Day 7
"Hey, what are you—" Roa's voice trailed off as she stepped into Peter's tent.
Parchments lay strewn across every surface. Pages pinned with twine. Diagrams scratched in charcoal. Piles of tools displaced neatly ordered gear kits. In the center of it all stood Peter, face shadowed with exhaustion, dark rings under his eyes like ink stains.
Roa tilted her head. "Peter, why did you delegate all your tasks today? I thought you'd gone sick—" she scanned the chaos again and shook her head, half amused. "Now I know."
Peter turned to her with a sheepish grin. "Oh. Roa. Sorry. Didn't hear you come in. Need something?"
"I wanted to know why you bailed on half the gear checks and handed off repair duty. But this explains it."
Peter scratched behind his ear. "Yeah… I couldn't stop thinking about what Fornos said the other night. About the Anima Acolyte, about Krizan, all of it. I wanted to sketch things out before it slipped my mind."
"Right," Roa folded her arms. "So now you're possessed."
"Just inspired."
Roa smirked, then eyed the doorway. "You going back tonight? For another story?"
Peter nodded. "Yeah. I want to ask him for one more."
Roa considered, then added, "Okay. I'll let the children know."
Peter's eyes widened. "I don't think you should."
"Why not?"
"I'm worried he'll tell them something horrifying. On purpose. Just to stop the questions."
Roa laughed. "He's sharp-tongued, sure—but soft on the kids. I don't think he'd take his spite out on them."
Peter rubbed his face, voice low. "I hope, in Lumbar's name, you're right."
Later That Night
Fornos sat by the fire, expression unreadable as always, sipping from a flask of lukewarm broth. He looked up only when Peter approached—two bowls in hand.
"You want to know more?" Fornos asked.
"Yes," Peter said simply, handing him the food.
Fornos accepted the bowl with a curt nod. "Fine. Sit down."
A moment later, Martin arrived with his own bowl and sat without a word. The fire cracked quietly between them.
"You didn't tell the kids this time, right?" Fornos asked.
"No," Peter said quickly.
Fornos frowned. "Then why are they walking over?"
Peter followed his gaze. A swarm of children was approaching again, ducking under ropes and stepping over logs with eager eyes. Some of the handlers—Mark and Park included—followed at a distance, silent and watchful. Park gave a slight nod to Fornos as he passed, which Fornos returned.
Peter rubbed the back of his head. "I guess they don't care if they're told no."
"They don't," Martin said dryly.
"By the way," Martin added, "why don't you want to talk in front of them?"
Fornos hesitated. "It feels weird. The things I remember… they aren't always kind."
That said, he waited until everyone had settled. Dozens gathered around now—handlers, engineers, even a few logistics personnel. The evening had become a ritual.
Fornos took a bite from his bowl, then began.
"There was once a golem crafter named Inyen Pale, a man with all the skill in the world and none of the soul. He crafted a golem designed to fail. Not in testing—but in battle. It looked sturdy, sounded functional, and passed all checks. But its Codex was intentionally flawed. The moment it came under pressure, its limbs locked, and its handler—who was just a boy—was crushed inside his tent by the falling wreck."
Whispers rippled through the crowd. Even the children fell completely silent.
Fornos went on. "Inyen wasn't arrested. He published his notes. Said it was a demonstration. A warning. He wanted to make people fear over-reliance on machines. Prove that trust in steel over soul was dangerous. Some called him a genius. Others called him a murderer."
Roa stepped forward. "Is this autobiographical?"
Fornos raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like someone that idiotic?"
Roa crossed her arms. "Just checking."
"Golem crafting isn't my forte," Fornos said. "And for the record—I think Inyen Pale was an idiot. Because without golems, we're extinct. No army of men can hold a field against a Relict."
He took another sip, and when he looked up, his gaze was colder.
"You want something worse?"
The crowd leaned in.
"There was a group once. A real group. Not myth. Not story. They called themselves the Black Hand. Not crafters. Engineers and handlers—people who'd grown tired of the delay between command and action. They wanted perfect synchronicity. Instant reaction. So they did something monstrous."
Martin stiffened. Peter's bowl paused halfway to his lips.
"They put humans inside the golems. Not as controllers—as cores. Hooked them into the mana networks. Removed the controller component entirely. The idea was that the handler's thoughts would flow straight into the golem's Codex. No lag. No misinterpretation."
The fire cracked loudly, like a snapped bone.
"But the human mind wasn't meant for that. The first subjects screamed for hours before their minds broke. Others didn't scream at all—they just froze, and the golems went still. But a few… worked. And those few started a war."
Peter whispered, "The Plague Wars?"
Fornos nodded. "That's what history calls it now. The Black Hand turned their living golems loose on city-states. Silent. Unstoppable. Without cores that could be disrupted. They moved like instinct made steel."
"And it took the combined might of two entire factions to stop them—the Sanctum of Barbaros, and the Anima Acolyte. One brought divine fire. The other brought understanding of golem soulcraft. Together, they hunted the Black Hand down."
"Did they get all of them?" a child asked.
Fornos looked into the fire. "No."
A long silence fell.
"The Acolyte still hunts them," Fornos said at last. "Quietly. They believe anyone who tries to enslave the soul inside a golem must be purged. And I agree."
Peter's voice was hoarse. "Do… any of the Black Hand's golems still exist?"
"Maybe," Fornos said. "In deep ruins. Forgotten bunkers. Places where the relays went dead and the horrors slept. But if you ever see a golem without a core, without a controller, but still moving… walk away."
No one spoke after that.
The fire burned lower.
Even the children didn't ask for another story.