The sun had barely breached the cliffs when the Ash Company's convoy slithered into the canyon hollow known only to a few on the mainland. Hidden from major routes and shielded by mana-obscuring ridgelines, the temporary trade point was a relic of forgotten wars—old, scarred stone platforms and disused siege lifts now repurposed for commerce in secrecy.
It was here that the remnants of Uru-Maul would be converted into more than stories and scars. It would become currency.
The wagons rolled in silently, guarded by combat frames coated in new alloy dust. Park and Mark moved in tandem, their massive forms walking beside the lead units, silent as always—yet everyone obeyed their gestures like spoken commands. Behind them came the cargo: lead-quartz coffers sealed tight with etched glyphs, glimmering faintly from the mana-rich organs and crystallized sinews within.
As the convoy came to a halt, a waiting group of masked traders emerged from the rock shadows—representatives of three different networks Fornos had courted quietly in months past. No banners, no insignias—just open palms, open ledgers, and weighed silence.
"Unload. Strip the coffers first," Fornos said, standing at the head of the formation, mask gleaming under the sun.
Konos gave a nod. "Roa, take the counts. Martin, shadow her. No slippage."
The engineers worked swiftly. The sealing glyphs hissed open as containment spells withdrew layer by layer. Inside, the remains of Uru-Maul shimmered—gland sacs the size of heads, crystalline spinal columns emitting low thrumms, dense bones laced with residual mana signatures too old to classify.
Roa held up a chunk of pulsing bone marrow in a thick glass jar. "This alone could fund a guard company for five years," she murmured, awestruck.
"Or get five companies hunting us," Martin replied dryly. "Let's keep things clean."
The buyers made no fuss. They examined the goods with practiced eyes, drawing mana-detection fans and codex-reading slates. Hushed codes passed between them. Fornos didn't bother negotiating. They knew the worth. He only cared for silence and speed.
By midday, the deals were done.
The final tallies were delivered to Fornos on a thick ledger scroll, passed from Konos' hands without ceremony.
"Operational reserves at 180%," Konos announced. "And that's after setting aside funds for golem reconstruction and logistics refits. We're rich."
A pause. Then a few chuckles from logistics officers nearby. Some combatants clapped one another on the back.
The engineers were already sketching ideas, whispering of modular designs, hull reinforcements, limb actuators, and a potential sixth relay node. Ideas poured like water in the heat of sudden abundance.
But Fornos did not smile.
He stood still, face masked, arms crossed, gaze scanning the plateau's edges. There was a sharpness to him in victory that dulled nothing—if anything, it honed him further.
"We are not rich," Fornos finally said.
Silence spread like frost.
"We are armed with the illusion of wealth. This…" He raised the ledger scroll in one hand, "…is just time. We bought time. Time to breathe, time to move, time to become what they think we already are."
Roa tilted her head. "What's wrong with expansion? More arms, more mouths, more nodes—"
"More weight to carry," Fornos cut in. "Every new body we bring in is a new secret we must protect. Every new golem is a new failure waiting to happen if we stretch too thin. More exposure. More chances to be noticed. Or worse—understood."
Wraith stepped forward then, silent as ever. He placed a small iron disk into Fornos' hand. On its etched surface was a rune recently used to intercept a noble house's communication pulse. The disk was warm.
"They're listening again," Fornos said, voice soft. "Ornes isn't done. The others aren't blind. The fire we lit with Uru-Maul didn't just illuminate us—it cast our shadows long and wide."
Konos grunted in approval. "So we stay lean?"
"We stay lean and sharp," Fornos nodded. "We expand only where it hurts our enemies more than it burdens us. Quality. Precision. No empire-building—not yet."
Peter muttered from the side, "And here I thought we'd get a few more tents and nicer meals."
Martin chuckled, but then added, "He's right, though. If we eat too well, someone's going to wonder who's feeding us."
Logistics teams began issuing new quotas. Engineers were reassigned. Supply runners were dispatched under new cipher codes. Every coin earned from Uru-Maul was accounted for and locked into allocation branches that only three people in the company understood fully.
As the sun dipped behind the ridge, the trade allies melted back into the canyon rock, no farewells given. Fornos remained seated near a stone outcropping, ledger beside him, watching the sunset bleed gold across the now-empty trade hollow.
Roa approached quietly. "You didn't even touch the cut they offered you."
"I don't need a cut," Fornos said. "I need continuity."
She sat beside him, the jar of bone marrow in her lap still softly pulsing. "You think people will stay loyal forever if they don't get a taste?"
"I think," Fornos said, "loyalty is a chain. You forge it tighter the more you withhold. Give someone a crown and they forget who crowned them. Let them earn it piece by piece, and they'll kill for the next link."
Roa shook her head. "That's dark."
"No," Fornos replied. "That's practical."
Night fell slowly, bringing with it the highland winds that scattered dust trails and erased the footprints of the day. The Ash Company settled into its temporary camp, funds secured, plans underway, and a hunger in the air—not for food or drink, but for forward motion.
The company had profited.
But more than that, they had grown visible.
And Fornos knew visibility was the first step toward being hunted.