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.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

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.