The sun hung low, weak and flickering against the haze that choked Witch's Hollow. Dust and spores drifted lazily in the heavy air as Ash Company's forward camp continued its grim work.
"Another day, another set," Fornos said, his voice carrying a relaxed arrogance as he stood atop a half-buried stone, surveying the growing line of prisoners.
Bandits—young and old alike—were being collared and sorted by the auxiliaries and logistics teams. Handlers moved among them, securing binding relays on the more unruly ones, while the company's combatants kept a casual, watchful perimeter.
Park stood nearby, silent as always, watching Fornos with a questioning glance.
Fornos caught it easily, tilting his head in mock curiosity. "I'll answer that later," he said lightly, waving a hand as though brushing away a gnat.
His attention was already drifting elsewhere.
Near the center of the camp, Roa's twin children, Kesh and Rilo, peered out from behind a stack of supply crates. Their wide eyes followed one of the newly captured men—a rough-looking figure with tangled hair and a broken nose—who sat slumped against a post, arms bound behind him.
The man glanced back at the children, offering a weak, wary sneer.
Kesh flinched, but Rilo narrowed his eyes, clutching the wooden toy sword he always carried.
Fornos chuckled under his breath. "No, I'm not killing them to motivate Roa, don't worry," he said, glancing sidelong at Park.
Park's face didn't shift, but there was a subtle softening around his eyes—a brief, unspoken relief.
Fornos clapped his hands once, dust flying off his black gloves. "Now, where's that report?"
As if on cue, a young auxiliary came jogging up, a bundle of parchment tucked under his arm.
"Hey, boss, I brought the report you asked for!" the boy called out, panting slightly from the run.
"Excellent," Fornos said, snatching the papers with a flick of his wrist. He skimmed them quickly, eyes narrowing behind the masked veil as he absorbed the latest numbers.
Casualties minimal. Supplies stable. Enemy morale fracturing faster than anticipated.
Perfect.
He tucked the papers into his coat and turned toward Park.
"Park," he said, voice sharpening, "I want one more bandit group subdued under command in the next three days. Make sure the golems are intact."
Park nodded immediately, understanding the weight behind the request. Intact golems meant usable assets—laborers, shield-bearers, even cannon fodder if needed.
And Fornos had plans. Always plans.
Ash Company was no longer just breaking their enemies—they were harvesting them.
As Park moved off to organize his squad, Fornos remained standing atop the stone, watching the camp continue its slow, methodical work.
From his vantage point, he could see Roa moving among her squad, checking weapons, inspecting bindings, exchanging brief words with her subordinates. She looked tired but solid—tempered by the constant grind.
The twins darted toward her when they saw an opening, each clamoring for her attention. Roa bent low, ruffling their hair and smiling faintly despite the weight hanging on her shoulders.
Fornos tilted his head thoughtfully.
He could see it clearly now—the way Roa carried not just herself, but the tiny community she had stitched together with sweat and blood. Her squad. Her children. Her stubborn, grinding hope.
It made her predictable.
And predictability, in Fornos' mind, was a double-edged sword.
He filed the observation away and turned as footsteps approached from the camp's northern edge.
Another messenger—a slightly older auxiliary, marked with the green band of logistics—saluted sharply. "Sir, patrol reports a sighting. Another bandit camp, approximately a half-day's march northeast. Light fortifications, five to six golems confirmed."
Fornos' masked face turned toward the hazy horizon.
"Good," he said simply. "Position two squads. Park's for the assault. Roa's for perimeter containment."
The auxiliary nodded and ran to relay the orders.
Fornos exhaled slowly, watching the spores swirl in the late afternoon breeze. This would work. It had to work. The faster they folded the rogue elements of Witch's Hollow into their hands, the less resistance they would face when the real fights began.
Because this—this—was only the prelude.
Fornos stepped down from the stone and began a slow walk through the camp, his shadow long and sharp in the sinking light.
As he passed the prisoners, he could see the fear etched into their faces—the uncertainty. Some glared, others looked hollow, already defeated. None dared to speak.
He paused beside the rough-looking man from earlier—the one who had sneered at Kesh and Rilo.
Fornos crouched smoothly, balancing on the balls of his feet.
The man flinched instinctively.
"You're wondering what happens now," Fornos said conversationally. "You're wondering if it's the mines. Or the front lines. Or just a knife between the ribs while you sleep."
The man opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Fornos leaned closer. "Here's the truth. You're useful. So you get to live. For now."
He rose, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. "But make no mistake—you belong to us now."
Without waiting for a response, Fornos moved on, already thinking several steps ahead.
Park was efficient. Roa was dependable. Mark was a blunt weapon that shattered whatever he touched. The auxiliary teams were learning fast, adapting quicker than he'd expected.
Ash Company was tightening its noose around Witch's Hollow.
And when it finally snapped closed, there would be no second chances.
As he walked back toward the command tent, Fornos smiled beneath his mask.
They were no longer surviving.
They were conquering.