As Bolton traversed the grand, seemingly endless metallic corridors of The Akiyoma, he found himself lost in the ship's storied past. With each step towards the ship’s tilted hull, he passed countless plaques and trophies, each a testament to the ship’s history and New Dwarden’s advancements in airship technology. These sights stirred memories of tales told by his late mother and father—grandiose stories of the formidable Akiyoma IV, battle-ready airships embarking on perilous missions, fending off sky pirates and other dangers in daring escapes. Each glossy plaque reminded him of a time when he was destined to protect New Dwarden’s skies as King of New Dwarden and Commander of the Akiyoma fleet. Each passing plaque was reminiscent of a different story told to him and his siblings when he was young.

Among the many stories told to Bolton and his siblings, one always stood out. As a child, every morning upon waking up, he would rush to brush his teeth and quickly lean against the nearest window. He didn’t always stay inside the Primarian Royale, but when he did, it was a prime opportunity to observe the children playing 'soldier' in Whistletop Alley below. They depicted New Dwarden’s military with large cogs on their backs and makeshift metallic outfits, battling other local kids dressed in cloaks who threw tiny smoke bombs to represent the notorious pirates known as the 'Whistlin’ Death' and their often smoky trails left behind.

Deep down, Bolton had always wanted to join the other kids, but as a royal child, he could only watch them live out their adventures or play with his often stricter older brother, Michael. 'Older by seconds but each second years,' Bolton often thought. After being scolded on multiple occasions for trying to pretend spar with Michael, he instead eagerly awaited the nights when his father or mother had time to tell him the legendary stories New Dwarden had to offer; although to Bolton, his favorites were the ones particular to the sky.

Between all the stories and adventures, Michael was always quick to remind Bolton and Amelia that only 'miscreants' and 'vermin' would adopt a life in the sky. Unless they flew under the banner of New Dwarden, they had no place in the clouds. This sentiment resonated well with their father and most of those around them. He often spoke of the “Whistlin’ Death” pirates, who flew crude, square boarding vessels that whistled through the parting clouds like bombs, landing on any unfortunate ships below.

Yet even Michael wasn’t immune to the sheer adventure emanating from these tales. Before any scoldings and corrections, Bolton, Amelia, and Michael would often sneak into the royal library, located close to their room on the 13th floor of the Primarian Royale. There, they would scour the shelves for tales and stories, accounts, and even logs of dangerous creatures, criminals, treasures, and, of course, stories of pirates, which they would re-enact deep into the night. Bolton smiled at the thought. Sometimes, Michael would pull his blanket off in the middle of the night to scare Amelia, who slept next door, pretending to be a “Whistlin’ Death Pirate.” Their night escapades came to an abrupt end when the King and Queen installed a robotic bodyguard known as an Arc Soldier in the Primarian Royale. Bolton called them Wind-up Soldiers due to the constant ticking sound from their metallic chests and the slowly rotating wheel that rose from their backs.

Upon finally arriving at the base of the ship, Bolton couldn't help but smile at the enormous, gaping squared windows. Just like in the stories, the windows were made of a light, durable metal, ready to swing open with equally enormous triangular cannons poised just behind them, ready for battle at any second. 'These cannons were said to rotate upon firing, each shot stronger than the last,' read the plaque below the complex machinery holding them upwards. To Bolton, a detail far too exciting to skip.

Regretfully, he kept moving. As he descended the candle-lit stairs—normally meant for tour guides and tourists—he came upon wide arched doors of wood and metal. Like the doorway, the inside of the ship appeared carefully crafted, light enough to fly but strong enough to withstand damage. It was a delicate balance of a wordsmith’s grace, a blacksmith’s beauty, and their combined grit.

“The Akiyoma standard,” mumbled Bolton aloud.

The ship had a crosshatched roof, while the floor was thin, light metal. The walls were made of beautiful, sturdy wood, a brilliant brown with just the right amount of gloss. Through the archway was the largest chamber of the airship, where its giant wings were attached to a cylindrical engine. The wings spanned twice the ship's length, sprouting from thin slits in the ship's walls. Gears, tubes, levers, and pulleys generously made up the inside of this chamber, giving it a metallic sheen in the lantern light.

After venturing deeper into the engine room, Bolton noticed a giant, gaping wound in the ship's walls. It hadn't been repaired, left as a display of the battle scar the ship had suffered before it was decommissioned—a wound from the notorious Whistlin' Death pirates. The cracked wood and metal bore scorch marks, and the hole size was large enough for a Clinker to easily step through, even when its stilt-like legs were extended.

This was an eerie reminder of the dangers lurking outside and perhaps even within the walls of the Akiyoma. The plaque beside the ship’s wound noted, ‘After incapacitating their targets, the pirates would capture their prey using the first successfully stolen Akiyoma known to New Dwarden—an injured ship taken during a decommissioning ceremony on [illegible due to being scratched out]. Belonging to fleet Alpha 3-213, the enemy Akiyoma was modified to wield a giant screeching claw that would descend from the blackened clouds, capturing the vessel below with terrifying efficiency, leaving only a booming echo in its wake. This ship survived. Praise be to New Dwarden’s superior engineering. Airships have since been significantly fortified to prevent such crimes.’

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Exit’s down to the right. Best make your move, Bolton, lest we miss our only chance of seeing your brother without handcuffs,” reminded Vermolly from under Bolton’s cap, her voice muffled.

“This moment would’ve been far more magical if I wasn’t in such a hurry,” lamented Bolton aloud before turning to his right. “Shame. There’s so much to learn, even from this hole in the wall.”

“And more when we take care of business,” Vermolly reminded, tipping Bolton’s hat upward so she could be heard clearly.

After exhausting two loose lanterns and making a quick trip to the Akiyoma’s notorious latrine, Bolton finally reached the bottom of the hull. There, he encountered one more wooden door, an exit for tourists finishing their visit early. Although this Akiyoma had been repurposed as a display, the door itself bore a large, angular bronze bust. The intricate bust provided context on the ship's original builders and proclaimed it a gift to New Dwarden, following its near destruction five years ago. It depicted a giant slamming a hammer down on a warm blue forge. Its blue sparks were carved in marvelous detail, and the giant's expression was firm and unwavering in his focus.

Bolton carefully examined the door, recalling several famous giants who had served New Dwarden faithfully, at least according to his father. However, none by the name of Hios.

Nevertheless, he pressed on and opened the door, following a stairway that stretched under a giant brass chain leading to a beautifully decorated golden triangular anchor, pressed firmly on the orange-bricked floor.

“This thing’s a giant. Like a village in the sky,” Bolton observed, looking up at the enormous ship from under the hull. “Tourist be damned, this airship belongs in the sky.”

Vermolly crawled from under Bolton’s cap, noticing his gaze meandering into contemplation, his eyes flickering between confidence and a curious kind of sadness. He stared longingly at the towering mast of the Akiyoma peeking above him, likely pondering his repeated dream of being an airship pilot. Drawing closer, Vermolly perched delicately atop the bridge of his nose, her webbed feet barely making a sound.

"Remember what ol’ Dani Alton used to say," she began softly. "Being an airship pilot isn't just about gazing skyward. It's about understanding what keeps you anchored to the earth below. A steadfast will forms the foundation for a resilient crew."

“Are we on about this again?” Laughed Bolton, his eyes crossed looking toward Vermolly. “He took that from a Primarian Arc recruitin’ pamphlet.”

“And?” Said Vermolly playfully.

“And…dreams keep the ship afloat; hard work lifts it off. I remember, blah blah blah” Bolton mimicked, now refocused.

“Your emotions lack subtlety,” Vermolly admitted.

“Subtlety doesn’t run in the family,” Bolton agreed lightheartedly.

“An airship’s pilot should be chosen by merit, not by family. Rules be damned,” Vermolly comforted, her croaking voice a soothing melody amidst the quiet night. “We’ll build one eventually. Start small.”

Bolton chuckled, “Should I mark you down as my loyal Alchemian airship engineer?”

“Oh, blessed no. No. Quadrant Thirteen is our home now,” Vermolly admitted, swaying carefree from one side of Bolton’s hat to the other. “No airship’s for my immediate future.”

"Do Alchemians usually frequent airships anyway?" Bolton wondered, carefully handling Vermolly from arm to arm.

"Perhaps when someone of a more responsible background pilots it?" Vermolly teased.

"Like another Alchemian?" Bolton suggested.

Vermolly recoiled with mock horror. "By earth and sea, no! Too arrogant. They generally can’t see beyond their flat snouts. I'm far superior," she declared, her gentle laughter filling the air. “Besides, I’m far smaller than the average Alchemian. Can’t repair anything larger than your average cog.”

Vermolly leaned over Bolton’s curled finger, hanging from his nail and gazing up at the fireworks lighting up the sky. Hearing a larger, more sizzling firework, she suddenly a particular detail from the note Bolton received before his quest into the deeper Quadrants. The note instructed him to approach a specially designed sewer hole when the fireworks exploded at midnight. The first firework would be a purple dazzle, the second a green array with a purple center, and the last a large star-shaped explosion signaling the start of the late-night festivities in Whistletop Alley and Bolton’s chance to enter the Primarian Royale

“Signal should be soon, Bolton. Head up, pend your thoughts,” Vermolly said, rushing up Bolton’s arm onto his makeshift leather helmet. “I’d say we have five minutes until the second signal.”

"Quickly off-topic, Vermolly,” Bolton wondered, looking up over his head. “You say I’m reckless, but you’ve never talked about your time aboard the..."

“I’m not so gullible to know you won’t go venturing off to the people who wronged me. An airship is not difficult to find. Even for a Quadrant Thirteen bumpkin,” Vermolly replied sternly.

“It’s only been two years with you, and you know me that well?” Bolton laughed suddenly.

“As I’ve said, you’re not subtle,” Vermolly laughed back. “Now let’s get those Gale Frogs outta your helmet. The second firework will explode soon.” Refocused, Vermolly tilted Bolton’s helmet, revealing the frogs underneath. “Now hurry and unclip your chin strap, get these lil’ guys out.”

Bolton quickly agreed and unclipped his chinstrap, then removed his helmet. Nine Gale Frogs—each adorned with unique, striking patterns—aligned themselves into a haphazard formation, croaking louder and louder until they naturally formed a circle.

“Ah, well, once they stop pulling your hair, it’s difficult to remember they’re there,” Bolton said with some embarrassment. “Right now, Vermolly, think you can do that Alchemian bubble thing? Just shove ’em in a bubble and wave ’em farewell. I know these guys belong in the air.”

Vermolly's expression fell. "Still not quite at full strength. Can’t make any bubbles at the moment. More like, not… even close, to be honest," she confessed, her voice softening while examining the nine colorful tiny frogs.