Bolton
The wind whispered secrets through the bones of the Midnight Train, dragging echoes down corridors that no longer obeyed the laws of distance. Somewhere deep in the engine’s heart, the walls pulsed like veins—carrying heat, memory, and something older than steam.
Bolton turned.
The door to the previous car was still cracked open behind him, its frame glowing faintly like a strange wound just beginning to close. The fireflies were gone now. So was the water. The dock. The bayou.
And her.
Sarah hadn’t followed him.
Not yet. Or not at all.
He stared at the space where she had kissed him—tentatively, strangely, like someone trying to remember what it meant to feel. Her lips had been warm, then cold, then something in between. Crafted, maybe. But they had trembled against his.
He didn’t pull away.
Now, in the shifting lamplight, his fingers drifted to his mouth, brushing gently across the spot where her kiss had landed.
A machine just kissed me.
Or… something that used to be one?
He wasn’t sure what was more frightening—that she had done it, or that he’d kissed her back.
Before he could sink deeper into the thought, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
He startled, just slightly.
Pistol stood beside him, solid and silent as the train’s bones. His gaze wasn’t angry—but it wasn’t soft either.
“Love was not part of the plan,” he muttered. “But, as always, it never is.”
His eyes flicked toward the cracked door behind them. Then to Bolton’s hand, still absently touching his lips.
A beat passed.
“Still—focus, royal.” The edge of disapproval was slight, but unmistakable.
Then, Pistol turned and stepped forward.
Bolton hesitated—just long enough to feel foolish.
He let his hand drop, the memory of her touch still warm on his skin, and followed.
The next car wasn’t a car at all.
It was a chamber.
Circular. Colossal. Ancient.
Not old in the way rust gathers or hinges creak—but old in the way names become sacred, in the way a story outlives its teller. The walls were smooth brass overlaid with spiraling roots of Gigarock, much like the caverns deep under the Primarian Royale. Gears rotated like slow thoughts. The air shimmered gold and pulses of light blue, as if lit from within by memory itself.
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And at the center—
A flower.
Not made of flesh. Not entirely machine.
A construct of petals—some bronze, some crystalline—held aloft a pulsing orb that hovered in a cradle of copper lattice. Thin tendrils reached down into the floor like veins.
The heart glowed faintly orange, a warmth like firelight pressed against skin.
The Amorialle.
Bolton staggered toward it.
It was the same.
The color. The shape. The faint rhythmic beat.
But something was different now. The petals shifted—and began to close, retracting inward—not in collapse, but in reverence. To reveal not just a flower, but the dome encasing it.
Smooth. Translucent. Darker than obsidian and streaked with glints of living gold.
Bolton stopped mid-step.
His heart seized.
“No…”
The casing wasn’t just some protective barrier.
It was S-Class Gigarock.
The highest grade. The rarest. The forbidden.
He had seen that sheen before—on the ceremonial gloves worn by his father during the crowning rites. On the locket Amelia wore around her neck. In his own pocket watch.
Only those in the royal line or among the Quadrant Leaders had access.
To see it here—encasing this?
“That’s not possible,” Bolton whispered. “That’s ours. That’s—”
He couldn’t finish the thought.
And yet, there it was.
Nestled within the dome, hovering in amber light, was the Amorialle’s core—and it wasn’t metal.
It was flesh.
Not metaphor. Not design.
A heart, red-orange and glistening, curled upon itself like a thing both alive and ancient. It pulsed, slow and wet and patient, a soft twitch every few seconds—like it was waiting to be remembered.
Bolton stumbled closer, breath caught in his throat.
He reached into his coat and pulled the pocket watch free.
Click.
The hinge snapped open.
Inside, the tiny fragment of his own Amorialle curled and glowed.
It pulsed once—soft.
And the dome responded.
So did the chamber.
THUMP.
Pistol winced. Bolton nearly dropped the watch.
A second pulse.
A third.
The core within the Gigarock dome began to glow brighter, syncing rhythm with the one in Bolton’s hand. Threads of light crackled between the heart and the chamber walls.
Then, from the upper curve of the dome, a soft etching began to appear.
Lines. Faces. Names.
The walls of the chamber bloomed with memory.
Some were strangers. Some—fragments of war-forged legends. One—
One he knew.
Amelia.
Her eyes didn’t move, but they saw.
Bolton’s grip on the watch trembled. His knees nearly gave out.
“She’s alive,” he whispered.
Pistol’s voice came like smoke from the forge. “She had an encounter for certain. Much like yourself.”
He stepped forward, his boots echoing with impossible weight.
“This car—the Watcher’s Cart—it doesn’t always exist. Not in time. Not in space. It appears when one of the Amorialle awakens it. When it needs to be seen.”
Bolton’s voice cracked. “What is this place, really?”
Pistol’s gaze turned heavier, gaze fixed on the heart behind the glass.
“It’s not a room.”
Bolton looked at the beating piece in his watch.
Pistol didn’t blink.
“It’s a memory. A message.”
Bolton swallowed. “Who’s memory?”
Pistol looked toward the flower. The pulsing dome. The heart within.
His answer was slow. Final.
“What was once Yerro’s will. In other words, your fathers. The King.”
Turnbased RPG's or Action RPG's?
