The morning broke over the scarred valley with an eerie calm. No birdsong. No wind. Only the low thrum of golems standing idle in the mist—hulking silhouettes of iron and brass, still as statues awaiting command. The Ash Company had grown larger over the last month, but not quieter. More people meant more silence in the mornings—everyone watching each other. Trust was still a brittle thing.
Fornos stood at the heart of the forward camp, back to the wind, cloak snapping. Before him, three squads assembled in tight formations—each an unsteady blend of old Ash veterans and the newer recruits: former scavengers, raiders, and auxiliaries pressed into obedience by the collars at their necks. None moved without reason. All eyes were on him.
"The time for drills is over," Fornos began, voice measured but sharp. "From today forward, you act as blades—cutting three paths into the lower scrublands. You will act autonomously, but under our shared doctrine. If you return victorious, you will return changed."
A whisper of unease rippled through the lines.
He pointed to the central banner, marked with Roa's sigil: a cracked sun pierced by two blades. "Roa. You'll take the center route. Witch's Hollow. Forested terrain, heavy fog, rumors of poison-users and rogue crafters."
Roa frowned. "Wait—poison-users? That's like sending the entire crew to die. The Hollow eats patrols."
Fornos didn't blink. "I want the people there under collars. No need to worry." He reached into his coat, drew a folded sheet of wax-treated parchment, and handed it to her. "Use these tactics. We tested them in the jungle burns up north. Masks will be distributed. You'll adapt."
Roa unfolded the paper quickly, eyes scanning the dense, clinical handwriting. Formation diagrams. Defensive rotations. Flushing tactics. She recognized her own earlier recommendations buried inside—refined and twisted into something crueler, smarter.
Roa sighed. "Fine. But if I come back with half a squad foaming at the mouth, I'm blaming you."
"You'll come back with double," Fornos replied coldly. "Those poison-users know how to survive. Convert them or cut them down."
He turned next to Mark, the handler of Thornjaw, standing still as stone at the edge of his squad—his golem's silhouette a jagged mess of spikes and torn steel in the distance. "Deadroot Tunnels. Western route. Collapsed mining paths and fungal rot. You'll rip everything apart and catalog anything that looks… wrong. Bones that breathe. Spores that glow. You know the drill."
Mark gave a short nod.
"No finesse," Fornos added. "This isn't a diplomacy mission."
Mark didn't reply. He simply turned, made a gesture with two fingers toward his unit, and moved toward Thornjaw without another word.
Fornos narrowed his eyes. "Do they ever speak?" he asked, glancing sideways at Roa.
"No," she said. "Not even to each other. But they somehow always know what the other's thinking. The weirdest part is the others can understand them too. It's like… some kind of shared rhythm."
Fornos raised a brow, amused. "Strange. But useful."
Finally, he turned to Park, handler of Craterhoof—the thunderous siege-class golem whose plated feet had crushed an entire raider caravan last week. Park stood with arms folded, gaze unfocused, listening but detached.
"You'll take the east. Scavenger bands, light artillery golems, mobile targets. Use that firepower to wipe everything off the map. Prioritize handlers and rogue Codex units. Bring back anything that twitches."
Park nodded, silent as ever. Then he followed Mark's path, disappearing into the ranks of his squad without ceremony.
Fornos let the silence stretch, eyes flicking between the two vanishing figures. "So that's it?" he muttered. "Not even a grunt between them?"
Roa folded the paper again, tucking it into her belt. "I told you. They speak with actions. Not words."
Fornos gave a sharp exhale. "I prefer words. Words can be cataloged."
He paused, taking in the sea of faces still waiting for dismissal. So many different flags once flew above them. Now they bore only the ash-black banners, stitched with the rising ember brand.
"You each carry part of this company's future," he said to the squads at large. "This campaign will test your minds, not just your steel. Autonomy is a privilege. If you fail, I take it back. Simple."
He raised one hand and snapped his fingers. Signalers relayed the movement across the field.
"Move."
The squads began their march, each peeling off in a different direction—into forest, tunnel, and plains. The sounds of armor clinking, golem plates grinding, and boots crunching dry earth quickly overtook the silence. The camp was left emptier, but not quieter. Brassheart and Kindling stood at Fornos' flank, silent sentinels waiting for new commands.
Roa lingered at the edge of her departing column. "What about you? You're not coming?"
"I'll be here," Fornos said, turning away. "Running the war."
She tilted her head. "That's new."
"No," he said. "That's control."
Then he left her, walking back toward the command tent with his cloak trailing behind like a shadow tethered to thought.