...~Five years prior to Chapter 1

Michael

Tick, tock, the hammers fall,

Turn the gears, obey the call.

Thirteen hands to guide the way,

Thirteen hearts to make them stay.

Tick, tock, the city groans,

Steel and stone, it bleeds and moans.

Yerro sleeps beneath the street,

Pray he never lifts his feet.

Tick, tock, the King decrees,

Bow your head and bend your knees.

For when the colossus wakes to roam,

He’ll leave no heart nor home.

The great banquet hall of the Primarian Royale pulsed with life, its massive gears clicking and clanking as if the entire structure was caught in the throes of some great mechanical heartbeat. The room itself was a marvel—an intricate display of brass and iron fashioned into a giant cuckoo clock, its grand arches adorned with rotating cogs and massive pendulums swinging in perfect rhythm. Pipes ran along the ceiling, hissing bursts of steam that reflected the flickering flames of gas-fed chandeliers, giving the hall an almost living quality—an ancient beast unwilling to surrender to time.

This was Quadrant Zero, the unmoving center of New Dwarden. But the banquet hall itself defied that rule. Like the city it governed, it moved—a marvel of engineering straddling the border between Quadrants One and Two, allowing both districts to revel in the grand festivities. Enormous rotating platforms shifted seamlessly, entire sections of the hall twisting and reconfiguring so the people of New Dwarden could witness the ceremony from the city streets below. The banners of all thirteen Quadrants hung proudly from the steel rafters—vibrant, defiant, and representing every faction of the ever-turning city.

The air hummed with energy, thick with the scent of charred meats and aged whiskey. Outside, the city exploded in cheers. Fireworks burst in the sky, the booming voices of Quadrant One’s industrial workers clashing with the haunting chorus of Quadrant Two’s entertainment district.

Above it all, the wind howled through the towering buildings, sending a deep, resonant hum across the Quadrants. The Seraphim’s Chime.

The city’s flute-shaped skyscrapers were no mere ornamentation—they were instruments, built so that when the winds of the heavens passed through, they would sing. And tonight, they sang for him.

It was a night of triumph.

A night of legacy.

It was his night.

Michael adjusted his gloves, the weight of his formal attire feeling unbearably stiff. The gold-trimmed coat of House Woltwork sat heavy on his shoulders—a symbol of victory, yet it felt more like shackles than honor.

One month had passed since the Greisha Ceremony.

One month since he had won.

One month since he had lost.

He exhaled. The meeting still lingered in his mind.

Deep beneath the city, something stirred.

Creatures were emerging from the sewers, their attacks growing bolder, deadlier.

Some claimed they came from the depths of Yerro, the colossus that slept beneath New Dwarden. Others whispered they were born of excess malice from the soul, or perhaps…from the city itself.

The Primarian Arc, New Dwarden’s elite military, had lost entire squadrons to the monsters.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

No one wanted to name the dead.

Yet they were honored indirectly every day—through song, spontaneous vigils, shrines, and prayer.

The weight of it all pressed down on him. The expectations. The pressure.

And then, as if sensing his unease, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

“You look like you just crawled out of a gutter.”

A firm hand caught his arm, pulling him back into place. Chiselle.

Her sharp brown eyes scanned him critically, her lips curling into a smirk as she brushed away the wrinkles in his sleeves with practiced efficiency.

Michael grinned. “Would that be so bad?”

Chiselle scoffed, yanking at the collar of his coat. “Bad? No. Disrespectful? Incredibly. This is your ceremony, Michael. You should at least pretend to care.”

“I do care,” he countered, though even he wasn’t convinced.

His fingers found the cool metal of his locket, brushing against it absently.

Chiselle’s gaze softened for a fraction of a second, but she quickly masked it, stepping back with a sigh. “By the goblet and green, then stop making it so difficult for those of us who care about you.”

Michael hesitated. He wanted to say something—something reassuring—but his tongue betrayed him.

Instead, he leaned forward and tried to steal a kiss.

Chiselle caught him easily, her eyes widening in disbelief. “You’re the King,” she chided, amused yet firm, pushing his lips away with two fingers before settling for a kiss on his cheek.

“Start actin’ like one.”

She nodded toward the banquet hall. “Besides,” she added, her voice laced with amusement, “I’m just a soldier. She’s your Queen.”

Michael turned his gaze, following the direction of her gesture.

There, seated at the table nearest his father, was his betrothed—the Queen of Veranos, the City in the Sky.

She was young, barely eighteen, dressed in robes as deep and vast as the night sky, embroidered with silver constellations that shimmered like real stars. A thin cross tattoo stretched along the bridge of her pale, delicate nose, its dark ink a stark contrast against her flawless skin. Her eyes, nearly pupil-less, reflected the light like two full moons.

She blushed, her lips curling into a quiet smile.

A group of similarly dressed figures surrounded her—the people of Veranos, a legendary floating city atop a sky whale, from which all sky whales were said to hail.

Michael swallowed.

This was his future.

As Michael ascended the short yet seemingly drawn steps, his father’s booming voice filled the hall.

“You carry Yerro’s will well, my son.”

The crowd erupted in cheers.

“The Greisha Ceremony is no small feat. The sacrifice it demands is a testament to our family’s loyalty to New Dwarden. And to Yerro.”

Michael’s jaw tightened.

Sacrifice.

He knew who his father meant.

Amelia and Bolton.

His locket pulsed with blue light, and Chiselle murmured from beside him.

“Try to breathe before someone notices.”

King Woltwork continued, but this time his tone darkened—more critical, but almost exasperated.

"And yet, despite it all, you remain a Gearpunk at heart, Michael. Reckless. Defiant. A stubborn cog that refuses to turn in sync with the machine."

A pause.

"Yet sometimes... it's the broken gears that force progress."

The great mechanical beast of the Primarian Royale waited, its gears already turning, its king ready to deliver his decree.

Hand over a crown.

And Michael?

Michael was expected to accept it.