Bolton tightened the straps of his air contraption, his eyes locked on the massive airship hovering above the heart of Akiyoma Square. The Akiyoma—a meticulously crafted, fully functional replica of the legendary vessel—towered over the bustling festivities below, tethered by thick cables that gleamed in the lantern-lit night. Its larger-than-life proportions magnified its grandeur without compromising the intricate details: the curved hull, glimmering rotors, and etched symbols of New Dwarden’s rich history. It was a monument to the skies and a reminder of the kingdom’s ingenuity.
Crouched low on the rooftop, Bolton surveyed the square. Gale Whale kites drifted lazily above clusters of revelers, their glowing frames flickering in rhythm with the fireworks overhead. Vendors barked out offers for roasted meats and chilled ciders while children zigzagged between carts, sparklers in hand. Yet amidst the lively chaos, Bolton’s gaze kept returning to the Akiyoma. A piece of history, a symbol of hope, and—tonight—his only way forward.
The sharp mechanical whir of a Clinker snapped Bolton’s attention downward. The stilt-legged automaton marched through the crowd, its polished bronze exterior glinting under the warm glow of festival lanterns. Its swiveling head scanned the square, mechanical eyes narrowing as it stopped briefly near a vendor’s stall. Bolton’s pulse quickened as the Clinker lingered, its exhaust venting with a soft hiss. For a moment, he feared it might sense his presence. Then, with a faint mechanical groan, it moved on, blending seamlessly into the festivities below.
“That was close,” Vermolly croaked from beneath his cap. “Closer than you think. Maybe wait for the Clinker to take a swig of oil? Loosen it’s gears a bit.”
Bolton smirked, adjusting his hat. “You’re assuming Clinkers stop. These ones seem different—especially that painted one. Feels like it’s watching, even when it’s standing still.” His voice dropped slightly, a flicker of unease breaking through his usual bravado. “Pretty sure they’re not here for ciders and meat skewers, though. If they were, the crowd wouldn’t still be cheering.”
Bolton trailed off, his stomach rumbling faintly. His gaze drifted toward the crowd, their laughter and cheers rising over the festival hum. “Still… a good ol’ Inner Quadrant feast doesn’t sound half bad,” he murmured, his voice laced with faint humor. His thumbs twitched, idly twirling as his tone lingered on the edge of tension. “Everything’s always in excess here.”
As the words left his mouth, his emerald-green eyes snapped back to the painted Clinker. It stood eerily still, its glowing eyes burning through the haze of smoke and lantern light. Bolton’s smirk faded slightly, the unease tightening his jaw. “And yet, that one… doesn’t look like it’s here to celebrate.”
“They’re big on spotting fools in the sky,” Vermolly shot back. “And if you’re the one it catches, I’m claiming your hat as a parachute.”
“Noted,” Bolton muttered. With a sharp exhale, he rose to his feet, gauging the trajectory toward the Akiyoma’s deck. His contraption hissed softly as he engaged its mechanisms, steam venting in controlled bursts. The crowd below continued their revelry, oblivious to his presence.
Bolton launched himself into the air, the contraption roaring to life. A burst of wind rushed past his face as the device propelled him upward in short, powerful intervals. Lanterns swayed in the draft as festival-goers paused briefly, mistaking him for part of the evening’s entertainment. As the ship’s massive helm loomed closer, the noise of the crowd melted away, replaced by the rhythmic hum of his air contraption.
He landed with a controlled thud on the deck, his boots clicking against the polished steel. The air up here was cooler, the faint smell of oil and metal mixing with the distant aroma of roasted meats. Bolton took a moment to steady himself, his gaze sweeping over the intricately carved railing. Alchemian figures surfing stars and Gale Whales leaping through clouds adorned the ship’s edges, their metallic forms catching the faint light. The ship’s motto, “First to brave distant horizons unscathed,” gleamed proudly above the helm, echoing in his thoughts as he adjusted his hat.
“Well, here we are,” Vermolly said, poking her head out from under his cap. “You’d think a giant floating relic would feel less…floaty.”
“History’s alive,” Bolton replied, his voice tinged with awe. “And tonight, we’re making some of our own.”
As he stepped further onto the deck, the faint creak of weathered steel under his boots stirred memories of childhood tales. The Akiyoma was no ordinary display; it was a living monument to the daring exploits and tragedies that shaped New Dwarden. Bolton’s fingers brushed against a nearby plaque, its polished surface etched with the name Akiyoma IV. His mind wandered to stories of the ship’s legendary predecessor and the sky battles that defined its legacy.
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The corridor stretched ahead, a labyrinth of innovation and history. Every plaque and trophy along the walls told a story: the triumphs of engineers, the bravery of crews, and the dangers of the skies. Bolton’s thoughts drifted to his family—his siblings and the tales their parents used to weave at bedtime. They had all dreamed of the skies once. But only he still did.
“Lost in thought again?” Vermolly’s voice broke through. She perched on his shoulder, her webbed fingers tapping lightly against his collar. “Focus, Bolton. Your brother’s waiting, remember?”
He nodded, forcing himself back to the present. “Right. Time to move.”
Bolton descended a candle-lit stairwell, its arched walls lined with intricately carved wood and gleaming brass. The warmth of the festival above gave way to the cool, mechanical hum of the ship’s heart. As he entered the massive engine room, his breath caught. Gears, tubes, and levers filled the space, their metallic surfaces gleaming in the dim light. The wings of the Akiyoma stretched outward, their intricate mechanisms a marvel of engineering.
But one detail held his gaze—a massive, jagged hole in the ship’s hull, surrounded by scorch marks and twisted metal. The plaque beside it told a grim tale: The Whistlin’ Death pirates struck here, capturing the vessel below with a screeching claw that echoed through the clouds. This ship survived. Praise be to New Dwarden’s superior engineering.
Bolton traced the edge of the damaged metal, a pang of both awe and unease settling in his chest. This ship had endured, just as he intended to.
“We’re not at the shop. Kick up the pace,” Vermolly urged, her voice steady but insistent. “The clock’s winding away.”
Bolton glanced back at the plaque one last time before pressing on. His boots echoed softly against the floor as he made his way toward the exit, the faint hum of the ship’s systems a quiet reminder of its resilience. Tonight, the Akiyoma was more than a relic; it was a symbol of the journey ahead.
As he stepped into the cool night air, the vibrant glow of Akiyoma Square greeted him once more. The grand airship loomed above, its silhouette dominating the skyline. Tethered by thick cables and bathed in festival lights, the Akiyoma replica hovered just off its dock, a silent guardian over the celebrations below. The square had quieted, the earlier revelry fading into scattered murmurs and the occasional crackle of fireworks.
Bolton adjusted the straps of his air contraption, the name Vaporjet Harness fresh in his mind. He’d borrowed the term from a bronze plaque on the Akiyoma’s mast, which extolled the revolutionary vaporjet technology that allowed the airship to soar at high speeds. The name felt fitting, a small nod to the innovation that fueled both the ship and his ambitions.
His gaze drifted to the manhole beneath the ship’s massive hull. Its location was unmistakable—marked by a single bronze plaque on the nearby wall, engraved with the Akiyoma's proud motto: "First to brave distant horizons unscathed." The words lingered in his thoughts, a quiet challenge against the risks ahead.
From beneath his hat, Vermolly’s voice broke the silence. “You’re awfully quiet. Second thoughts?”
“Just thinking,” Bolton replied, his tone distant as he studied the square. He couldn’t help but recall how, earlier that evening, he’d plucked the Gale Frogs from a simmering stew pot in a food stall, their fate narrowly avoided thanks to his quick interference. Now, the frogs had long vanished into the winds, their pouches inflated like vibrant sails as they twirled gracefully through the air, catching the gales that whip through New Dwarden like natural-born aviators. The last firework’s glow lingered faintly in the sky, and shadows stretched across the cobblestones, broken only by the beams of light from a patrolling Clinker.
“Better think faster,” Vermolly said, her croaky tone laced with urgency. “The night’s slipping away, and that letter isn’t growing any less important.”
Bolton smirked faintly, adjusting his hat. “Neither is that crumpled note. No clue what kind of sewer rats we’ve got waiting on us, but I doubt they’re the patient type.”
He crouched low, eyes scanning the square as the Clinker drew closer. Its mechanical joints hissed softly, its lantern-like eyes casting slow arcs of light across the cobblestones. Bolton held his breath, waiting as its beam passed over the monument, momentarily illuminating the towering bronze bust of a hammer-wielding giant. The Clinker paused, its head swiveling as if sensing movement, before it clattered away toward the edge of the square.
Bolton exhaled, his hand brushing against the crumpled note in his coat pocket. “Midnight. Purple firework, then green, then the star. Don’t get caught.” He straightened, his gaze fixed on the manhole beneath the Akiyoma.
“Let’s hope this guy’s as helpful as Selton promised,” Bolton muttered, stepping out from the shadows. His gaze lingered on the manhole for a moment. “A straight shot into Quadrant Zero. How’d I miss this while goofing around the Primarian Royale? Maybe it’s for the best—Michael and I probably would’ve handed Amelia the crown back then. Who am I kidding? I was the only one getting caught.”