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—a 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—stiff, 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—a 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—and the stakes of what was to come.

The clash of fists, the roar of the crowd, the metallic ring of the stage—all 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—a 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—the 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—a 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—Woltwork—felt 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—"

“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—you’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—its 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—clouds stretched out as far as she could see, and the world below felt impossibly distant.

Her thoughts turned inward—Bolton 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—its smoke-blackened mouth, its glowing blue eyes—relentless 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—‘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—a 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—it’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—who 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—or 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—” 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—hell, maybe more emotions than me. Don’t act like a block of metal. Now, gander at the damn locket—”

“LOCKET,” Roy corrected. “The locket contains a picture of the royal family, an embedded Gigarock—its flesh intact—and 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—S-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—to 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—with 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—gentle pinches, soft prods, and the distant hum of machinery—all 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—I… 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—” 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—or worse.”

“Little Crowny, you’re still royalty—not 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—”

“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—or 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—”

“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—built to outclass those dull New Dwarden Akiyoma ships. This beauty can fly circles around ’em! Roy here can give you the grand tour—if 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—no 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—what 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—that’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—I’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—Akiyoma 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—spider-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—much 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—”

“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—start 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—” 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—and 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—at 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—”

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—Quadrant Zero—is 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.”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

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—‘Amelia’—while 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—made 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—a 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—how 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—because he has given it to me—he 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—monsters, whatever—the 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—and I quote ‘incident’—we’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—ah, 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—legally 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—he’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—a 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—you’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—everything—balances 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—” Rick yelled, his mechanical legs raising him high over the table, causing a bowl of bread to tumble forward.

“Tammersm—” 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—it 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—this 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—” 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—its whirring gears and hissing steam—seemed 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—it 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—calling 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—like 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—don’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—toward 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—Bolton 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—its 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.