Bolton landed on a low rooftop, the distant crackle of fireworks breaking the stillness around him. Wincing, he adjusted his stance as a sharp ache flared in his side. “Now, before we willingly... Dammit! Relax… risk everything by breaking the say-sanctity of the Greisha ceremony,” he muttered. A pained grin flickered across his face as he shifted his weight and tightened the straps of his air contraption, checking a loose valve.

  Before he could continue, a sharp mechanical whir from a distant Clinker pierced the air, cutting through the faint murmurs of the crowd below. Bolton froze, his emerald-green eyes darting toward the sound. In the corner of his vision, he spotted the familiar, eerie silhouette of the towering machine as it emerged from the shadowy edges of Akiyoma Square. Lantern light danced off its angular, metallic form, its yellow, crosshatched eyes scanning the bustling alley. A trail of exhaust hissed from its vents, and its head tilted with a disturbing semblance of curiosity. Bolton tensed, instinctively stepping back into the shadows of the rooftop.

  The Clinker paused, its movements deliberate and unsettling. Then, with a soft whirr and a burst of steam, it turned and disappeared into the swirling haze near the square’s edge. Bolton exhaled, his breath slow and controlled as he reached up to adjust his brown bowler hat.

  From beneath the brim, a croaky voice emerged. “You can stand to be more patient! And by the powers of earth and sea,” Vermolly gasped, “may Yerro bless me with a touch of cool air. Unlike a frog, I cannot endure this warmth for long.”

  Amidst the firework-lit haze, a small webbed green hand emerged from under the hat, lifting it slightly to reveal eight pairs of luminous yellow eyes blinking in rapid succession. Each eye shimmered with colorful slit irises encircled by mesmerizing rotating patterns. Bolton couldn’t help but grin as the faint smell of cooked meats and festival smoke drifted through the air, mingling with muffled laughter and the distant clinking of mugs. The vibrant hum of Whistletop Alley swelled below, accented by the lively notes of an accordion weaving through the commotion.

  His gaze shifted beyond the alley, toward the imposing outline of the Akiyoma, towering proudly in the square’s center. The airship’s gleaming hull caught the reflection of the fireworks, and its intricate carvings glinted in the lantern light. Despite the distractions around him, Bolton’s focus sharpened, and his grip tightened on the strap of his air contraption.

  “Best stay clear of those Clinkers tonight,” Vermolly muttered as she crawled out from under the hat, dangling in front of Bolton’s face. Her glowing nearly iridescent eyes narrowed as if she shared his unease.

  Bolton gave a faint nod, his voice low. “Clinkers got an upgrade. Even among the crowds, they might be onto us.” With another glance toward Akiyoma Square, his lips twitched into a smirk. “Still, can’t let a little thing like that keep us grounded. Sides, these Gale Frogs have to fly.”

  Among the nine creatures nestled within Bolton’s hat, Vermolly, a pocket-sized Alchemian, crawled out and dangled proudly in front of him. Her webbed fingers gripped the hat’s rim with practiced ease, her glowing yellow eyes gleaming with mischievous intelligence.

  “I’m afraid the Greisha ceremony is something you are compelled to respect,” Vermolly said, her smirk widening. “You can’t just break it because you feel like it.”

  Bolton frowned, fiddling with a buckle on his contraption. “Okay, I get that. But how do you know so much about it?”

  “Collective memory,” Vermolly replied with a flick of her tiny hand, her tone dripping with pride.

  “Ah, right,” Bolton muttered, his voice laced with mock understanding. “Memories you can pick and choose from—nothing like humans. You’re the furthest thing from us.”

  Her smirk deepened. “Going back thousands of years, Bolton. How far do your memories go?”

  “Twenty-three,” he quipped, flashing a grin before his voice softened. “What happens if I break the Greisha ceremony?” The question hung in the air, heavier than he intended.

  “Soul Rot, to start,” Vermolly answered, her voice steady and calm. “Unless Yerro deems the breach to serve a deal of greater value or importance.”

  The faint hiss of a Clinker’s exhaust sounded somewhere below, drawing Bolton’s eyes briefly to the flickering lanterns swaying above the crowded alley. He tugged at a leather strap on his contraption, tightening it. “Or… if someone already broke it.”

  Vermolly tilted her head, her fingers tapping the brim of his hat. “Possibly,” she said, curiosity lacing her tone. “But regardless, we Alchemians abide by less divisive customs. Maybe you humans could learn a thing or two.”

  Bolton chuckled dryly, though the tension in his shoulders remained. “Yeah, yeah. Wisdom from a species that spits acid when annoyed.”

  “Wisdom and practical defenses,” Vermolly corrected with a sly grin.

  Her gaze sharpened as she perched on his shoulder. The faint rumble of a festival drum floated up, punctuating the vibrant chaos below. “Let’s hear it, Bolton. Did the black-haired girl remind you of her?”

  Caught off guard, Bolton blinked. “Who?”

  Vermolly smirked. “I don’t need to tap into the Alchemian collective to see that she did,” she teased, tapping his nose until he crinkled it. Bolton twitched, ready to sneeze, before gently swatting her sticky hand away.

  “It wasn’t going to work out,” Bolton muttered, his voice heavy with defeat.

  “What’s not?” Vermolly asked, her eyes narrowing as if the city below ceased to exist.

  Bolton’s hands swept outward toward the sprawling cityscape. “I’m…so… SO OUT HERE,” he exclaimed dramatically. “And she’s so in there,” he continued, pointing to his heart. “It’s stupid, but that’s all I got. It’s like a wolf trying to kiss a hare.”

  “Why limit yourself to just two schools of thought?” Vermolly asked with mock seriousness. “...and I take it you’re the tough wolf?”

  “Sure ain’t the hare,” Bolton replied with forced confidence. “She’s scared of the world. I’m not. I want to whisk her away. She doesn’t want to go,” he murmured, his voice trailing off. “When we’re together, it’s like our eyes burn bright together. But adventure seems to only call for me…”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Maybe she isn’t ready. Matters of the soul are like seeds,” Vermolly said gently. “If we focus on growth, who knows what you both might become? Friends, best friends, lovers—it doesn’t matter when the future is unknown. The best thing we can do is love all the same. Pursue your ambitions and let growth come to you. If it’s her path, she’ll follow. Otherwise, look forward, like humans usually do.”

  Bolton sighed deeply, letting her words sink in. “I almost stayed at the shop today. I didn’t want to risk it all over a fancy letter,” he admitted. “How did that ol’ guy even know where I was?”

  “Sounds like you regret snatching the letter from his satchel,” Vermolly accused, her tone laced with playful reproach.

  Bolton shook his head, smirking faintly. “Another royal ready to rope me into rituals or rules? No thanks. I recognized the badge, saw the seal on his hand. That’s all I needed.”

  “Needed for what?” Vermolly pressed.

  “To know he means business,” Bolton replied, his grin fading. “In the eyes of the public, Bolton Woltwork is dead. All that’s left is the shop name.”

  Vermolly tilted her head, her webbed fingers tapping on his collar. “Never liked that name.”

  “What? Paxton?” Bolton glanced at her, feigning offense. “It’s an inner Quadrant name. Inspired by the Giants who helped build this city. Sophisticated,” he added with a wry smile.

  “Sophisticated,” Vermolly echoed with mock solemnity. “Sure, if you’re trying to impress some stuffy Quadrant Four banker.”

  “Hey, best know that names turned heads!” Bolton chuckled, adjusting a loose strap on his contraption. “Paxton is a name people trust. A name people think about.”

  “Trust to tinker with their trash,” Vermolly quipped, earning a soft laugh from Bolton.

  Bolton smirked faintly, though his unease lingered. Vermolly positioned herself in front of him, her large eyes meeting his. “The letter. The king is ‘risking it all’ just meeting with you. Soul Rot is what waits beyond breaching the Greisha Ceremony,” she said. “At least, one would hope it’s worth it.”

  “Don’t trust royalty. Unless it’s my brother himself, I’m not dealin’ with them. Everything feels wrong. My brother and I aren’t ever to communicate again—that’s the condition of that stupid ceremony. As far as I know, the letter still counts,” Bolton said, his voice tight with worry.

  “And your older sister?” Vermolly asked softly. “Think she got a letter too?”

  Bolton hesitated. “Amelia? Last I heard, she walked toward Quadrant Seven. Five years ago.” He pointed absently behind him. “She and I were close.”

  “Were?” Vermolly pressed.

  Bolton’s shoulders sagged. “I got nothin’ against her. She just disappeared, ya know? Straight into the crowd, and…that’s the last I saw her.” He glanced toward the pocket watch hanging from his jacket. “She was good to me.”

  With a satisfying click, Bolton opened the golden pocket watch, revealing a softly glowing Gigarock embedded within. On the opposite side, a small black-and-white photograph captured three children standing with the former King and Queen Woltwork. The faces stared back, frozen in a moment of bittersweet simplicity.

  Vermolly leaned closer, her luminous yellow eyes narrowing in curiosity as they lingered on the photo’s details. “Every time you open that, I’m reminded of how strange your customs are. Carrying something so much like a beating heart in a pocket watch—it’s unnervingly poetic.”

  Bolton smirked faintly. “I thought you’d take another jab at my goofy picture. Amelia’s buck teeth? My expert ability to look anywhere but the camera?”

  She chuckled, her gaze softening as it swept over the image. “Tempting, but not today.”

  Bolton traced the edge of the watch with his thumb. “Good. I’m not in the mood for heckling anyway.”

  Vermolly’s voice dropped to a murmur, her fond smile curling slightly. “So much changes, yet so little does.”

  Bolton’s gaze lingered on the photo, his thumb brushing over the faint, timeworn scratches on the glass. “If a royal summons you, it’s law to oblige,” he said, his voice tinged with resignation. “Break it, and… well, maybe Soul Rot ain’t so bad after all.” His words hung in the air, heavy with bitterness as his eyes drifted back to the photo, searching for something long lost.

  “The letter said, ‘blah blah blah, of grave importance. The King summons you,’” Bolton muttered, his tone dripping with mockery. His thumb idly traced the edges of the photograph. “I don’t know what’s going on with my brother, but if I’m breaking this Greisha ceremony, it’s gonna be on my terms.”

  Amelia smiled with missing teeth, flashing a peace sign as she cuddled next to their mother. Michael—the current king—stood rigid and unsmiling beside their father, his posture already betraying the weight of his future role. Bolton, meanwhile, had lifted his shirt to proudly display a toy airplane beneath, his carefree grin stark against the prim formality of his siblings. The stain on his shirt—a remnant of some long-forgotten meal—seemed to perfectly encapsulate who he was, even then.

  “You don’t change, do you?” Vermolly observed with a soft laugh.

  Bolton chuckled, snapping the watch shut. “Neither does my brother. He’s never been one to take risks. I can’t help but be curious about what this is about,” he said, perching his chin on his hand as he dangled his feet over the crow’s nest.

  “So, let’s meet this sewer boy mentioned in that other letter and get back to our humble garage?” Vermolly suggested. “We are to wait for a signal near a manhole correct?”

  Bolton grinned. “Yup. It was more like a note on a crumpled napkin, but yeah, let’s not waste time. The signal’s likely to show up any moment now.” His eyes shone with determination as he surveyed the ship.

  Bolton stood, his gaze lifting to the sky as he adjusted his suspenders with a practiced motion. Gently, he scooped Vermolly onto his palm, her tiny fingers gripping his thumb for balance, before tucking her snugly back under his cap. The pocket watch in his jacket vibrated suddenly, and the embedded Gigarock emitted a faint, ethereal glow.

  “The thing’s mysterious by nature,” Bolton muttered, his voice low. “It’s got me nervous—but the shop won’t run itself, and I can’t shake the feeling my brother’s behind it.” He shook off the unease, his steps gaining purpose as he moved toward Akiyoma Square. Excitement mingled with tension, his heart pounding in rhythm with the hum of the festival ahead.

  As he descended from his perch, the lively hum of the festival grew louder, the streets beneath alive with revelers. Bolton’s sharp gaze darted back to where he last saw the Clinker. For a moment, its silhouette lingered on the edge of the festivities—a rigid, mechanical outline barely veiled by swirling smoke and the kaleidoscope of lantern light. Then, with unnerving ease, it melded into the crowd, its hulking frame moving with a deliberate, almost human fluidity.

  “This thing’s different from when I was here. Clever bastard,” Bolton muttered, his knuckles brushing the cool metal of his contraption. He felt Vermolly shift slightly under his hat, her presence grounding him. The faint notes of accordion music reached his ears, masking the Clinker’s faint mechanical whir as it disappeared deeper into the celebration.

  Bolton quickened his pace, his boots clicking against the cobblestone as he weaved through the crowd. Akiyoma Square loomed ahead, its expanse bathed in the warm glow of stringed lights and the shadow of the legendary airship. The square pulsed with life—vendors hawked shimmering trinkets and airship memorabilia, while children darted between stalls waving miniature kites designed to look like Gale Whales.

  Reaching the Akiyoma’s intricately carved helm, Bolton paused to take it all in. The detailed images of Alchemians surfing stars and Gale Whales soaring through clouds stirred something deep within him. His fingers brushed against the etched wood as he read the bold motto carved into its base: “First to brave distant horizons unscathed.”

  With a small smirk tugging at his lips, Bolton whispered to himself, “One day, we’ll see if I can do better. A pilot. A prodigy of society! A real Gearpunk.”