(The chapter was accidently edited my humble apologies if the readers find it different.)
The sun had long set, and the scent of boiled root and faint smoke clung to the stillness of the night. Ash Company had set up their first major camp since departing the fortress. They'd moved through the hills without incident, no signs of Relicts, no scouts reporting threats. Even the wind had been favorable.
A circular perimeter had been formed—combatants on the outer ring, handlers and engineers working in shifts closer to the center. Kindling, Craterhoof, and Aegis-1 stood dormant nearby, like titanic guardians in slumber. Their eyes glowed faintly in the dark.
Fornos sat alone under a tarpaulin near the center of camp, a glowstone hanging overhead. Before him, Brassheart lay on the ground—silent, exposed. He was finishing its reversion process, having removed the cannon arm and thick armor plating it had borne during the last engagement.
"There, there and done," he muttered, tightening the last arc-straps to reconnect its original limb. The familiar hum of balance runes resumed. Brassheart's shoulders lowered slightly—lighter, faster now. As it once was.
"Sir, food is ready," came a quiet voice.
Fornos didn't look up. "Leave it there."
The girl hesitated, then gently set down a wooden bowl before him. Steam rose from the watered-down root stew.
He reached up and tilted his mask slightly to the side, just enough to eat without revealing too much. He began eating without ceremony. The food was bland, but warm.
Then came the sound he hadn't expected.
Footsteps.
He looked up.
Children—six or seven of them—were standing around him in a loose half-circle. Not just Rilo and Klesh. Others. Quiet. Fidgeting.
"What do you all want?" he asked, spoon still in hand.
None of them replied immediately. They looked at each other, then up at him. Finally, one of the smaller girls stepped forward.
"Can you tell us a story?"
Fornos blinked. "A story?"
She nodded. "A real one. You know a lot, right? Everyone says you're scary-smart."
"I'm not a bard."
Another boy chimed in. "Please? Just one? We've never left the region until now."
"You have ears. Ask Roa."
As if summoned, Roa appeared from the shadows, leaning casually against a support post. "You know, I could tell them a story. But mine are all tragic and end in dismemberment. Very sad. Very bloody."
Fornos sighed audibly.
"You're suggesting I would do better?"
"I'm suggesting," Roa said with a slight smile, "that even your voice is preferable to mine in this case."
He looked at the children again. They were waiting.
"Fine." He lowered the bowl and set it aside. "But I won't answer questions during. I'll speak once, and you'll listen."
They nodded eagerly and sat down cross-legged.
Fornos adjusted his posture slightly and began.
"There have been seven sails. Seven great migrations from the known world to the unknown. Great ships built to withstand the ocean's curses and the hunger of Leviathans. Each sail was an act of desperation—or conquest."
He looked up toward the dark sky.
"The fifth sail brought settlers to this continent. The Fifth Continent."
One of the children whispered, "That's here?"
He didn't respond. Just continued.
"This land wasn't empty. Relicts walked here as they do everywhere, but its soil was rich. Water flowed from the mountains like silver thread. But it wasn't claimed—not truly. So, those who boarded the Fifth Sail came for a new life."
He paused.
"Or so they thought. The truth is simpler. Harsher."
"They were exiles."
The fire crackled. A hush fell over the small circle.
"Not all of them. But many. The Fifth Continent became a dumping ground. Criminals. Dissidents. Unwanted children of noble houses. Broken soldiers. Failed crafters. Some by sentence. Others by choice. Over time, the world forgot them. Or chose to."
He leaned back.
"That's why you find ruins with no records. Cities with no founders. Kingdoms that claim bloodlines, but no roots. This place was meant to be forgotten."
He let the silence hang.
Then Peter approached from the side, holding his own half-eaten bowl. "Hold on."
Fornos turned. "What?"
"Is that story true?" Roa asked, now crouching near the fire.
"Yes," Fornos replied without hesitation.
Martin, standing just behind, furrowed his brow. "Then... are you saying the reason we live like this is because the world decided to dump its worst here?"
"Yes." Fornos stood now, staring into the fire. "There are no true lords here. Only survivors. Pretenders. Small communities parading as kingdoms."
Peter looked troubled. "Then what's the point? Why build anything?"
"Because you can," Fornos answered. "Because someone must. Even if the land was born in exile, it still grows. And if the world forgot us, perhaps that's a mercy. No one remembers failures. That means they don't expect you to win."
The children stared at him, the awe slowly sinking in.
Roa stood. "Well. That was cheerier than I expected."
"It was a request," Fornos said, brushing off his coat. "You got your story. Now get to sleep."
"But—" one child began.
"No questions," Fornos cut in sharply.
The children rose reluctantly and scattered, shepherded gently by one of the older handlers.
Roa lingered a moment. "You're better at that than you think."
"I'm not trying to be good at it."
"I know." She turned to go. "Which is why it works."
The fire crackled on.
Brassheart stood at Fornos's back, whole again.
The night passed quietly.