The roaring wind turned shrill as the flagship groaned along its pine ribs. Below them, the Grand Shipyards of Qart-Zab, already a patchwork of collapsing docks and panicked shouts, seemed to rush upwards. Zibya’s gut twisted tighter than a misaligned gear. Just moments ago, triumph had been a taste on her tongue. Now, the metallic tang of fear. The Gravity Pearl core, which should have hummed in rhythmic flight, sat utterly mute, leaving an empty aperture where vital hardware belonged. “Bodasht! Tell me you have something! Anything!” Zibya yelled over the wind, her voice raw. She was already tearing apart the tool kit, flinging wrenches and spanners aside, searching the junk for anything that could transmit charge. Her thoughts rattled together like loose brass washers. Bodasht, ever the picture of detached calm, was already peering into the inert engine block, a specialized optical monocular clamped to his eye. “The aperture requires a tapered fitting with a minimum 4.7-khembric resistance and a secure, non-ferrous fastening mechanism. Its absence has collapsed flux cohesion by 98.3 percent. We have approximately 27.2 seconds before critical atmospheric drag renders controlled flight impossible.” “Great! So, we need a… a *thing* that fits, that’s not iron, and we have less than half a minute!” Zibya slammed her fist against the console, a plume of soot puffing into the air. She kicked a stray rivet, sending it skittering across the deck. “Where in the name of the Brass Queen am I supposed to find a *tapered non-ferrous 4.7-khembric lead* in the middle of a plummeting airship?!” Tzik-Tzik, who had been perched on Zibya’s shoulder, let out a guttural burp. It was a sound usually reserved for expressing disgust at Yisharra or after digesting tough iron slag. This time, however, a flash of dull gold caught Zibya’s eye as the brass iguana regurgitated something onto the deck. It rolled, glinting dully, before coming to rest at Zibya’s boot. It was the Gilded Fastener—the legendary component Tzik-Tzik had pilfered from Hadraba’s dreadnought to crack its steering column. Its spiral threading gleamed without a scratch. “The bolt!” Zibya barked, snatching it up. Its weight felt substantial, oddly warm in her palm. It wasn’t exactly conical, but it was undoubtedly non-ferrous and looked… important. Bodasht, without altering his posture, adjusted his monocular. “Aha. The legendary relic of Arch-Artificer Zaltan. Its unique alloy composition is reported to possess an inherent 4.7-khembric resistance. Its threaded design could facilitate a secure, albeit temporary, fastening. Its coefficient of conductivity is optimal.” His eyes, magnified behind the lens, swiveled to Zibya. “It is mathematically perfect.” Zibya didn’t wait. The wind was shrieking now, ripping at her hair. The deck tilted precariously. She leaped to the housing, ignoring the blister heat simmering against the casing. With a hard shove, she jammed the threaded cylinder into the vacant slot. It bit into the housing with a satisfying grind, twisting just enough to hold. For a moment, nothing happened. The silence of the machine rang loud against the rushing air. Then, a low thrum vibrated through the deck. It started as a whisper, a tentative spark of power, then grew into a resonant, booming roar. The core flared to life, venting azure sparks across the hull. The vessel kicked, surging ahead and slamming Zibya back against Bodasht. He, of course, remained perfectly upright, providing a convenient, immovable backrest. “It’s alive!” Zibya yelled, exhilaration coursing through her veins. The galleon, which had been plummeting towards the rapidly collapsing city, now angled sharply upwards, its propulsion chassis kicking in with renewed ferocity. “Velocity acquisition nominal,” Bodasht stated, his monocular now sweeping the horizon. “Trajectory indicates a direct path towards the terminal marker. Estimated impact force upon crossing is… significant.” Below, the final archway—a series of tall brass towers—loomed instantly. The vessel rocketed forward on scorched rudders. Spectators, those who hadn’t fled the crumbling docks, gasped, pointed, and then erupted into a roar. The High Overseer Hiskal, flanked by a furious Lord Hadraba and a tear-streaked Yisharra, stood on the grandstand, completely oblivious to the impending mechanical cataclysm. “They’re going to hit the line!” someone shrieked from the ground. “They’re going to win!” The hull didn't merely clear the marker; it blasted through. As the alloy piece bridged the circuit, flux venting from the Gravity Pearl tore outward in a deafening pulse. It was pure electromagnetic force. The target arches melted away under the bright surge. Then, the shockwave continued. It rippled outwards, washing over the entire floating city. Buildings that had been sagging, teetering on the brink of collapse, suddenly stabilized. The groaning foundations stilled. The erratic polarity tearing Qart-Zab apart snapped back into true alignment. The flying galleon had not only won the regatta, but anchored the docks. But the shockwave had one more target. The High Syndic’s grandstand, a garish edifice of polished obsidian and ostentatious gilt, was directly in its path. With a sound like a thousand angry hornets, the entire structure disintegrated. Dust, splinters, and small, expensive-looking statues rained down on the shocked onlookers. The High Overseer Hiskal, caught mid-rant, found himself tumbling into a pile of soot-covered debris, his elaborate robes shredded. On the ground, where the grandstand had once stood, a smoldering crater now simmered. From its depths, two figures slowly emerged, coughing and sputtering. Lord Hadraba, his expensive tunic ripped and his hair singed, looked like he’d been dragged through a blast furnace. Beside him, Yisharra, her face streaked with soot and real tears for once, resembled a particularly disgruntled chimney sweep. Her crocodile tears were now genuinely stinging her eyes, and her wealthy backers had evaporated like mist in a furnace, abandoning her to her fate. Zibya, her ears ringing but a triumphant grin plastered across her face, expertly set the vessel down with a skid among the gaping crowd. Bodasht disembarked, meticulously noting the structural integrity of the landing gear. Tzik-Tzik, still perched on Zibya’s shoulder, hissed a quiet, satisfied sound in the general direction of the smoldering crater. Hours later, after the High Overseer, now thoroughly humiliated and covered in soot, had begrudgingly declared them the undisputed champions, Zibya and Bodasht stood in the opulent Royal Pavilion. The air was thick with the scent of celebratory incense and the distant hum of the now-stabilized city. The gold and velvet of the Pavilion felt alien compared to the familiar grime of their old workshop, yet it also felt… earned. “The calculations regarding the magnetic resonance cascade were surprisingly accurate,” Bodasht observed, running a finger over a particularly intricate brass automaton. “The city’s stability is now at 100.007 percent. An improvement, statistically speaking.” Zibya just laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound. She ran her hand along a pedestal, knocking loose a small, hidden panel. Inside lay a leather-bound journal, identical to the one she had discovered at the beginning of her bewildering journey. Its cover, however, was emblazoned with a single, cryptic symbol: a stylized, soaring galleon. “Well, Bodasht,” Zibya said, picking up the journal, a new glint in her eyes. “It seems my past self wasn’t quite done with us yet.” She flipped open the cover. The first page contained a single, elegantly written sentence: *‘If you’re reading this, Zibya, congratulations. The real fun, however, is about to begin.’* And with that, Zibya, the newly crowned master artificer of Qart-Zab, closed the journal, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. Her past self’s plots might have been convoluted, but they were certainly never boring. And with Bodasht by her side, ready to unravel every mystery, she knew whatever ‘fun’ awaited them, they would face it together, probably with a low-yield explosive or two, just in case.

The Golden Screw