Building Zoids in a World of Titans

The Iron Mule crested a low ridge, and Millcross spread out below them in the river valley.

Alex's hands stayed loose on the wheel. The settlement was smaller than he'd expected. Two watermills sat at the fork where a wide silt-brown river met a narrower, faster one. Their wheels turned slow against the current, creaking even at this distance. Grain dust hung in the air around the loading platform.

Behind the mills, stone buildings lined a raised ridge. Oldfoot foundations, pale grey and too smooth, lifted the structures a full meter above the packed earth. Whatever had made those platforms hadn't been human.

The trade road ran through a stretch of lean-tos and canvas stalls. A tavern sign creaked in the wind. A few stonehorns grazed on low ground south of the river, their shaggy forms barely visible against the scrub.

No walls. No fortifications beyond the ancient platforms and a line of signal beacons along the road. The settlement survived by staying small and staying quiet.

Rhian pressed her face against the windshield.

"It's so little."

Ziya leaned forward between the seats.

"It's enough. Fuel depot's near the mills. That's what matters."

Alex eased the Iron Mule down the slope toward the settlement's edge.

A pair of guards met them at the road. Both wore the same practical gear—reinforced leather, a patch with the miller-council's mark. The older one, a man with a limp and a scarred jaw, held up a hand.

Alex killed the engine and stepped out.

"IDs," the man said. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just business.

Alex handed over his Warden credentials. Ziya passed hers from the passenger seat. The guard looked them over, glanced at the Iron Mule, then back at the papers.

"Veridia."

"Passing through," Alex said. "Need fuel and supplies."

The guard grunted. Handed the IDs back.

"Keep your vehicle on the Stretch. Don't block the mills." He stepped aside.

That was it.

Rhian bounced in her seat as Alex pulled forward. "That's it? We're in?"

"That's it."

The road widened into the market square. The mills loomed on the right, their wooden mechanisms groaning. The air smelled like wet stone and grain dust and river water. A handful of stalls lined the square—simple wooden frames with canvas awnings, selling dried goods, tools, cloth.

People moved between them at a steady pace. They looked up as the Iron Mule passed. Looked away. Went back to their business.

Rhian's head swiveled in every direction.

"There's a tavern," she said. "Look, there's a tavern. And that stall has—are those dried fish? Do they have fish here? The river must have fish. Do you think they have sweets?"

Ziya's lips twitched. "Slow down."

"I can't slow down. Everything's new."

Alex let himself look. The stone buildings on the Oldfoot foundations caught his eye—the way they sat too perfectly level, the pale stone too smooth. Nothing here was built like that. The platforms predated the settlement. Predated everything.

He filed the thought away. Questions for later.

Alex found a stallkeeper near the market square, a woman with flour-dusted arms and a sharp, appraising look. She was stacking sacks of redbarley grain behind a wooden counter when he approached.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'm looking for a place to rest. Somewhere with beds and a kitchen I can use."

The woman straightened, brushed her hands off on her apron. Her eyes flicked to the Iron Mule, then back to him. She took in his worn coat, his tool satchel, the faint hydraulic-grease stains that never quite washed out.

"The Wet Stone," she said. "Follow the road past the mills. You'll see the sign. Pell runs it. He'll sort you out."

"Thank you."

She grunted and went back to her grain. Millcross hospitality. Efficient. No warmth, no hostility. Just business.

Alex climbed back into the cab and eased the Iron Mule forward. The road curved past the eastern mill, where the wheel's steady turning threw spray across the packed earth.

The Wet Stone sat at the far end of the Stretch, a two-story building of weathered grey timber with a painted sign creaking above the door. A stonehorn skull hung beside it, polished smooth by wind and rain. The place was plain. The kind of building that said it had nothing to prove.

A wide yard stretched beside the tavern, packed earth ringed by hitching posts and a low stone wall. Room for the Iron Mule. Enough space to park without blocking the road or crowding the other travelers' lean-tos.

Alex pulled in, killed the engine, and sat for a moment listening to the engine tick as it cooled.

Rhian was already unbuckling.

He caught her arm before she could slide out of the cab.

"We check in first. Then you can explore."

She gave him a look that said he was being unfair, but she didn't argue. Ziya came around from the passenger side, stretching her arms overhead as she hit the ground. The air here was damp, heavy with the smell of river water and cooking stew.

The common room of The Wet Stone was warm and low-ceilinged, the air thick with the smell of redbarley ale and woodsmoke. A handful of locals sat at scattered tables, nursing cups and talking in low voices. They looked up when the door opened, assessed the newcomers, and went back to their drinks.

The man behind the bar was built like a bear. Heavy shoulders, thick arms, a face that had seen enough weather to earn every line. He was wiping a cup with a rag that might have been clean once.

"You're the ones with the big transport."

Alex nodded.

"Pell. I run the place." He set the cup down. "Need a room?"

"One night."

Rhian's head snapped up. "One night?"

Pell raised an eyebrow.

Alex ignored the look. "We're heading east. Just need to refuel and resupply."

"One night isn't enough." Rhian planted her hands on her hips. "There's a whole settlement out there. I haven't seen anything yet. The mills, the river, the market—"

"Rhian."

She kept going. "—and Ziya said there's a shrine on Foundry Row, and I saw a stall selling those dried fish things, and—"

Ziya stepped forward, her voice calm and reasonable. "She has a point."

Alex turned to look at her.

"We're not on a strict schedule," Ziya said. "Ironwood Junction isn't going anywhere. And we've been sleeping in the Mule for days. A proper bed, hot food, a chance to rest—that's not wasted time."

She met his eyes. Steady. Practical. The same tone she used when explaining why a component was worth the price.

"The vote is two to one, Alex."

He looked at Rhian, who was nodding vigorously. He looked at Ziya, who had already won and knew it.

"Three nights," he said.

Rhian pumped her fist.

"Three nights," Pell repeated, pulling a key from a hook behind the bar. He set it on the counter. "One room. End of the hall."

Alex looked at the single key. Then at Pell. Then back at the key.

"That's one key."

"Room's got two beds."

"We're not—" Alex stopped. Rerouted. "We need two rooms."

Pell's brow furrowed. He looked at Alex, then at Ziya, then at Rhian. His expression shifted through several stages of realization.

"Ah." He scratched the back of his neck. "Thought you were a family."

Ziya's face went red.

Not a blush. A full, unmissable, spreading-from-her-neck-to-her-ears red. She suddenly became very interested in a crack in the wooden counter.

"We're not," Alex said.

"Right." Pell pulled another key from the hook. "Two rooms. End of the hall and the one next to it."

He slid both keys across the counter. His mouth twitched.

"My mistake."

Alex's hand was still on the counter, the remaining key cold against his palm.

Ziya snatched the other key from the bar without looking at him. She grabbed Rhian's wrist and pulled her toward the stairs.

"Let's—find our room. Come on."

"Are we not eating first?" Rhian said, stumbling after her. "The stew smells really good, and I—"

"Later."

The door clicked shut behind them at the end of the hall.

Alex stood there.

Pell picked up a second cup and started drying it with the same rag. He said nothing. His face was very carefully blank.

Alex pocketed the key and climbed the stairs. The floorboards creaked under his boots. He found his door, opened it, and stepped inside.

The room was small. A bed. A nightstand. A window facing the river. The mill's wheel turned in the distance, dark against the sunset.

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall for a long moment.

Then he lay down, still in his coat, and stared at the ceiling until the light faded.

Advance chapters on my p@tR$0n/Najicablitz.

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