Brasshollow City wasn't known for its beauty. It was a cluttered place—an industrial soup of smoke, rust, and yelling apprentices—but it was efficient. The kind of city where you could build a golem from scrap, sell it to a drunk noble, and vanish before anyone inspected it.
And it was in this charming dump that Fornos Dag now stood, arms crossed, staring up at what could only be described as a miracle of mediocrity.
Before him stood a 20-foot golem, hunched slightly under the weight of its own cheap plating. Its outer shell was made of mismatched alloys—some even had manufacturer stamps still visible. One leg was noticeably thicker than the other. Its spine creaked when it shifted. A single glowing eye flickered with mild concern.
Fornos blinked.
"Wow," he said flatly. "This… is… awful."
The old golem crafter beside him—Konos, a wiry man with a permanent squint and a coat three sizes too big—chuckled nervously.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Konos said, gesturing with his ink-stained hands like a proud parent. "Took a lot of digging through junkyards to get her to this state."
Fornos circled the machine slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching somewhere between horror and fascination.
"When I said go cheap, I didn't mean this cheap." He tapped the golem's side. The metal clanged hollowly. "This thing has more holes than my cousin's excuses during tax audits. Does it even move?"
"I may have taken some… minor penalties," Konos said, scratching the back of his neck, "but rest assured, my lord, it won't explode unless someone really tries. And as long as you don't send this thing into an active warzone, it should do everything else."
Fornos gave him a deadpan stare. "Can it lift?"
"Half of its weight," Konos replied without missing a beat. "So, around thirty-eight tons. Depending on temperature and moon phase, of course."
Fornos raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed despite himself. "Thirty-eight tons? That's more than I expected."
"Magic pulleys in the shoulder joints. Very unstable. But very strong," Konos beamed.
The golem shifted slightly, and a screw audibly clinked to the floor.
Fornos sighed and rubbed his temples. "Get this thing to the border of the city. Someone named Prowler will pick it up."
Konos's brow furrowed. "Prowler?"
"You don't need to know who he is," Fornos replied, handing over a small velvet pouch. "Here are seven masks. Wear one per interaction. Don't use the same one twice. Don't talk, don't ask questions. Just give the golem, and take what he gives in return."
"Seven masks?" Konos squinted into the bag. "Why would I—"
"You're already asking too many questions," Fornos interrupted coolly.
Konos nodded slowly, now understanding the weight of the transaction. He tucked the bag away in his coat with exaggerated care.
Fornos extended a hand. "Also, give me the golem controller."
Konos hesitated, then slipped a simple silver ring off his finger and placed it in Fornos's palm.
In return, Fornos handed him a small, ornate brass key.
"Use this to open the codex box he gives you," Fornos said. "It contains your next set of instructions."
Konos examined the key like it might bite him. "What's in the box?"
"You'll find out when you open it. Alone. In private." Fornos's voice was calm, but there was something cold beneath it. "And remember—this is a test."
"A test?" Konos blinked. "Of what?"
"Your value."
That shut the old man up.
Fornos turned back to the golem, watching its ragged frame as it fidgeted in place. It looked like it wanted to fall apart, but couldn't quite muster the strength. He could almost pity the thing.
Almost.
"Does it have a name?" he asked.
"I didn't give it one," Konos replied. "Didn't think it would last long enough to need one."
Fornos's eyes narrowed as the golem tried to salute, only to lose its balance slightly and sway.
"Then I'll call it Kindling."
Konos snorted. "Fitting."
The door to the workshop creaked open, letting in a gust of warm, soot-laced air from the outside. The noises of Brasshollow returned—the thuds of hammering metal, the occasional mana explosion from a failed experiment, and the ever-present yelling of angry foremen.
Fornos looked out into the chaos, expression unreadable.
"There's value in building something from the bottom," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "The world loves beautiful things—but it fears the ugly ones."
Konos tilted his head. "That's… oddly poetic."
"I'm not trying to be poetic," Fornos replied, stepping out the door. "I'm building an empire."
Later That Evening
Konos stood at the city's edge under the amber glow of the waning sun. The golem—now loaded onto a transport platform and covered with a drape—loomed behind him like a crouching skeleton.
He wore the first of the seven masks. Plain, wooden, and completely unremarkable.
Then, from the treeline, a figure appeared.
Prowler.
He was dressed in layered travelers' robes, face hidden beneath a wide hat and a pale scarf. He walked like someone used to going unnoticed.
Konos said nothing, just as instructed.
Prowler did not speak either. He circled the golem once, eyes gleaming behind a slit in the scarf. Then, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small black box—runed, sealed, and humming with latent magic.
He handed it to Konos.
Konos accepted it without comment.
No words passed between them.
Then Prowler turned and vanished into the trees.
Konos stood there a moment longer, watching the box in his hand. It was heavier than he expected. He could feel the hum through his fingertips.
He returned to his workshop, closed the doors, and locked all three bolts.
Then he slid the brass key into the codex box.
There was a click.
The next phase of Fornos's plan had begun.