Fornos stood motionless as the breeze tugged at his coat, eyes fixed on the shattered remains of a fortress nestled between fractured mountain roads. The sun dipped low behind the peaks, casting long shadows over the broken stone towers and moss-choked walls. What was once a bastion of power now lay in ruin—a hollow monument surrounded by scattered tents, burning fires, and patrols of golems.
This was Assembly Point Alpha.
The supposed prize of his recent campaign.
Or at least, that's what he had hoped.
Instead, what stood before him was a shell—crumbling, brittle, and full of bandits barely worth breaking.
"Whose was it?" he asked finally, voice low behind his black mask.
"No one knows," Roa replied, standing beside him. "To us, it's always been like this. Even before our ancestors could remember."
Fornos knelt by the worn stone path and traced a fingertip over the barely visible sigil etched into a cracked flagstone. "If I had to guess… probably from the Fifth Sails. That would make it at least six hundred years old."
"The Fifth what?" Roa frowned.
"Mommy, what's a sail?" asked Kesh, peeking out from behind her leg.
"Can we eat it?" Rilo chimed in, eyes wide.
Even Park and Mark, standing silently behind them, tilted their heads slightly in curiosity.
Fornos turned to the group, genuinely puzzled. "Do you all not have stories? No records? Nothing passed down?"
Roa's voice was quiet. "The only things we knew since birth were starvation, blood, and death. The only stories we could tell were of our own pain."
"But we're happy now," Kesh added quickly, wrapping a small arm around his mother's leg.
"Really happy!" Rilo nodded enthusiastically.
Fornos regarded them silently. "How innocent," he murmured.
Park gave him a look—one of the many he gave. This one was more skeptical than usual.
"Why do you doubt me so much?" Fornos asked, irritation rising despite the mask muffling his voice.
Mark silently pointed toward the thick iron collars worn by most of the adults nearby.
Fornos sighed. "Fair enough."
"Elder, what is a sail?" Rilo asked again.
"I'm not that old, Klesh," Fornos muttered.
"I'm Rilo."
"He's been mixing their names up since the swamp," Roa said with a smirk.
"I have a lot on my mind," Fornos grumbled. "Anyway. You said the Witch's Hollow captives have been processed?"
Roa nodded. "Grouped, secured, and fed. No resistance. And, by the way, the leader of Witch's Hollow gave us some herbs as a 'bonus'—his exact words were: 'For taking the trash off our hands.'"
Fornos scoffed. "Even their gratitude is venomous."
He turned and began walking toward the ridge where the newly taken captives were held. The children trailed behind a moment, watching with big eyes.
"Is Elder alright?" Kesh asked quietly.
"He's fine," Roa replied, though her voice held a chuckle.
The holding area had been set up just below a crumbled archway once part of the fortress's gate. There, in a rough semicircle, stood over a dozen captured adults—roughly clothed, recently bound in containment collars, and watched by two combat golems and several Ash Company handlers. The children among them, however, were uncollared and seated on the side, separated and watched by auxiliary personnel under Roa's orders.
Fornos entered, Park and Roa flanking him, Mark trailing in silence.
"If you're done laughing at me," Fornos said dryly, "tell me what you've brought."
Roa straightened. "Fifteen with combat potential—lacking in toxin training, but strong bodies. Two more are skilled poison-makers, but with poor combat stats."
"Gear?"
"Minimal. Just some basics. The herbs came from Witch's Hollow's leader. Like I said—his 'gift' for taking these people in."
Fornos nodded slowly. "With the thirteen Park and I pulled from the outer bands, that puts our total at sixty now."
"Only thirteen?" Roa asked.
Fornos shrugged. "Craterhoof and Kindling aren't built for close quarters. Most of the smaller bands scattered before we got within sight."
"Why not take Thornjaw and Mark instead?"
He looked to her, half-amused. "Thornjaw would've been mobbed before it could land a single shot. Mark's terrain was too tight. Needed fire from behind, not brute force."
"Understood."
Fornos turned to the captives, stepping in front of them. The handlers straightened. The combatants stood tense, but silent.
"I'll be clear," Fornos said. "You are not free. You are not equal. From this point forward, you will live, fight, and—if it comes to that—die by my will."
The air went still.
"In return," he continued, "you will be fed. You will be clothed. You will not be hunted. You will have a place in something greater than feral caves and forgotten names."
Some of the captives lowered their eyes. Others stared at him with defiance—perhaps pride, or just desperation.
"I won't ask for loyalty," Fornos said. "I'll take utility. Serve well, and you will be given purpose. Fail, and you will be discarded."
He turned away. "Park, separate the poison-makers. Roa, see to the children—keep them uncollared, but watched. Mark, assign three to auxiliary clearing work. If they complain, remind them that complaining is for those with options."
The commanders nodded.
"And what about those who refuse?" Martin asked, motioning to a man who had not so much as blinked during the entire exchange.
Fornos looked over. "Then we'll return them to Witch's Hollow with a note: Return to sender—too stupid to salvage."
That earned a few subdued chuckles from Roa's side.
As the group began to move, Roa lingered behind him. "You're being gentler than I expected."
"I don't waste potential," Fornos said. "I refine it."