wrapped around his wrist. She didn¡¯t let go. Instead, she took a step forward, her voice barely above a whisper. ¡°We keep moving.¡± And for once¡ªBolton didn¡¯t argue. The glow of the fireflies swelled, as if watching him. He could see the terrain now¡ªsoft shrubbery, luminescent spores dusting his torn clothes. Whatever he touched left trails of shimmering dust, briefly entertaining the mysterious floating creatures as they drifted closer, their golden glow pulsing with curiosity. The strange dust clung to him, leaving streaks of shimmering gold against the remains of his jacket¡ªwhat little survived his fight with Vermolly. "Sarah," Bolton muttered. She didn¡¯t answer. Her figure was barely visible now, only her hand and wrist clearly illuminated. "Sarah!" he called again, louder this time, stomping his foot. Then¡ªshe stopped. Bolton felt the shift. Her movements¡ªerratic. Sharp. Almost static. The warmth faded from her grip. Her fingers turned cold. Metallic. Then¡ªthe ticking sound. Faint. Rhythmic. But off. Sarah turned her head, her eyes catching the dim glow of the fireflies. ¡°This was part of Pistol¡¯s plan,¡± she said, her voice quieter, heavier. ¡°I know you¡¯re sick of secrets. I wasn¡¯t supposed to tell you yet, but¡ªyour brother Michael is waiting for us in Veranus.¡± Bolton¡¯s breath hitched, his grip tightening slightly. ¡°Some things are kept secret for a reason,¡± she continued. ¡°It¡¯s up to us to trust what¡¯s unfamiliar, uncomfortable¡­ strange.¡± Then, she turned fully toward him. Her eyes glowed. Not like a cat¡¯s. Not like anything human. Inside them, tiny orange gears turned in slow, deliberate motion¡ªintricate and ceaseless, like the inner workings of a timepiece. Bolton¡¯s breath hitched. The sudden chill of her hand. The unnatural precision of her movements. The sound¡ªlike a key winding tight inside a lock. His body reacted before his mind caught up. His feet planted. His arm jerked back. He yanked Sarah to a halt. "My brother! What about the Greisha Ceremony!?" His voice cracked, edged with something between fear and frustration. Then¡ªhe caught himself. The outburst hung in the air, raw and jagged. His pulse steadied. His breath evened. "I understand this train has¡­ abilities. But please, I¡¯m actually scared..." His voice dropped, quieter now¡ªalmost pleading. Bolton swallowed, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist. ¡°Terrified, really.¡± A pause. "Are you like Enton?" He hesitated. "Are you alive? Or¡­ a machine?" The ticking continued¡ªsteady, measured, like a heartbeat made of brass and cogs. His grip loosened. Then, the train cart burst to life. Light flooded the space like an exploding firework. Shadows scattered. Sarah turned to him. The glow of the fireflies reflected in her eyes, casting strange patterns against the delicate gears turning within. ¡°Neither,¡± she said softly. ¡°Somewhere in the middle. Like Pistol.¡± Then¡ªher hand rose to his face, the touch impossibly gentle. A warm caress against his cheek. Bolton¡¯s breath hitched. For a moment, he didn¡¯t pull away. His fingers twitched, then hesitantly lifted, wrapping around her hand. Her skin felt¡­ wrong. Not cold, not lifeless, but something in between. Like the surface of something meant to be warm but made elsewhere¡ªcrafted, rather than born. She looked different. Almost unrecognizable. Paler. Almost porcelain. The freckles he swore he had seen just moments ago were gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished ivory. Her skin, once kissed by warmth, now carried an unnatural sheen, like polished ceramic. A wind-up figure caught between movement and stillness. Bolton tightened his grip just slightly, anchoring her, as if holding her hand might keep her from slipping further into whatever she was becoming. For a fleeting second, the warmth flickered back, the illusion resetting. And then¡ªit was gone. Then, as if reality itself flickered, she shifted. For a brief moment, warmth returned to her skin, the light from the swaying lanterns casting soft freckles across her nose, a faint flush blooming on her cheeks. The Sarah he met on the Whisky Sunday, sharp and full of life, stood before him. Then¡ªgone. Her features paled again, porcelain overtaking flesh. The change wasn''t instant, nor was it fluid. It came in flickers, as though the illusion of her humanity was being tuned like a faulty radio signal. A glitch in something larger than her. The space around them seamlessly morphed to match. Bolton¡¯s gaze drifted beyond her, taking in the impossible landscape of the train cart. It was no longer metal and bolts. The space stretched into something organic, like a narrow section of a bayou, with a wooden dock beneath his feet, gently rocking atop an unseen river. The water below was black and depthless, its surface reflecting nothing. Sarah stood at the edge of the dock, watching him with those firefly-glow eyes¡ªeyes that flickered between something warm and something cold, something human and something built. Without a word, she reached out, gently taking Bolton¡¯s hand and lifting it to her own. His fingers rested against hers¡ªwarm skin meeting something that wasn¡¯t quite flesh. ¡°Are you afraid now?¡± she asked, her voice neither mocking nor soft, but something in between. Bolton swallowed. His pulse hammered beneath her touch. "I am..." Bolton muttered, his voice barely above a breath. A pause. Sarah exhaled, her grip on his hand tightening for just a moment. Then, softer¡ª**almost as if confessing a secret¡ª**she whispered, "Me too." A single tear slipped down her cheek. For a fleeting second, it shimmered like glass¡ªreflecting light like a perfect, polished droplet. Then, just as quickly, it flickered¡ªturning metallic, cold, unnatural. Bolton watched as it trailed down her skin, caught in the flickering shift between human and machine. Then, in a voice that wavered between warmth and something unsettlingly precise, she murmured, "We keep moving," Sarah said, her voice softer now. But then¡ªsomething shifted. The porcelain sheen of her skin flickered, warmth bleeding back into her features like color returning to an old photograph. The stark, eerie glow of her eyes softened, pupils contracting, their blue hue deepening. Her freckles returned in a slow bloom across her nose, the faintest flush rising in her cheeks. Then¡ªclick. A faint, rhythmic ticking stuttered, then smoothed out, like the final, settling ticks of a wound clock finding its rhythm again. For a moment, the sound felt too large for such a small thing¡ªa whisper of machinery woven into the silence. Sarah blinked, looking away for a moment. Then, almost shyly, she looked back up at him¡ªnot with gears turning behind her eyes, but with something undeniably human. ¡°The Whisky Sunday never has passengers,¡± she murmured, her voice lighter, laced with something playful. ¡°It wasn¡¯t meant to.¡± Bolton hesitated, his fingers still laced with hers. For a moment, neither of them let go. Then, slowly, their hands separated. And for the first time, Bolton didn¡¯t argue. Then he looked up¡ªand his stomach twisted. The sky was within reach. It stretched overhead, so close that if he only jumped, he could touch it. Wisps of clouds drifted lazily past his head, brushing against his skin like passing breath. Sarah took a slow step forward, her gaze distant. ¡°Pistol¡¯s secret ingredient in the Golden Mead,¡± she murmured, almost to herself. ¡°Gochican Honey. Warmed to a specific degree. He said I was the only one who could get it just right.¡± She hesitated, her voice quieter now. ¡°That was when he found me. Long ago. When I wasn¡¯t me anymore.¡± A breath. A pause. ¡°Something took my humanity¡­ it looked human, but it was the furthest thing from it.¡± Bolton swallowed. ¡°Is Pistol really just a bartender?¡± Sarah blinked¡ªthen laughed, a real laugh this time, warm and familiar, though something behind it trembled. ¡°Hardly.¡± She turned slightly, shaking her head, a soft smile playing on her lips. ¡°He¡¯s the conductor of the Whisky Sunday. A Yardrat through and through. And quite frankly¡ª¡± she shot Bolton a teasing look, ¡°he makes more than just any mead.¡± Bolton didn¡¯t reply. He just watched. Then, without warning, the ticking in his head sharpened. A memory uncoiled, unbidden. A massive gear-driven door, deep in the heart of the Primarian Arc. A cold room, lit only by the pulse of something immense beyond the metal walls. His father¡¯s voice¡ªhis mother¡¯s hand on his shoulder. A gift placed in his palm. The pocket watch. A whisper, lost to time: You¡¯ll understand someday. The memory snapped shut as quickly as it had come. Bolton exhaled sharply, his fingers brushing against the pocket watch in his coat, grounding himself in the present. Sarah¡¯s skin grew whiter, the soft hues of life draining away, leaving only the rigid, doll-like texture of something artificial. Thin red lines bled from the corners of her mouth, as though the paint of a long-forgotten smile had begun to crack. She was becoming what she truly was. Then¡ªa half-smile. ¡°Do you know what happens when you die?¡± she asked. Bolton¡¯s breath hitched. ¡°Aren¡¯t we running¡­?¡± he muttered. Sarah tilted her head slightly, watching him. ¡°Once we transfer train carts, we¡¯ll always be within reach of the front of the train. However¡­¡± she let the words linger, her tone cryptic, almost amused. ¡°We¡¯re just as close to the end, too.¡± Bolton frowned. ¡°What does that mean?¡± She didn¡¯t answer immediately. Instead, her gaze drifted toward the floating firefly-like creatures, their golden glow reflecting off the glass-like surface of the water below. Some of them landed on lilypads, their soft bodies brushing against frogs that seemed to manifest from the depths, born from the bayou¡¯s quiet breath. Bolton followed her gaze, his expression distant. ¡°My father said Midnight Trains are like pocket worlds. Bridges connected by Yerro. Allowed by Yerro.¡± He muttered, almost to himself. Sarah¡¯s smile flickered, unreadable. ¡°More like pocket minds.¡± She turned, her movements light¡ªalmost too light¡ªas if gravity had loosened its grip on her. Then, she gestured toward the water. ¡°Sit.¡± Bolton hesitated, scanning the train cart¡ªa world within a train cart, a bayou suspended in the belly of the Midnight Train. His own reflection in the water stared back at him, distorted by the firefly glow. Sarah remained still, watching him. Waiting. ¡°So you don¡¯t know what happens when we die, Mr. Would-Be King.¡± Bolton exhaled slowly, gaze lowering. ¡°We go back to Mother Green.¡± He stared at his reflection one last time before reluctantly taking a seat. Then, for the first time since the train started moving, he dipped his feet into the water. It was warm¡ªunnervingly so. The surface barely rippled, as if reluctant to acknowledge his presence. ¡°Why aren¡¯t we running, Sarah?¡± Sarah¡¯s fingers traced the edge of the dock. ¡°Michael pulled strings so that Pistol would pick up the toughest group of miners from their riff-raffin¡¯ party in Quadrant One. That¡¯s where Aurous found you¡ªbrought you on with his giant lizard.¡± Bolton frowned. ¡°That doesn¡¯t answer my question.¡± He flicked his foot, splashing into his own reflection. Sarah let the ripples settle before she spoke again. ¡°Because the train has split. Midnight Trains are truly something special.¡± She lifted her chin slightly, glancing toward the firefly-lit sky. ¡°You know the New Dwardian jingle.¡± ¡°A Midnight Train always meets its destination. Stars of night¡ª¡± she started. ¡°Will see it shine.¡± Bolton finished, his voice quieter now. ¡°Yeah. My mother used to tell us that.¡± Sarah nodded. ¡°So trust Pistol. Our destination is a moon¡¯s lick away.¡± Bolton raised an eyebrow. ¡°Your Quadrant Six lingo is showing.¡± Sarah smirked, but before she could reply¡ª A sharp hiss of steam cut through the quiet. Bolton barely had time to register it before the door at the far end of the train cart groaned open. A long, creeping shadow stretched across the floor, cast by the lantern light beyond. It moved slowly, deliberately, before its owner followed¡ªheavy boots striking against the warped wooden planks, each step unhurried, inevitable. Pistol stood in the doorway, his massive frame filling it entirely. The glow of the lanterns barely touched him, leaving only his silhouette¡ªa figure carved from the very bones of the Midnight Train. His coat hung loose over broad shoulders, and his hat sat low over his eyes, shadowing his expression. For a moment, he said nothing. He simply exhaled, a slow, measured breath that cut through the air like steam venting from old machinery. Then¡ªhis voice rumbled through the car, steady, certain, the weight of iron scraping against stone. ¡°Come, boy.¡± The words weren¡¯t a command. They weren¡¯t a question. They were fact. ¡°The battle was not won.¡± He tilted his chin slightly, the dim light catching the edge of his weathered features. ¡°However¡­ it moves to another day.¡± Bolton hesitated, his fingers curling against the damp wooden dock beneath him. His thoughts were a tangled mess, but only one rose to the surface. ¡°And the Yardrats?¡± His voice was quieter now, careful. Pistol turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder. For a moment, it looked as if he might not answer. Then¡ª ¡°Aurous is protecting them.¡± His voice was heavy with something unreadable. ¡°All we can do is trust him. Quadrant Ten is their home. They should have an advantage. Even against a Malice like that.¡± The words sank into Bolton¡¯s chest like stones, settling deep. The lanterns flickered. The train groaned. Pistol stepped back into the next car, disappearing into the shadows beyond. Bolton swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears. His muscles ached, exhaustion creeping in, but still¡ªhe stood. Sarah remained seated, watching him, fireflies dancing in the air between them. Bolton exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. Then, without another word, he turned to follow Pistol into the unknown. ¡°Bolton.¡± He paused, glancing over his shoulder. Sarah¡¯s expression was unreadable, her fingers brushing absently against the wooden dock. The fireflies hovered close, their golden glow casting shifting patterns across her face. ¡°I was supposed to give you this.¡± Bolton frowned. ¡°What?¡± She hesitated¡ªjust for a second¡ªthen met his gaze, her voice quieter now. ¡°Aurous¡¯ heart.¡± The train groaned beneath them, metal shifting deep in its bones. Sarah inhaled slowly, her grip tightening around something unseen in her palm. ¡°One of the thirteen pieces.¡± Bolton¡¯s breath hitched. The door behind him remained open. Pistol waited. The Midnight Train rumbled on, destination unknown. And for the first time in a long time¡ªhe didn¡¯t know whether to move forward or turn back. The door slammed shut. Darkness swallowed the train car whole. Chapter 7: The Owl Inside (Part 1) Amelia Amelia shuddered as the relentless gale finally began to ease, leaving behind an unsettling silence. Around her, the Pappy Long Legs groaned, its mechanical limbs reconfiguring, shifting with unnatural rhythm¡ªa heartbeat, pulsing through its shifting frame. Roy¡¯s segmented arms tightened protectively around her, yet even the reassuring metallic embrace couldn¡¯t soothe the hollow ache left by Rick¡¯s absence. His sacrifice lingered heavily, filling the emptiness between her ribs with an unbearable weight. Then¡ªa whistle. A sharp, metallic shriek pierced the quiet, slicing through the transforming ship like a razor through fabric. Amelia flinched, her heart hammering. Every Whistlin¡¯ Death pirate abruptly jerked upward, yanked into the clouds by unseen wires. Above, their grotesque airship groaned in answer, vibrating in a rhythm that sent tremors through the Pappy Long Legs¡¯ reassembling skeleton. Something was coming. Something worse. ¡°Roy!¡± Amelia screamed, gripping Glassford¡¯s enormous frame as the shifting wind nearly tore her free. ¡°The ship¡¯s breaking apart¡ªit¡¯s like it¡¯s coming alive!¡± Roy¡¯s orange eyes flickered. ¡°It is alive. I am...alive.¡± His voice held a strange reverence, as if realization was dawning within him. ¡°More alive than before!¡± Amelia shouted over the howling winds, strands of hair lashing her face. She stared in disbelief as massive hull sections folded into themselves, exposing the open sky. Void after void. Exit after exit. The ship wasn¡¯t just changing. It was preparing. ¡°Roy! Roy!¡± Amelia¡¯s voice broke as she turned toward him. His eyes flickered, dimming. ¡°You¡¯re with me now! We¡¯re a mountain¡¯s length in the sky, so I need you here!¡± Roy¡¯s grip suddenly slackened. Amelia lurched forward, her boots slipping against Glassford¡¯s shifting metal torso. ¡°Roy! You feel, right?¡± She clawed desperately at his mechanical arm, trying to steady herself. ¡°You felt for Rick!¡± Her voice cracked, raw and desperate, as she clambered onto his extending arms. His fingers twitched. His grip failed. ¡°Me too.¡± The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. For a brief moment, Roy¡¯s flickering gaze met hers. A tear formed beneath his mechanical eye. Amelia¡¯s breath caught. It shouldn¡¯t have been possible. The liquid wasn¡¯t clean¡ªit was dark, tainted with oil, swirling like something unnatural. A machine¡¯s grief. Did Rick build this into him? Why? Then¡ªRoy¡¯s grip gave out. Amelia fell. She tumbled. The wind screamed in her ears. The world spun¡ªsky, metal, sky, metal. Then¡ªimpact. She barely had time to scream before Roy¡¯s second arm lashed out, catching her with terrifying precision. A heavy silence followed. The wind had vanished. ¡°I am in pain,¡± Roy murmured, his voice softer than she¡¯d ever heard it. Then, with effortless strength, he lifted her to his face. ¡°But so are you.¡± Amelia swallowed hard, her fingers clenched tightly around his metallic wrist. "You¡¯re my only friend now, Roy." Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to speak through the fear. "So if we die¡ªwhich we won¡¯t¡ªI know there¡¯s more of a soul in you than in any Yardrat I¡¯ve ever met." She stared in disbelief as tears spilled from Roy¡¯s mechanical eyes. Oil and water¡ªgrief and something else. Then¡ªboom. A violent explosion tore through the sky above. Roy yanked her into a crushing embrace. Amelia gasped¡ªthe force was so tight, so overwhelming, she almost thought he might break her. Sparks rained down in searing orange waves, ricocheting wildly off the ship¡¯s metal bones. The Pappy Long Legs groaned in protest, its hull shifting, its massive plates folding open like a monstrous ribcage¡ªexposing jagged voids of open sky. And then¡ªsomething massive fell through one of those openings. A trident-shaped anchor. It slammed onto the deck with a deafening CLAAANG, its wicked prongs embedding deep into the ship¡¯s exposed frame. The impact rattled the entire vessel, a low, sickening tremor vibrating through Glassford¡¯s core. Amelia twisted, her breath catching as she peered past Roy¡¯s armpit. The anchor gleamed a dull, brassy orange. Ornate yet monstrous. Its spiraling engravings twisting like veins across its metal. But something was wrong. A shape descended through the same opening. Silent. Deliberate. Not falling. Controlled. Precise. Roy stiffened. A tremor passed through his limbs. The gears at his joints whined, adjusting for weight he had not calculated. "I feel it," Roy murmured, his voice lower, darker. "The anchor?" Amelia choked out. Roy¡¯s segmented fingers tensed. ¡°No.¡± Then¡ªa footstep. Not from her. Not from Roy. A deliberate, calculated step struck the deck, and the entire ship shuddered in response. "Roy! There¡¯s something behind you!" Amelia screamed. "Something big!" Something worse. Roy¡¯s frame stiffened. His glowing eyes flared erratically, calculating. Then¡ªhis voice shifted. Cold. Systematic. A machine overriding its own thoughts. His voice stuttered¡ªtwo tones overlapping. His directive, his grief. "Protocol Q8 is..." A pause. Then cold, final: "Twofold." Amelia blinked. ¡°What?¡± Roy¡¯s voice flattened, processing faster than he could speak. ¡°First: the transformation breaks the binding chains imposed by the Whistlin¡¯ Death, fulfilling Rick¡¯s intent. And second¡ª¡± His joints locked. Gears whined. Then, in one smooth motion, he lifted Amelia above his head. "Death is an inconvenience to friendship." His voice sounded final. Absolute. "But it does not erase memories. I must make more. Of you." "Roy¡ª!" Before she could protest, he launched her upward. She barely had time to scream before she was flung into Glassford¡¯s open chest cavity. The ship¡¯s mechanical walls shuddered, gears whirling to life as they began to seal her inside. And just before the closing walls cut off her view, she saw it¡ª A shadowed figure stepping onto the deck below. Not the anchor. A man. A thing. Then¡ªanother step. Measured. Deliberate. Heavy. Even Roy trembled. "You better live!" Amelia cried, her voice raw with desperation. "I don¡¯t know what you are, Roy, but you better live!" Roy¡¯s frame shuddered as if processing the command. "Binding chains are breaking," he murmured. His glowing eyes lifted one last time, locking onto Amelia as the doors sealed between them. "Part two." "Escape, no matter the cost." The last thing she saw was his orange gaze burning through the closing gap¡ªthen darkness.