"We have opened the box."
Fornos Dag looked up from the ration scroll spread between him and Martin. The paper smelled of ink and smoke. Rationing had gone well—the fortress was stocked more than expected. Enough to march the company to the coast and beyond. Still, he didn't like surprises.
"Excellent," Fornos said, turning to face Peter as the engineer stepped into the war room. "What did you find?"
Peter set a bundle of parchments on the table, their edges worn and corners crisped with age.
"This," he said. "A codex design. We don't know what it's for yet. No activation sigils, no framework notations. Just structure, formulae, and—well—guesses."
Fornos pulled a few sheets closer. The handwriting was jagged, done in haste or perhaps excitement. Arcs of spell geometry crossed dense material breakdowns, some using sigils he'd never seen. He could feel it—just faintly—the buzz of theoretical magic trying to take shape.
He narrowed his eyes. "Where did this come from?"
"The people here said it was brought in by the Third Company when they merged with this garrison," Peter replied. "One of the handlers, older guy, said it was taken during a raid. No one remembers specifics, but apparently the original owners bore the insignia of golden wings."
Fornos paused.
Golden wings.
That symbol hadn't been seen openly in nearly a decade. Not after the Eastern Collapse. If this was truly from that remnant faction, then the codex might be more than theoretical. It might be unfinished work from the Golden Wing Lineage—those mad bastards who'd nearly crashed the northern skies with flying golems half the size of a Relict.
He folded the top sheet carefully.
"Martin," Fornos said, "the coast is approximately ten days away. Can we depart tomorrow?"
"Certainly," Martin replied, without looking up from his own papers. "We're ahead on preservation and mapping. The engineers have adjusted Brassheart's stabilizers, and Peter's team can make the artillery mobile in three hours."
"Actually," Peter interrupted, rubbing the back of his neck, "there is a problem."
Fornos sighed. "Is the maintenance taking too long? Is someone pregnant? Too injured? Do they want more rest?"
"No," Peter said, "none of that. It's not mechanical. It's the little guys."
Fornos tilted his head. "Little guys?"
His voice, though masked, clearly held confusion. Even Martin looked hesitant now.
Peter gestured vaguely toward the lower halls. "Aside from the hundred adults—combatants, engineers, handlers, and logistics—Ash Company also includes twenty children."
"I know that," Fornos said slowly. "I'm also very aware that, aside from Rilo and Klesh, the others are scared of me."
The air cooled slightly.
"Now come to the point," he added.
"You almost sound sad," Roa said as she entered the chamber, arms folded, mud still caked to her boots.
"I don't need remarks," Fornos snapped. "But now I get what you're saying. There are worries about the children not surviving the march."
"And you?" Roa asked, voice cool, arms still folded.
Fornos met her gaze. His mask didn't hide the weight behind the pause that followed.
"I'm worried," he said at last, "that those children will die. Not because I want them to. But because the road won't care."
"No," Roa said. "You're worried that if they die, you'll lose leverage over the rest of us."
"That is only additional," Fornos replied, unmoved. "Also, Martin, I thought you were smart."
Martin blinked. "Pardon?"
"I expected you to ask Peter to build a wooden box," Fornos said, voice clipped. "A large one. Something Kindling could pull all the way to the coast. Reinforced wheels. Shelter for the children. We have the parts, the manpower, and the fuel. Transport is your domain."
Martin bristled. "I don't recall you giving that order."
"You don't need to wait for orders," Fornos said flatly. "You're in charge of logistics. That includes movement, preservation, resource flow—and yes, transport. I was expecting you to pitch something. If I wanted drones, I'd rely on the collars."
There was a silence. Roa shifted her stance, suddenly very aware of the quiet tension in the room.
Fornos turned to face all three of them now—Peter, Martin, Roa.
"I have collars that make people utterly subservient. But considering all of you are clearly more creative than I am—or so you keep implying—I'll say it straight: I am not above advice. Never was. Never will be. But if you expect me to ask for ideas each time, you've mistaken me for a weakling. You bring ideas. I decide. That's how this works."
Peter nodded slowly. "We'll build the box. Reinforced wheels, bracing charms, spring-bound axles for terrain shock."
Martin exhaled. "I'll draft a supply load that balances speed and shelter."
"You have until dawn," Fornos said.
Then he paused, fingers resting lightly on the codex parchments. The design haunted him. No immediate danger, no trigger circuits—just… potential.
He held the top sheet up. "I want full analysis of this codex by the time we reach the coast. No excuses."
Peter blinked. "You think it's real?"
"I think," Fornos said, "that someone out there lost something important. And I want to know why they were willing to die before sharing it."
Roa stepped beside him, looking at the codex from an angle. "And if it's a weapon?"
"Then we'll use it."
"And if it's something worse?"
Fornos stared at the golden sigil etched faintly into the corner of the parchment. Not part of the diagram. Just… a mark. A memory.
"Then we'll adapt."