"You all are real idiots, you know that," Fornos said, his voice flat and cold as the stones underfoot. Four handlers stood in front of him, heads bowed low, the morning sun casting long accusing shadows behind them.
The rest of Ash Company stood still across the makeshift camp perimeter, the air tense. Craterhoof loomed behind them, motionless now, its towering bulk steaming gently from its early patrol. The golem's massive limbs had nearly flattened Qoren, one of the younger children, barely seven, who had wandered too far during a lull in the march.
"If you all can't detect me when I am moving," Fornos continued, "what made you think children would be able to? Qoren almost died because of your idiocy."
He pointed to the girl now sitting against one of the supply wagons, wrapped in a blanket, her mother crouched beside her whispering words of comfort. Her eyes were wide with shock but dry—no tears left to shed.
The four handlers flinched as one.
Roa, standing to the side with arms crossed, said nothing. Martin looked on grimly, and even Peter, who rarely paid attention to discipline matters, looked uncomfortable.
"I should bury you alive right now," Fornos said, walking a slow arc around the four handlers. "But you at least had the guilt to admit it upfront. That's rare these days."
He stopped and stood directly in front of them. "Now, as for your punishment, you will march hungry. No rations until I say otherwise. You'll start starving, and maybe then your heads will clear."
One of the handlers—a stocky man named Denik—opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again under Roa's glare.
"Understood?"
"Yes, sir," the four muttered.
"Louder."
"YES, SIR."
Fornos gave a curt nod and turned away. "Park. Mark."
The two silent co-commanders stepped forward. They didn't speak, of course, but Fornos didn't need them to. Their presence alone was a command.
"Shadow those four. If they so much as look at a food satchel, break their arms."
The handlers didn't protest. They knew better.
Fornos gave one last look at Qoren, who glanced back at him nervously. He gave her a shallow nod, then turned and walked toward the command tent.
Later that day, the company resumed movement. The ground was damp from morning dew, and the wheels of the children's shelter crate squeaked rhythmically behind Kindling.
Aegis-1 and Aegis-2 led the vanguard, while Craterhoof now marched dead center, surrounded by a wide berth, as per new company protocol.
By midday, the sun had risen high, casting down hard shadows and glints of reflected light off metal and golem plating. Sweat glistened on brows. The punished handlers were beginning to show fatigue—Denik had stumbled twice—but no one offered them a drop.
Fornos passed by them once, glancing but saying nothing. That was punishment enough.
That night, the camp was calm again, huddled in a dry patch beside the broken ridgeline. The handlers crawled into their sleeping rolls, stomachs gnawing with pain. One of them, Salla, whispered, "This was fair."
Denik groaned. "Shut up."
At another fire, Qoren sat quietly with her mother. When Fornos approached, she stood up and tugged on his coat. "Can you tell me about a golem that won't step on me."
Fornos raised an eyebrow, then sat cross-legged. "Alright. I'll tell you about one that flies."
A few more children gathered, drawn by the spark of narrative. Even a few older ears turned toward him.
"Before any of you were born—before even the Golem Engines ran across the rails—there were two brothers. Crafters. Dreamers. Fools, some called them. They weren't born into noble houses or guilds. Just two men with sky-sick hearts."
"They built the first flying golem. It wasn't beautiful—more like a metal bat stitched with alchemy—but it lifted. It soared. The name was forgotten, but the flight changed everything. Suddenly, the skies weren't just for wyverns and the wrath of Relicts. We had wings too."
"Their design was stolen. Improved. Militarized. And then came the War in the Clouds."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"The largest fielding of flying golems in history. Two city-state alliances, each with a sky fleet, fought for supremacy over the Nimbus Archipelago. The battles never touched land. Dozens of flying golems met above the stormlines. They clashed, danced, and died in the air. Lightning, smoke, and fire ruled. Entire crews vanished into the clouds."
"One alliance tried using chained golems—tethered in wings like birds. The other favored individual, elite fliers. Some could dive faster than a ballista bolt. Others could hover and channel spells like towers in the sky."
He leaned closer. "But the most feared of all was a prototype. The only one of its kind. Not part of any fleet—an unaligned rogue weapon. They called it Riftleaper. It didn't fly through the clouds. It warped between them. One moment here, another there. No one saw it strike. But they saw the wreckage."
The children stared in silence.
Qoren asked quietly, "Did it ever step on someone?"
Fornos shook his head. "It never even touched the ground."
She smiled.
He stood and brushed ash from his coat. "Now go. You'll need your legs tomorrow."
And as the fire crackled on, the night sky above Ash Company remained silent—though, for some, the clouds now seemed a little less empty.