The walls of Varnhollow greeted the Ash Company with stone-faced indifference, just as they had when the mercenary force first marched out. The spires still stood jagged and tall, their banners wind-worn but proud. Trade wagons bustled through the gates, and the smoke of ironworks curled up into the afternoon haze. But to the Ash Company, fresh off a string of grueling victories and one unforgettable prank, the return felt strangely alien—like ghosts returning to the home of the living.
Their boots were still caked with dirt from barbarian trails, Uru-Maul's gore still clung to half-discarded armor, and the smell of war hadn't yet washed out of their tents.
Before even unloading the first crate, a curious formation had taken shape. Wooden boxes and stacked barrels had been hastily arranged into a makeshift theater of sorts—rows and arcs—facing a single crate set apart like a throne. The soldiers, engineers, handlers, and even a few wandering locals who caught the tension in the air, gathered with expectation simmering just under their breath.
There, on the central crate, sat Fornos Dag.
Unmasked.
The scar at the corner of his lips curled slightly with every word he spoke, like punctuation carved into skin.
"I said we'd talk later, not sooner," he opened, surveying the company with sharp, level eyes. "Yet here you all are, looking at me like I've grown wings or sprouted horns."
A few chuckles bubbled through the crowd, nervous and scattered.
"And what's with the stares? I'm the same man you followed through the Fifth Continent, through the Relict tunnels, across trade wars, and back here. What's changed?"
"Well," Peter began, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, "Not exactly the same."
"Oh?" Fornos arched a brow.
"You're scarier now," Peter continued. "Without the mask, I mean."
"Scarier?" Fornos repeated, bemused.
"With the mask, you were mysterious," Roa said, arms folded, standing beside her sons—who were still trying not to make eye contact. "Now people… want to understand you. That's more dangerous."
Fornos chuckled. "I see. So now I'm not just an enigma—you're worried I might be a relatable enigma."
He gestured broadly with one hand, palm up. "All right then. Ask away."
The crowd glanced between themselves until Dren, one of the leaner logistics officers, stood up and cleared his throat.
"Why the mask?" he asked plainly. "Why all that effort just to hide your face?"
Fornos exhaled, long and measured.
"You all know that most of you were collared into service," he began, tone quiet. "But the first batch—those original fifty—wore their collars willingly. They weren't captured. They were survivors. Desperate people who chose the Company over slavery, starvation, or madness."
He paused, eyes moving slowly over the veterans in the front row.
"I was eighteen when I offered them that choice. I knew the truth: no one in their right mind would follow a teenager into hell. Not unless he looked like something more. Something less… mortal. So, the mask did the talking. And people listened."
Roa raised a hand casually. "Kindling was standing right behind you that first day, when you came to my camp," she said, voice steady. "I don't think anyone would've doubted you. Mask or not."
Fornos gave a small nod. "You're not wrong. But I wasn't just selling strength. I was selling myth. And a myth needs distance."
A beat of silence passed. Then a hand lifted from the back—one of the cooks, surprisingly—"How did they know?" she asked, jerking a thumb toward Konos and Wraith.
Konos crossed his arms, expression unreadable.
"I knew him even before this entire idea took shape," he said, voice like gravel. "One thing led to another. I was tasked with building Kindling—his golem. Then sent here to prepare for his return. Quietly. Without fanfare."
Wraith stood nearby, arms behind his back. He gave a slow nod, then pointed casually toward Konos.
"The Architects?" he said. "They're just the visible fingers of a much larger hand. His family's hand. I've known Konos longer than anyone here. And I've known Fornos almost as long. Long enough to trust him."
That word—trust—settled like a stone in the company's gut.
"So, all this," someone muttered, "was planned from the start?"
Fornos tilted his head. "Planned? No. Prepared? Yes. There's a difference. I didn't know exactly what we'd face. But I made sure we'd be ready, no matter what came."
A few murmurs followed. Some sounded impressed. Others uncertain.
Then—for the first time in a long while—Fornos smiled. It wasn't soft. It wasn't kind. It was calculated. The kind of smile that turned his scar from decoration to warning.
"Well," he said, rising slowly from his crate, "I'm glad you asked. But now I must return the favor."
He raised his hand, fingers snapping once.
In the next moment, a faint thrum passed through the collars of the first batch—those old, rune-etched rings they still wore beneath scarves, armor, or custom-fitted steel. The glow was faint. But present.
A shared shiver passed through them as the old magic was invoked.
"I invoke a vow of silence," Fornos said gently, though his voice cut like a blade. "Everything you've heard today—about me, about my past, about the Architects, and about Kindling—will not be spoken of beyond this space. Not in taverns. Not in temples. Not even in whispers. You will forget this moment when the mask returns. Is that understood?"
One by one, heads nodded. Not out of fear. But because they understood the necessity. Trust only mattered if it was reinforced by control.
The glow faded. The vow settled into the air like cooling ash.
"Good," Fornos said.
He turned back to the crowd, slipping the black mask back over his face in one smooth motion. The porcelain caught the light briefly before becoming shadow once more.
"I am still the same man you followed into the void. But now you've seen that even the void has a face."
Then he nodded once.
"Dismissed."
As the crowd slowly broke apart—some quiet, others contemplative—Roa lingered at the edge with her sons.
"That smile," she muttered to herself, watching the mask vanish into the crowd.
Beside her, Konos cracked a rare grin. "What about it?"
"It made that scar look like a scythe," she said. "Like he was harvesting something."
Konos didn't answer. But the way his hand hovered near Kindling's command core suggested he agreed.