The night came quietly.
Not with the usual tension, nor the weary silence of veterans still haunted by duty. But with a stillness that felt... earned.
The evening fire crackled at the center of camp, casting flickering orange arcs across battered tents and iron supply crates. It wasn't the first fire they'd built together, but it felt different. Not ceremonial. Not tactical. Just warm.
Roa's twin sons—Kesh and Rilo—moved between squads, careful not to spill the thick root stew they carried in dented tin pots. One boy held a ladle, the other a sack of hardbread. The older soldiers recognized them, ruffling their hair or muttering thanks. The newer ones, scavengers still raw from being conquered, said little. But none refused the food.
A few sat alone. Others in pairs. But no blades were drawn tonight. No fists clenched under table corners. Just eating. Quiet chewing. A few grunts when the stew burned tongues.
On the edge of the circle, near a half-broken crate, an auxiliary named Pell brought out a flute. Cracked near the mouthpiece, the thing sounded like a dying bird when he blew too hard—but he coaxed music from it all the same. Reedy. Off-key. But music.
A veteran named Bram—scarred from the chest to the ear—nodded along in rhythm. He didn't smile. No one did. But he didn't move away, either.
Roa leaned back on a log, her legs outstretched and armor half-unbuckled. She hadn't removed her boots—never did, even when things were safe—but her shoulders had relaxed. She watched the boys laugh over something as they traded bowls.
Kit, bruised from his recent duel, sat across from Davik. The two had barely spoken since the Red Trial, but they now shared a flask between them, passing it without comment. Kit muttered something that made Davik snort.
Small things. Tiny gestures.
But not nothing.
Fornos stood apart, as always.
Atop a slope that overlooked the camp, he sat beneath the rusting ribs of a half-buried transport golem. The thing had been dead for years—its shell rusted, joints fused with sand—but it offered shade in the day, a throne by night.
He scribbled into his notebook, the pages filled with tight, angular handwriting. An inventory of recent changes. Shifts in behavior. He made no illusions about sentimentality. This wasn't camaraderie. It wasn't loyalty. But it was the beginning of something calculable.
"Obedience is given. Trust must be built. Unity? That must be forged."
He underlined the last word twice. Ink bled slightly through the page.
He flipped the notebook to a fresh leaf, drawing the outline of a crescent-shaped territory—the edge of the fifth continent's shattered plains. Dozens of minor settlements marked in ink, clustered along a dry riverbed known for ancient ruins and untapped Codex caches.
His plan wasn't finished. But the skeleton of it took shape.
A 30-day campaign.
Not for conquest. Not purely for resources.
But for ritual. Cohesion. Baptism by ordeal.
Phase One – Target scattered scavenger posts and weakly-defended logistics caches. Secure materials and restore control over abandoned Codex routes.
Phase Two – Deploy mixed squads on rotating patrols, forcing reliance across old and new bloodlines.
Phase Three – Establish an outer base near the Alqen Ridge ruins. Let the Ash Company set roots. Let them earn their place.
He noted the importance of controlling local relay points. If he could establish Codex signal dominance, the handlers would gain long-range golem command—vital if the plan extended past 30 days.
He also left room for something more personal: the completion of his mission on this forsaken continent. The one he hadn't told Roa about. Not fully. Not yet.
A final goal. His true reason for crossing into the fractured south.
He paused his writing when he heard the flute again—wailing now, bending its notes like a cry for something long dead.
Below, Pell had shifted tunes. The sound wasn't joyful. It was something older, something tired.
A soldier's lullaby.
Fornos looked back down at the fire. Saw Rilo fall asleep against his mother's knee, while Kesh quietly refilled Davik's bowl without asking. Bram had removed one glove, letting the heat of the flames warm his gnarled fingers.
No one noticed Fornos watching.
He preferred it that way.
Much later, after the fire dimmed and soldiers returned to their tents, Fornos remained seated beneath the golem ribs, moonlight tracing silver lines along the edges of his armor.
He finished his notes, tore out a page, and fed it to a small portable brazier. The flame took it instantly—no ash left behind. Just smoke.
He closed the book and stared toward the horizon.
The fifth continent had always been a graveyard.
But graves could be foundations too.
At dawn, he would issue orders.
At dusk, the drills would resume.
And in five days' time, they would march.
Not as conquerors.
Not yet.
But as something far more dangerous.
A pack with a purpose.