The iron gates creaked open, and Roa led the combatants through the shattered threshold of the fortress. Smoke still drifted through the air, the remnants of scorched wood and ruptured stone mixing into a haze that stung the eyes. The last of the enemy resistance had already scattered, and what remained were only cornered rats scrambling in blood-soaked halls.
Roa's voice cut through the clamor of footfalls and the hiss of steam rising from wrecked golems. "This is your last chance. Surrender."
A group of desperate defenders stood at the far end of the inner courtyard, some with bloodied weapons raised, others shivering in place. A few commanders exchanged glances, pride and fear battling across their faces. One raised a defiant warcry—only to be silenced mid-shout as Brassheart's cannon arm barked. The explosion tossed his upper body across the courtyard. That was enough.
"We yield! We yield!" came the cries from the surviving defenders. Weapons clattered against the stone as they dropped to their knees. A few late holdouts were quickly dispatched, either by Brassheart or, in some cases, by their own allies, desperate to live.
With the courtyard secured, Roa raised her hand. "Secure the halls. Sweep every floor. Do not let anyone escape."
As her orders echoed outward, the combatants broke off into squads, weaving through doorways, checking every barrack and stairwell. Ash Company moved like a sharpened blade—efficient, ruthless, and without mercy.
Behind them, the logistics unit was already pushing in. Martin barked commands, directing his team with practiced speed. "Food stores go to the right hall, sort by preservation levels. Weapons to the left—check for enchantments or custom work before storage. Pack anything resembling a codex separately. We're here to take, not to admire."
From the rear, Peter and the engineers arrived. Unlike the adrenaline-fueled combatants, their pace was slower, deliberate. The clinks of their tools and scanners broke the silence as they set to work dismantling traps, salvaging damaged golem parts, and inspecting the shattered remains of defensive mechanisms.
"Peter," Roa called.
He waved absently as he examined a fractured mana circuit embedded in the wall. "I see three traps already. This place wasn't meant to be held—it was meant to bleed attackers dry."
"Not today," she replied coldly.
Up on the central balcony of the ruined command tower, Fornos Dag stood with Park and Mark, surveying the captured stronghold. Smoke lingered across the horizon, but the enemy banners had fallen. The fort was theirs.
Below, handlers—both Ash Company's and the prisoners—were being processed. Fornos stepped down as several of the prisoners were corralled into the courtyard. Among them, twelve wore the distinct insignia of golem control units.
"These twelve," Fornos pointed, "are mine."
One of them—a young man with bandaged arms—opened his mouth to protest, but froze as Kindling turned its head. Even caked in dust and mud, the looming golem exuded raw menace.
Another handler whispered, "What are you going to do with us?"
Fornos smiled behind his mask. "You will work. You'll live. Possibly even thrive. As long as you follow my orders."
Behind them, Roa approached.
"Not just them," she said. "There are at least twenty-five others from the enemy logistics and auxiliary units. Minimal resistance. They don't care who they serve."
"Then let them serve," Fornos replied. "No need for collars. If they joined out of indifference, they'll stay out of convenience. But keep them watched."
Park gave a short nod and raised a hand. Several silent Ash Company handlers stepped forward with metal rings—manacled collars inscribed with faint runes. One by one, they locked them around the necks of the twelve selected golem handlers. There was no ceremony, no speech. Just the final clink of each lock.
The remaining survivors—civilians, auxiliary forces, those too weak or young to fight—were herded into the eastern wing of the fortress. Roa addressed them directly.
"This is not your home anymore. You are not prisoners, but you are not free either. We will take what we came for. When we leave, you will be left behind. But disobedience will not be tolerated."
A murmur passed through the crowd—resentment, fear, and a few sparkles of hope that maybe, just maybe, Ash Company would leave quickly.
Martin arrived with a scroll in his hand. "We've identified the fortress stockpiles. Food for at least six months, spare golem parts, enough fuel to run the artillery line for a week, and two active codices with unknown commands."
"Unknown?" Fornos asked, his interest piqued.
Peter joined them, wiping grease from his gloves. "One was half-buried in a maintenance chamber. Whatever it runs, it's old—pre-Fifth Gen, I think. The other is locked in an iron core box. Need time to open it safely."
Fornos turned toward the courtyard, eyes narrowing as he watched Thornjaw patrol past the broken gate. "We have time. No immediate threats on the horizon. But I want both codices ready before nightfall. And I want that core box open without destroying whatever's inside."
Peter grimaced. "No promises."
"Make one anyway," Fornos said.
As the sun began to set behind the mountains, the Ash Company tightened its hold over the fortress. Scouts were deployed. Golems took shifts guarding walls and inspecting blind spots. Supplies were cataloged and secured. Every inch of the stone citadel now pulsed under the cold, methodical beat of Ash Company's occupation.
Fornos looked out over the balcony once more, arms crossed behind his back.
This fortress had once belonged to someone else. Now it was his. Not by inheritance, not by treaty, but by fire, poison, and iron.
And it was only the beginning.