“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?”

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

“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 the green eyes? A tiny bend in the nose? A distinct yet modest jawline?” Rick examined her closely, moving at an uncomfortable speed. “Do ya’ prefer the clothing of a Yardrat? Or have you spent your royalties… elsewhere? Moreso, was it necessary to work in those mines all those years? AAAAAAND what happened after your eighteenth birthday? The Greisha Crown Ceremony. Go on, I’ll wait.”