Control
WASD
c
The forest whispered secrets through skeletal branches as Little Steve tightened the frayed strap of his father’s old satchel, its leather still smelling of coal smoke and bergamot. Three months since the collapse of the Sky Pits took his dad, three weeks since the map surfaced in the attic—inked in his father’s jagged hand, marking a route to the Ironroot Vault. Legends called it a tomb for forgotten machines, guarded by traps that fed on arrogance. Steve’s boots crunched frost as he traced the path, avoiding the brittle ice masking sinkholes. A shadow flitted ahead—too quick for a bird, too silent for wildlife. He palmed the firestarter his dad always carried, sparks fizzing in his grip. The ruins loomed, gears rusted into jagged teeth. Inside, pressure plates hid beneath ash; Steve scattered pebbles, triggering darts that clattered harmlessly. At the vault’s heart, a mechanized titan stirred, joints screeching. Steve’s fingers brushed the satchel—his dad’s journal mentioned a weakness. Coal. He hurled a lump into the beast’s furnace. It choked, stuttered, collapsed. The vault yielded its prize: a locket etched with his father’s initials, holding a portrait of Steve as a toddler. Survival wasn’t luck. It was listening to the whispers left behind.
