Amelia

Amelia’s footsteps echoed through the grand halls of the Primarian Arc, the polished stone floors reflecting the soft glow of lanterns. The regal architecture loomed above her, but the familiar weight of the locket hidden in her boot anchored her—a reminder of what she had left behind. The black-and-white family portrait flashed in her mind—Bolton smiling beside their mother, while her brother Michael, now the King, stood distant, his eyes cold. How many strings had he pulled to set this in motion?

The Greisha Ceremony had been the final blow—a series of grueling challenges held when a royal turned eighteen. For the victor, it meant honor and a future at court; for the loser, disgrace and exile. The details of the challenges had grown hazy over the past five years, but the sting of failure remained fresh. Stripped of her title, the punishment had been swift, her exile as sudden as a thief in the night. The would-be princess of New Dwarden no longer had a home.

“I remember falling...” Amelia’s thoughts echoed into the dark void, tethering her consciousness to a disorienting pull. “Isn’t death supposed to be a rush of memories? Even fun? At least right before you go.” Her mind floundered in a murky expanse. She could feel the sensation of cold, weathered metal beneath her, the world humming with a low mechanical thrum as if it were alive. Darkness surrounded her like coiling mist, tightening its alluring grip with each passing second. Echoes of clinks and clanks grew nearer, resembling the sound of a broken-down carriage, while her body remained paralyzed.

Suddenly, her mind fought back—Wake up!

"She’s twitchin’! Wake her!" A voice cut through the void, sharp with urgency, like thunder. The voice continued in garbled, unintelligible bursts, fighting through the haze in her mind.

A peculiar light pierced through the fog, a soft, warm glow enveloping Amelia. The voices became clearer: one familiar but distant, the other metallic and disjointed, as if filtered through static.

Her senses returned in fragmented pieces. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, her head pounding with a dull, persistent ache. The distant argument grew clearer—a cacophony of voices blending into a surreal harmony. She inhaled, the air thick with the scent of oil and steam.

"Roy! Get your metallic keister over here!" The voice barked again, closer now. “By the Earth and Sea, you blasted machine, I said make it look real, not rattle her brains out!"

“Error. Rick. The directive was as follows: Return the MARBLES to her,” Roy’s voice droned, each word laced with mechanical precision.

“I—” Rick tried to interject.

“—Until her HEAD was right as rain,” Roy mimicked back, his tone unwavering.

Amelia listened to their bickering, the voices cutting through the fog that clouded her thoughts. She could feel her breath returning, shallow and uneven, as though emerging from a long, deep sleep. Her body remained stubbornly unresponsive, her thoughts a muddled mess.

Amelia’s mind swam as she tried to focus on what was happening around her. She felt their movements more than saw them. Her head spun, but there was an undeniable sense of care in how she was being handled.

Her vision slowly cleared, and as it did, 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.

“I can confirm Amelia Woltwork is not deceased!” said the metallic figure, its glowing 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—"

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“Nice to meet you!” Roy chimed in, his tone bright.

“Yes, that too,” Rick agreed with a shrug.

As Amelia regained her senses, a flood of memories rushed forward—her brothers, the life she had fled, the Greisha Ceremony. It felt like a thorn buried in her chest, ever present, never healed. She had once been royalty—the would-be Crown Princess of New Dwarden—but that title now felt alien. She had chosen exile in the Conkle Mines, the harsh underground preferable to the suffocating expectations of royalty.

She touched the locket at her neck, her only connection to her past—a gift from her brother Bolton. The glowing blue gem embedded within it pulsed faintly, as if responding to her thoughts.

"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 reminded her of meals in the royal kitchens. She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. “Who are you?”

"Name’s Rick. Used to bake all sorts of breads for the royal family. 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 right after some monster almost made ya’ dinner. An expensive Crowny dinner."

The memory of the beast—its curled fangs, it’s throbbing muscular body, the overwhelming terror—flashed through her mind, sending a chill down her spine. 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 metal caught her off guard, and she followed the line of his limbs, realizing his arms were equally mechanical, glinting in the dim light. She swallowed the last bit of bread, her confusion deepening.

“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 again—Bolton, Michael, the Greisha Ceremony. What kind of people had they become? Were creatures hunting them, even in their homes? And then, the memory of the beast resurfaced—its smoke-blackened mouth, its glowing blue eyes—relentless and monstrous. Amelia had dubbed it the Devil Dog. It wasn’t just a creature; it was a warning.

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.

"You ask what happened? You got many questions, I’m sure," Rick said, glancing back at her. "But take it one step at a time. No rush in solvin’ world hunger and peace at the same damn time. Does us both no good." His voice trailed off as he watched Amelia’s body slump, her exhaustion overtaking her. It was clear she was fighting to stay awake but kept losing the battle, succumbing to the overwhelming grogginess that weighed her down.

As they turned Amelia’s limp form, Roy’s sharp gaze caught something curious nestled in her right boot, peeking through the weathered laces near her ankle. Rick’s eyes followed, and the two exchanged a knowing glance. Their movements became more deliberate, cautious, as they leaned in closer to examine the faint, dwindling blue glow emanating from her boot.

“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?”

“Well, my core... my core is like a red-hot one that beats like a piston-driven bongo inside of me,” Rick paused, searching for the right words. “But I ain’t runnin’ on blood no more. I run on—”

“A SOUL,” Roy interjected firmly.

“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 if that’s the glowing locket in her boot. 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.