The hammering rang out across the forest.
A rhythmic clang, slow and methodical—metal striking metal—then the hiss of cold morning air rushing across red-hot plates. The sound echoed through a landscape in metamorphosis. Trees had been felled, their stumps ripped and cleared to make room for firepits and scaffolds. Trenches and supply paths wound like veins through the cleared space.
Smoke from smelting pits drifted upward, coiling with the steam of boiled barley porridge. The scent was sharp and conflicting—sweat, iron, ash, and burnt grain. Life was beginning to settle into this strange hybrid of war camp and forge town.
Where once there had been untouched greenery, now there was industry.
Work was constant. Auxiliaries ferried scrap to open kilns. Engineers pounded metal into golem plates. Children of refugees assisted logistics runners by preparing food and hauling water. Two scavenged engines served as power sources, their golem cores repurposed to energize crude relay nodes across the camp.
Fornos stood silently at the edge of a plateau, watching as two of his latest projects came to life.
One was Thornjaw, a tall, angular golem nearly 20 feet in height. Its black carapace gleamed faintly in the sunlight, but it had been treated with a matte anti-reflection oil—useful in ambushes. Its claws were elongated, curved like talons, and its face had no eyes, only a thick jaw of reinforced metal capable of tearing through enemy plating.
Beside it lumbered Craterhoof, the opposite in shape and intent. Squat, with a massive lower frame built for recoil absorption, its arms had been removed and replaced with siege cannons—each capable of launching condensed burst shells that exploded midair into scatter-shot debris. A third, rotating turret was mounted on its back. It had clearly been a weapon of another war. Now, it bore the black insignia Fornos had begun using—two interlocked circles surrounded by an unblinking eye.
"They're terrified of you," came a voice from behind.
Fornos didn't turn. "In what context?"
Roa stepped forward, rubbing her shoulder absentmindedly. The joint was still tender from Brassheart's strike, but functional. The black collar on her neck hummed gently—dormant, but always present.
"The auxiliaries. The cooks. Even the handlers you pulled from refugee stock. They watch you when you pass like you're some force of nature. That masked man who appeared out of nowhere, enslaved them before they even realized it, and now—now they're caught in a plan no one understands."
Fornos smiled faintly beneath the mask, his eyes fixed on Thornjaw as its codex was activated. A glyph on its chest flickered to life.
"You've grown bold since the collar went on."
"I didn't ask for it."
"No, but you accepted it."
She exhaled hard. "I can't force you to leave. You could've gutted half of us and taken the rest in chains, and no one would've stopped you. But since you didn't, the least I can do is make your stay uncomfortable."
Fornos didn't reply. Instead, he glanced at Craterhoof as it completed a systems test, firing a dummy round into the air. The blast echoed like thunder, shaking leaves from the few remaining trees nearby.
"I can still speak, you know," Roa added. "Even if you think the collar gives you control."
"But not whenever you want." Fornos tapped his ring, and suddenly her words stopped mid-breath. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out.
"You were saying?" he asked, releasing her vocal functions again.
Roa coughed once. "I said—they're not afraid because you're a tyrant. They're afraid you'll leave them to starve."
He finally looked at her, and this time there was weight behind his gaze. Not anger. Not even curiosity. Just the cold recognition of someone seeing a puzzle fit into place.
"They aren't terrified of the chains," she continued. "They're terrified you're the only one with a plan—and if you walk away, they go back to chaos. That's what you've made them depend on."
Fornos looked back toward the camp. Smoke trails rose from multiple ovens and forge lines now, and new scaffolding was being built to construct frame parts for additional golems.
"I may be smarter than all of you combined," he said softly, "but war is a starving behemoth. Logistics are its teeth, but without the iron jaws of men and golems to wield them, it will rot in silence."
Roa folded her arms. "Can't you go a single minute without sounding like a preacher on a battlefield?"
Fornos chuckled under his breath. "I'm not preaching. I'm instructing. That's the difference."
She shook her head, stepping beside him now rather than behind. "You're building something. You know that, right? Not just weapons. A structure. Hierarchy. Authority. You're laying out rules even when you pretend to be improvising."
He didn't respond, but she continued.
"Why?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then:
"Because fear alone is brittle. They fear me now—but that fear will one day wear thin. What remains after must be habit. Duty. Desire."
He turned to face her directly.
"I'm not here to rule peasants with collars. I'm here to build a chain that binds them to something greater."
Roa frowned. "Isn't that still tyranny?"
Fornos gestured toward the forest beyond. "Is it tyranny to lead people away from extinction? Every day out there are Relicts and other warbands, scavengers, nobles on the hunt for resources. This camp survives because I shape it like a weapon—one they're part of."
Thornjaw roared for the first time, testing its vocalized alert function. Not a scream, not a voice—just a warning pulse of magic that scattered a flock of nearby birds into the sky.
Roa looked away. "They're scared, but they're also starting to follow."
Fornos nodded.
"Let them. Fear is the seed. Habit is the stem. Loyalty is the bloom."
He stepped down from the overlook, walking toward the laborers preparing Kindling for transport.
Behind him, Roa stood alone, the scent of smoke and iron thick in her lungs.