Bolton Woltwork

[Approximately 24 hours earlier]

Deep in the heart of New Dwarden, nestled between Quadrants One and Two, lay Whistletop Alley—a 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—orange brick facades, cobblestone streets, and winding alleys—exuded 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—nothing 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—it 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—that’s the condition of that stupid ceremony. As far as I know, the letter still counts,” Bolton said, his voice tight with worry.

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“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—it’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—the current king—stood 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—a remnant of some long-forgotten meal—seemed 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—but 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—a 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—vendors 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—a meticulously crafted, fully functional replica of the legendary vessel—towered 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—tonight—his 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—especially 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—his 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—a 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—marked 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—Michael 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—this 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—the 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—no!” 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—her 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.