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.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“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, and cautious, as if the small object held more weight than its size suggested.

“Rick. Humans... they generally do not glow, correct? They do not typically possess cores like you,” Roy noted with a hint of wonder. “So why does SHE?”

“Hmmm,” Rick grumbled. “Tired of you remindin’ me I don’t have a heart. But for the record—‘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.