The morning sun filtered gently through the stained-glass windows of the Dag estate, scattering colored light across the polished floors. The estate had grown quieter lately—tension seeping into the cracks of its gilded corridors, the kind only ambition and unspoken war could stir.
Fornos stood in the front hall, dressed sharply in a travel-ready black overcoat. His gloved fingers adjusted a satchel filled with papers, coded letters, and a ring that glowed faintly with magical circuitry—the controller for Brassheart, now hidden in a closed carriage waiting outside.
Mary Dag leaned against the arched doorway, watching him with a soft frown. Her arms were crossed, but her posture was more maternal than combative.
"You are really unfeeling, aren't you?" she said with a hint of sadness.
Fornos didn't look up. "Mother, I am not."
"You say that," she walked toward him, "yet you haven't given up on that damned plan of yours—even after getting slapped every morning for three weeks straight. Do you know how many mothers don't do that?"
Fornos allowed himself a dry chuckle. "You were the one who trained me in the art of deception. Including how to spot one."
Mary's brow twitched, but she held back a smile.
"And," Fornos added, "I also know you're more vengeful than me, which says a lot."
"It was necessary," she muttered, brushing nonexistent dust from her sleeve, "back when I was a nobody clawing her way up. I would never wish that on you. I wanted you to be better."
"You should've seen her," Voss chimed in from behind a newspaper, seated lazily in a nearby chair. "Back in her prime, people called her The Ice Ledger. Every deal frozen, every contract sharp enough to bleed."
Mary glared. "Don't talk about that. It took years to bury that title."
Fornos raised an eyebrow. "So, it was real?"
Mary shot her son a warning glance but said nothing.
Voss chuckled. "So, son, how's the plan going?"
Fornos straightened up. "Considering the constraints Mother placed on me—specifically, not using any company resources—it's going well. I've drafted everything: golem prototypes, political front, asset acquisition... all compartmentalized."
"Just make sure not to start liking genocide," Mary added flatly.
Voss blinked. "Wait—you're okay with him killing people now? Where'd all that 'preserve your humanity' talk go?"
Mary turned toward her husband, her tone sharp as a blade. "I know our son well enough to understand he won't ask for permission when it comes to moral dilemmas. Would you like to see what I kept from you all these years? I have a few old ledgers still buried under floorboards."
Fornos cleared his throat, smirking. "I'll be away for three months, on and off. Please don't give me a sibling—I won't have time to be polite to them."
Mary rolled her eyes and walked off without another word. Voss only shook his head with a chuckle and returned to his paper.
One week later – Ironrend
Ironrend was a city of stone and sparks, where laborers moved like clockwork and the sky was perpetually fogged with soot and steam. It was a working-class city on paper—but the reality was far more glamorous for those at the top.
Fornos had arrived under a false identity. Dressed in all black, he wore a half-mask of polished obsidian over his face, trimmed with silver along the edges. It wasn't uncommon—Ironrend was infamous for its masquerade gatherings, where identities were exchanged like currency and no face could be trusted.
Brassheart walked silently behind him, cloaked in dull fabric, gloved hands folded in front. The golem looked every bit the mute servant, a role it played with unnerving precision.
The party was being held in a colosseum repurposed for spectacle. Far below, golems clashed in brutal combat—iron fists slamming into reinforced limbs, sparks and enchantments flaring with every strike. A massive Behemoth cadaver had been brought in earlier in the week, reanimated partially through necro-tech for training purposes. It now roared in the arena, surrounded by a ring of combat golems testing their strength against it.
Fornos sat among the masked crowd in an upper balcony. Gold-plated nobles, minor lords, foreign traders, and even mercenary captains cheered and drank, some wagering fortunes on which construct would land the next blow.
"This is what they waste money on," Fornos muttered under his breath. "Childish."
He wasn't here for the entertainment. He was here to observe.
The colosseum wasn't just a theater—it was also a showroom. Between each match, different noble houses and unaffiliated crafters showcased their new golem designs. Subtle changes in armor, weapon articulation, codex response. Most of it was for prestige. But some models—like the dagger-limbed "Lancewolf" from House Rimer—revealed practical advancements.
He watched intently as one golem, smaller than the others, launched a set of magnetic tethers that latched onto the behemoth's hide, redirecting its charge. A new application of anchor-based kinetic deflection.
Interesting... Fornos leaned forward.
Brassheart remained perfectly still beside him, scanning without appearing to. Its masked head tilted slightly every now and then, relaying battlefield data back through the controller ring on Fornos' hand.
The final match of the night was between a prototype assault golem from House Tenvar and a massive, plated brute cobbled together by some independent mercenary group. It was crude but effective, and it nearly tore the noble model in half before losing to an overload feedback that fried its limbs.
"Hmm," Fornos murmured, pushing away from the rail. "So that is how it works…"
He had seen enough.
He stood up, giving Brassheart a nod. The golem followed him wordlessly through the crowds, the murmurs of celebration and drunken bets fading into the background.
Back at the modest villa he had rented under a pseudonym, Fornos immediately set to work. He stripped off the mask and unrolled a fresh blueprint over the central table. Brassheart stood nearby, removing its cloak piece by piece, revealing the intricate runes carved beneath its shell.
Fornos was already scribbling notes.
"Anchor-based movement manipulation," he muttered. "Too costly. But the concept is valid."
He drew up a mock design of a thin-limbed golem with retractable pylons.
"New subroutine for battlefield prediction. We'll need a second codex layer just for real-time terrain mapping."
As the candles burned low and the city outside dipped into a restless sleep, Fornos continued working—outlining, sketching, planning.
Every mask had a purpose.
And tonight, his had served him well.