"This feels much better," Fornos sighed, stretching his shoulders as he removed his black mask. The thing had been glued to his face since the beginning of the campaign—an ever-present facade, useful for keeping others off balance. But in private, it was suffocating. He tossed it gently onto the table beside his cot and exhaled with relief.
He opened the reinforced case tucked under the bedding and took out a thin black notebook—his personal ledger, bound in warded leather. Its cover bore no name, only a single engraved rune: a stylized eye.
"Let's see what we have here."
He flipped through the pages, scanning through messy but structured notes, coded with shorthand. Inventory tallies, personnel sketches, symbols denoting golem status and handler sync ratios.
Current Force:
25 personnel (12 combatants, 7 logistics, 2 handlers, 4 auxiliaries)
6 golems (4 operational: Kindling, Brassheart, Thornjaw, and a scavenged siege type; 2 barely functional hulks)
"We're shaping up," he muttered, tapping his pen thoughtfully. "I think it's about time I let them taste a real fray."
There were too many untested blades in his camp. Discipline wasn't forged in peace. They needed a clash—small enough to control, large enough to filter the weak from the useful.
He was mid-thought when a voice came from the tent's entry.
"May I come in?"
Fornos was already reaching for his mask. His fingers slipped it on with mechanical ease, the practiced motion completing just as he turned toward the flap.
"Yes, you may," he said smoothly. "So, what do y—"
The words froze in his throat.
A jagged piece of scorched metal—a fragment from a shattered war golem's blade—was pointed at his neck.
"Roa," he said calmly.
Her face was tight with rage, eyes wild and wet. She looked thinner than before, and the bags under her eyes betrayed sleepless nights. Her left hand trembled, but her grip on the shard didn't waver.
"Give me your ring," she said flatly.
Fornos didn't move. "Which one?"
"Shut up. No one's going to save you. Not your golems. Not your freak tricks. I'll slit your fucking throat."
Her voice cracked on the last word, but the edge in her tone was real. She was beyond reason. Cornered by something more personal than fear.
Fornos tilted his head, eyes behind the mask gleaming with interest.
"Is this about your kids?"
"I SAID SHUT UP!"
Her hand twitched, and the shard grazed his collarbone. Just enough to sting. A drop of blood welled.
"I know your kind," she spat. "Warlords parading as prophets. False gods in black robes. You're just another meat merchant, trading souls for coin."
Fornos resisted the urge to laugh. It was the first time someone had confronted him like this. Not with subtlety or plotting—but with raw, unfiltered emotion. It was…refreshing.
"I see. You truly believe that."
"I don't need your words. GIVE. ME. THE RING."
Fornos stayed still, voice patient. "What's the rush?"
"You think I won't kill you?"
"No. I think if you were really going to, you'd have stabbed me in the back the moment you stepped in. But instead, here you are. Giving me a chance to talk."
He smiled beneath the mask.
"Maybe your image as a 'kind mother' is more valuable than revenge."
That struck a nerve. Roa shoved the shard closer. The cold iron pressed against his neck.
"Give me the ring. I swear to every star in the sky, I'll—"
"You've already lost," Fornos said, voice calm and assured. "Your end is behind."
"What?"
Then the pain hit.
Roa screamed as her shoulder dislocated from a sudden impact. She dropped the shard and crumpled to one knee, gasping in agony. A heavy bronze foot planted itself near her thigh.
Brassheart stood at her side, gauntleted hand releasing the torque gear it had used to strike her shoulder. Silent. Efficient. Obedient.
"You said I only wanted blood and money," Fornos said, stepping over her slowly. "But why would I need either? I am not a maniac. Nor am I poor."
He crouched beside her as Brassheart stood watch.
"I have everything I want. Except obedience."
She glared at him, tears brimming in her eyes, but didn't speak.
Fornos reached into a pouch and removed one of the black collars—smaller, sleeker than the earlier versions. A newer prototype. Improved. Calibrated.
"This," he said, "isn't just a leash. It's a rank. A mark of position."
She tried to pull away, but Brassheart's hand rested on her uninjured shoulder with enough weight to pin her down.
"You'll wear it," Fornos continued, configuring the settings via his ring. "Not as a slave, but as a secondary authority. Someone beneath me, but above the rest."
He attached the collar around her neck. A faint hum of mana pulsed. She shivered.
"Your children," he said softly, "will be safe. I'll even give them jobs. Education. A roof. In return, you'll keep the camp clean. You'll help enforce order. Keep your mouth shut when needed."
She looked away, jaw clenched.
"And if you try anything like this again—" He snapped his fingers. Brassheart tightened its grip slightly. She winced.
"Understand?"
"…yes," she rasped.
"Good."
He stood, brushing dust from his coat.
"You'll be our first Quarter Warden. A liaison between the labor group and the handlers. It's a small seed, but enough to begin."
Fornos looked at Brassheart.
"Take her to the east quarters. Let the medics see her arm."
Brassheart gently lifted Roa and walked out of the tent, her face unreadable.
Fornos turned back to his notebook, flipping to a new page.
He wrote only one word:
HIERARCHY.