The city stilled. The fog began to rise once more.

  Glassford’s voice returned—calmer now, but edged with something sacred. “The flesh encased in the Gigarock… is called Amorialle. Rick and I coined the term together some time ago—a story, as you know, with grave consequences for us both.”

  “Rick?” Amelia asked softly, curling into the petals of the strange flower she rested in, pulling one like a blanket over her shoulders. It was warm now—soft, its metallic quality almost dissolving into something like cotton.

  She hesitated. Her voice grew smaller. “He’s dead, you know… after everything.”

  There was a pause—long enough for the silence to sting.

  Then, from the air around her, Glassford’s voice came again—lighter now, with the faintest glint of mischief beneath the sorrow. “Is he?”

  Amelia blinked, caught off guard—then let out a short, weary laugh. “Everything’s a damn mystery nowadays.”

  “A mystery is only such should someone wish to try and solve it. Otherwise, it’s simply a fact. Or am I wrong?” Glassford replied.

  The fog shifted again, curling upward like rising breath.

  Amelia smiled faintly. Her voice was quieter now, more fragile. “You sound like him. Comforting, yet…”

  “Elegant,” Glassford cut in, the word almost smug. “A soul cannot be replicated or cloned. Nor can this charm.”

  Amelia swallowed, a lump catching in her throat. …Well aren’t you… well probably,” she whispered.

  She paused, then leaned forward into the flower’s warmth.

  “Glassford… If this really is you… do you remember my friend? Like a sister to me?”

  From above, the fog parted like curtains. A figure began to descend—slowly, reverently—gliding down as if carried by unseen wings. His long coat, tattered and faintly glowing at the seams, drifted behind him like a shroud of light. His boots didn’t thud—they settled on the flower, careful not to crush it.

  When he landed, he knelt before her, one hand over his chest, the other brushing the petal-strewn floor as though in mourning or prayer.

  His voice, though filtered through something ancient and metallic, was soft. “Chiselle?” he said, head bowed. “The wonderful warrior of a woman.”

  Before he could rise, Amelia ran to him.

  The petals shifted beneath her feet as she threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around him in a deep, desperate hug. Her hands gripped the back of his coat like she might fall without him.

  Glassford stiffened—then melted into the embrace, gently pressing a hand to her back. His frame, though metallic beneath the surface, felt warm. Familiar.

  “You raised her,” Amelia choked out, burying her face into his shoulder. “You took us out into the city when our parents wouldn’t. When the King and Queen said it was too dangerous. You gave us the world when we were locked in towers.”

  Glassford didn’t speak at first—but then a soft, rattling chuckle escaped him. His shoulders shook with it, and from beneath the edges of his mechanical eyes, a strange mixture of oil and water began to fall—thick black rivulets streaked with shimmering fluid.

  “You Crowns sure knew how to get me in trouble,” he murmured, voice low.

  Amelia leaned back slightly, hands still on his shoulders, her lip quivering. “So she made it? Passed the exams? Primarian Arc Soldier?”

  Glassford looked at her then—truly looked. “How could she not?” he said with a quiet smile. “She practically learned how to dissect between rules because of you. And your knuckle-headed brother, Bolton.”

  Amelia laughed, a small, broken sound, and wiped her face.

  Roy appeared beside them—only now, he looked like Whisky, the little bot from the Pappy Long Legs.

  “You cannot stay here long, Amelia,” Roy said, reaching toward her arm. In his hand, he held a tiny metallic flower, its petals softly humming with light. He pressed it gently against her forearm.

  “Glassford reported… being distracted by warm emotions in Yerro’s Spine is dangerous.”

  “Right as rain,” Glassford interjected, his voice firm but not unkind. “While familiar, this place is only as comforting as a schoolyard—empty.” He paused, then added with a dry edge, “Without friends… well, things seem a little darker in here. Don’t they, Roy?”

  Roy nodded slowly, then reached out—his small hand brushing against Amelia’s. He gently clasped her index finger, holding it as if anchoring her. A quiet gesture. Deliberate. Human.

  “Listen here, little one. I am not alive. But I am not truly dead either,” Glassford said quietly. “I don’t have a body anymore—but somehow, I’ve resisted Yerro’s call. I remain tethered to this world, and I believe my Amorialle is somehow intact.”

  “But… I’m dead,” Amelia whispered. “I-I mean, it sure feels like it.”

  Glassford’s tone sharpened, losing its softness.

  “Hear me, girl. The protective Gigarock shell may be cracked—but the immortality condition Erasmus alluded to?” He paused. “My brother’s knowledge on Amorialle is limited. Still, he knows this: all Amorialle have a specific condition that must be met to destroy them. It’s not written down. It’s not a diagram. It’s…” He tapped his chest. “…a matter of the heart I’m afraid. Best not to waste your time reading the thought of another.”

  Amelia opened her mouth. “Roy… he—”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Killed you,” Glassford finished for her. “Swiftly. And he saved your life for it.”

  He let the words settle before continuing.

  “Call it a flaw or a strength. But all Amorialle also possess a universal kill switch. Seemingly by Yerro’s design.”

  “What is it?” she asked, glancing at Roy, who was still gently holding her finger.

  Glassford’s voice lowered, almost like he was afraid to speak it aloud. “The simultaneous destruction of both the body and the Amorialle.” He looked at her. “Two deaths. One soul.”

  Amelia’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t… isn’t that what happened?” She thought of Roy. Of the sudden darkness. The weight in her chest. She wondered, should I pull away? Should I push him aside?

  Glassford watched her closely. “On a battlefield? Nearly impossible,” he said. Then, after a pause: “If Roy hadn’t killed you with a precise pierce of the temple… then Erasmus would’ve had plenty of trial and error to work with.”

  The words sank in like cold steel. She looked back at Roy—still holding her finger, still warm.

  “For some time, Roy had somehow slowly merged his consciousness with the Pappy Long Legs,” Glassford said. “Rick and I had our theories… but we never expected it to work.”

  He paused, then added more softly, “Nevertheless, I was able to reach him as if he was slowly extending his arm. Like you, he was drifting—beginning to fall into Yerro’s song.”

  A hush settled between them—not empty, but heavy with realization.

  Glassford’s voice softened as if speaking more to himself than anyone else. “Erasmus said something once… something I could only mindlessly repeat.” A breath. A weight. “Those who resist change… are consumed by it.”

  As if answering the thought, Roy stirred beside Amelia. He shifted, small and vulnerable, now perched on her lap like a child seeking comfort.

  “There was a hesitation to my movements,” he said quietly. “I could not move. It was… unknown.” He glanced up at her, his glowing eyes reflecting the flicker of something human. “But… I’m beginning to feel your warmth again.” A pause. A smile in his voice. “This is known.”

  “And Rick? W-what… what happened between you and—” Amelia began, her voice unsteady.

  But before the question could land, the world around them started to change.

  The fog began to twist. Below, the dark void—where green eyes had once blinked—started to churn and rise.

  It wasn’t fog anymore. It was weight. A presence.

  The fog twisted violently. Beneath Amelia, the void—the same emptiness where green eyes had watched—began churning upward, heavy and alive. It folded inward like quicksand, pulling everything relentlessly downward.

  Amelia’s body sank deeper, the chill closing around her limbs, consuming her slowly.

  Glassford reached toward her, voice gentle yet strained, each word heavier than the last. His form flickered at the edges, metallic feathers pushing painfully through his skin, slowly taking over his human shape.

  “Things are not… as they seem in Yerro’s Spine, Amelia,” he struggled, voice breaking into crackles of static. Feathers sprouted along his jaw, framing his anguished expression. His powerful hand weakened, fingertips trembling as he slowly released her, unable to hold on.

  “You must... listen carefully,” Glassford gasped, more feathers blooming along his shrinking shoulders. “Yerro seeks souls upon death… the Greisha Ceremony ties it all together somehow. Keep your heart safe, and he cannot claim you. But if you die again swiftly—or at the same time as your Amorialle—you’ll be lost forever.”

  Amelia stared desperately as Glassford’s body buckled. His form shifted further, shrinking dramatically, until he became a small, mechanical owlet hovering before her, bronze wings shivering delicately.

  “Lost?” she whispered, voice trembling. “Claimed? What does that even mean?”

  Glassford’s reply was faint, almost inaudible, distorted with sorrow and static:

  “I’m giving you… more than what's left of me. Still cheeky, huh?... Good.”

  Amelia sank further into darkness. Her vision blurred, shadows enveloping her entirely. The last clear thing she saw was Whisky—Roy’s tiny robot form glowing softly—beside Glassford’s fragile owlet shape, both drifting gently into darkness.

  “Amelia,” Roy’s voice echoed warmly, holding up her cracked locket. “The Pappy Long Legs has awakened.”

  Her heart pulsed violently.

  “Open your eyes!”

  The command tore through her. Pain shot through Amelia’s chest like lightning. She gasped sharply, eyes snapping open to the chaos around her.

  Smoke wreathed the air, explosions echoing everywhere. Erasmus’ severed arm lay beside her, sparks scattering like angry embers. Amelia tried to steady herself, dazed and trembling, as concussive blasts shook the ground beneath her. Waves of heat and cold battered her senses, nearly sending her under once more—until something enormous wrapped around her.

  “New memories, Crowny,” came Roy’s voice—deeper, fuller, resonant.

  She looked upward, heart pounding. Roy now towered massively, fused entirely with the Pappy Long Legs, a colossal titan of gleaming metal plates and roaring propellers. Balloon-like tanks kept him aloft, pushing air aside like an angry sea.

  Glassford’s voice echoed through the giant structure reassuringly:

  “I still live! Inside Roy, and now—inside you. How exactly this manifests, I’m eager to see.”

  Security bots swarmed the battlefield, each zipping through smoke like silver hornets. They struck the Whistlin’ Death pirates in rapid succession, exploding on contact, tearing through armor and steam cannons with ruthless precision. Flames bloomed around them, but Amelia was untouched—Roy’s shielded form surrounding her like a sanctuary of steel.

  Above them, the Whistlin’ Death airship pulsed with orange light. Then came the sound of dragging chains.

  A massive anchor began to rise.

  Erasmus staggered forward—his right arm gone, sparks sputtering from his shoulder socket. But he didn’t stumble.

  He climbed.

  No—he latched.

  With a sickening grace, Erasmus flung his body against the rising chain and twisted his legs around a link. His remaining arm curled into the steel, wires knotting into the anchor like veins wrapping around bone. He stared at her the entire time.

  Suddenly, a scraping noise—metal against debris—snapped Amelia’s attention downward. Whisky approached cautiously, holding out her cracked locket. But before Amelia could reach him, a figure crawled up from the wreckage, sparks spraying from torn limbs, half its faceplate ripped away.

  Number Two.

  “It seems… our experiment continues,” Number Two rasped, voice merging seamlessly with Erasmus’s sinister tone—a message delivered through two bodies, one mind. With terrifying speed, he lunged forward, shattering Whisky instantly, scattering metal fragments across the ground.

  Amelia flinched violently. Instinctively, her hand darted toward her hip for her knife—but grasped only blood-soaked fabric. Panic surged through her as she looked down—clothes ripped, blood coating her shaking fingers.

  Number Two dragged itself closer, mangled limbs clawing toward her, Erasmus’s voice echoing clearly through its twisted mouthpiece: “You’re not finished yet—”

  Heart hammering wildly, Amelia’s gaze landed on the debris-strewn ground. At her feet, gleaming softly, was a metallic flower. She snatched it up desperately.

  With a fierce, exhausted cry, she drove it straight into Number Two’s exposed, glowing eye. As the petals pierced metal, the flower suddenly shuddered and unfurled, blooming brilliantly to reveal something radiant at its center: a delicate, glowing core—Glassford’s Amorialle. The core pulsed once, brightly.

  Number Two’s body stiffened, convulsing violently, limbs spasming in uncontrolled desperation. From its cracked eyes, thick black oil streaked with shimmering water trickled slowly, as though shedding bitter tears. The single glowing eye dimmed, faded, then finally extinguished altogether, leaving only darkness.

  Amelia sank backward, breathing ragged, her body shaking. She clutched the blooming flower tightly, Glassford’s Amorialle warm and steady in her hand.

  “Amelia,” Roy said urgently, voice calm despite the chaos. He drew her protectively closer.

  The sky split once again. Military-class airships burst through clouds, royal sigils illuminated by moonlight. They approached swiftly, purposefully, engines growling. Straight for Roy. For her.

  Her heart beat fiercely. Still gripping the cracked locket and Glassford’s glowing Amorialle tightly against her chest, she looked toward Veranus, eyes sharp with determination. Amidst smoke and ruin, battered but defiant, she spoke firmly—words whispered clearly into the wind:

  “Michael. Bolton. I’m still here.”