Day 1 of the Forty-Day Campaign
The shattered ruins of Fort Kaldris loomed like a scar among the trees—stone bones jutting from the earth, scorched black and buried in moss. Once, it had been a frontier outpost. Now, it was half-swallowed by wilderness, forgotten by kings and scribes alike. But Fornos Dag saw something different: a foundation. A husk to fill.
He stood beneath a crumbling archway, coat folded over one arm, with Brassheart behind him in a dust-stained cloak and Kindling crouched beside a stack of lumber, its arm servos humming softly as it worked. Fog rolled low over the earth, swirling at their feet, curling into the charred ribs of old towers. The cold was sharp, but invigorating.
Fornos watched with quiet precision as movement stirred in the distance.
Survivors.
They emerged slowly—wary, thin figures from the underbrush and the ruined inner walls. Most were clad in stitched hides, scavenged metal, or worn military remnants stripped of insignias. Fornos counted over thirty from his vantage. Men, women, some barely more than boys, all with the look of people who had learned to run before they learned to rest.
Perfect.
He stepped forward, letting them see him fully: a man of means, composed and unafraid. He signaled Kindling, which silently dropped two wooden crates onto the flagstone with a dull thud. Fornos opened the first.
Steam rose from still-warm bread. Strips of dried venison, root vegetables wrapped in cloth, smoked fish. Clean water in sealed clay jugs.
The second crate he didn't open—only turned it slightly, showing the sealed sigil burned into its wood. Its contents were for later.
"Eat," Fornos said simply, voice calm but resonant. "You're safe here. For now."
The scent of food broke down the last walls. Hunger trumped suspicion. They approached, one by one. He made no speeches, issued no threats. Just watched. Some eyed Brassheart's towering frame and flinched. Others stared at Fornos himself—his crisp posture, unscarred hands, and the quiet calculation behind his gaze.
He let them finish eating before he spoke again.
"I came here to build something," he began, pacing the ruined courtyard, "and you can be a part of it."
A silence stretched across the crowd. He continued.
"I won't sell you glory or honor. I have no flags to wave. I offer three things: food, shelter, and purpose. You fight, you work, you serve—and you live. No more running. No more begging."
Someone scoffed from the back. "Serve who? You?"
Fornos turned his head slightly, but did not glare. "Serve yourselves. Through me."
Another voice called, "We've heard this before. Always a lord, always a cause."
Fornos gestured to the ruins. "Do I look like a lord to you?"
A few chuckled. Tension eased, if only slightly.
Then he walked to the second crate and finally opened it. Inside: sleek black collars of fine metal, each engraved with subtle glyphwork that shimmered faintly when they caught the light.
"These are channel regulators," he said. "Old tech. Rare."
Now came the lie—but not too clean, not too shiny. Lies work best when they feel like hard truths.
"They suppress excessive ambient mana exposure. Stabilize your aura, reduce the chance of accidental triggers. I have one myself."
He lifted his hand and tapped the copper ring on his finger. "Same design. Mine keeps me from attracting rogue trackers. These will keep you off the radars of relic-hunters and mages who use soul maps."
Murmurs rippled.
"They're not free. You'll earn them—just like the meals. But once you wear one, you'll sleep better. Trust me."
He didn't push further. That was the trick. Don't over-sell. Let fear and hope do the work.
Some came forward. Cautiously. A woman with an archer's lean build asked, "It won't hurt?"
"No more than a cold ring," he replied, calm as still water.
She nodded and picked one from the crate.
By nightfall, seventeen had accepted. More were on the edge. But Fornos wasn't in a rush. The ones who hesitated now would either follow or be forgotten.
The next morning, construction began.
Kindling carried beams and stone with inhuman efficiency. Brassheart worked as silent muscle. Fornos issued orders with calculated authority, walking among the newcomers with a ledger in hand.
"You've chopped wood before?" he asked a bearded man leaning against a half-burnt wagon.
"Yes, sir."
"You're now in charge of material processing. I want two stacks of timber and one of stone before dusk. Report to the codex handler."
A red-haired girl with soot across her face was eyeing the Kindling from afar.
"You know glyphs?"
"Only the basics," she said, half-expecting mockery.
Fornos handed her a scroll. "You'll know more by tomorrow. I need ten interface plates transcribed."
He moved without pause, each appointment a reward, each task a ladder. He took names. Assigned roles. Created meaning.
Among the group, a scarred ex-mercenary named Tolek began to emerge as a natural lieutenant. Fornos pulled him aside.
"I need someone to maintain order when I'm away. You'll form squads. Assign camp duties. Prioritize watch shifts."
"You trust me that easy?" Tolek asked, frowning.
"No," Fornos replied with a faint smile. "But I trust your self-interest. You know what happens if this place falls apart."
Tolek smirked. "Fair."
By dusk, Fort Kaldris was breathing again. Fires burned in makeshift hearths. The beginnings of a palisade had risen along the south wall. A lookout perch was being assembled atop the eastern ruins. Fornos stood on the balcony of a crumbling watchtower, hands behind his back, watching the flickering life below.
He didn't smile.
This wasn't success.
This was merely step one.
The collars had been distributed, the most desperate marked—unknowing pieces on his board. Over the next days, he would draw in more. Take in scavengers, then hunters, then killers. And once he had enough blades under his command, he'd start turning his eye outward.
Toward golem raiders.
Toward mercenary companies on the brink of collapse.
Toward forgotten weapons waiting to be captured.
But first, the foundation.
And it was already rising from the ash.