Neutral city of Fargus, Saro Hotel—its top floor reserved only for those whose names shaped borders.
Rain glazed the high windows in thin streaks of silver, the weather echoing the tension in the room like a conductor's baton to string.
Fornos stood still, half-shadowed beneath a hanging crystal lamp. His coat, usually pressed and perfect, was slightly wrinkled from travel. His black gloves were gone. The scar by his lips more visible now under the soft light.
"Never thought we'd meet again," he said, voice casual. "At least not like this."
The doors opened behind him, and the old knight entered.
Gratham Ornes—Warlord of the Southern Reach, Noble of Iron Decree, the Spear of Eastmarch—stepped inside without hesitation. The sound of his boots on polished wood was thunder held back by leather.
He let his cloak fall in one smooth motion, revealing the ornate plate mail of his house—blackened steel etched with red sun-axes, blood-root vines curling down the shoulders. Every ridge was etched with prayer-script, blessings of steel and loyalty.
He looked older than the war-posters, his beard streaked in coal-grey. But there was no weakness in him—just precision. Every wrinkle on his face seemed a scar, and every scar seemed earned.
His sharp, dark eyes locked onto Fornos like a drawn arrow.
"You look older now," Gratham said.
"And you still look the same," Fornos replied.
A pause.
Gratham smirked. "A snake surrounded by wolves."
"Some might say a wolf who trained the snakes," Fornos replied.
Another step forward. The guards at the edge of the room did not move. Both sides had agreed: no weapons, no spells, no second chances.
"Let's skip the opening riddles," Gratham said. "You know why I'm here."
"Your territory's bleeding at the borders. Trade lanes you used to control now feed into my contracts. Engineers you once arrested are now under my flag. And your name," Fornos said, walking slowly toward a side table and pouring wine, "is being whispered in the same breath as mine—in tones far less respectful than you prefer."
Gratham didn't flinch. "And?"
Fornos turned, glass in hand. "That's why you're here."
The warlord folded his arms. "I'm here because you forgot your place."
"My place was behind my father," Fornos replied, "and he spent his entire life kneeling before people like you."
"And now?"
"Now I sit," Fornos said, gesturing to a chair, "while people like you come to talk."
Gratham walked toward the window instead, hands behind his back.
"You spread the Relay Web across the continents. You turned battlefields into echo chambers. You've broken five trade monopolies, sunk two city-states into civil war, and raised an army without declaring yourself a noble."
Fornos didn't interrupt. He sipped the wine.
Gratham turned back. "You've made yourself a problem."
Fornos raised a brow. "Then kill me."
The words hung in the air like sharpened blades.
"I said no guards," Fornos continued. "No protection, no traps. Just you and me. So do it. Kill the boy who broke your world."
Gratham walked forward. Not rushed. Deliberate.
They were just a few paces apart now. No armor between them. Just breath and decision.
But he didn't draw.
"You're too valuable," Gratham said. "Too dangerous to waste. Too clever to kill."
Fornos nodded slowly. "Which means you're here to offer me something."
"A chair."
Fornos blinked.
"In the Southern Council," Gratham continued. "As a Strategos of Communication and Reform. You'll be under me. You'll serve House Ornes."
Fornos chuckled.
"I offer you legitimacy," Gratham said.
"You offer me a chain," Fornos replied. "Polished, yes. But still a chain."
Gratham stepped closer.
"I offer you protection from the others. Because the moment you say no, Fornos—there will be war."
There it was. The unspoken truth. Spoken.
Fornos nodded slowly, walked back toward the window, and looked down. The rain danced on the cobblestone streets below.
Then he said, "You've come to tame a wildfire with silk."
Gratham's voice dropped a note lower. "I've come to remind you that kings rise fast—and burn faster."
Fornos turned back around. His eyes were calm.
"I'll give you my answer," he said. "But only after you answer me one question."
Gratham folded his arms again. "Ask."
"Why now?" Fornos asked. "You could've crushed me two years ago. Could've strangled me before the Relay ever left Varnhollow. Why wait?"
Silence. Just the whisper of rain and the thrum of tension.
Then Gratham said, "Because I needed to know how far you'd go."
"And?"
"You went further than I expected."
Fornos smiled. "That was your mistake."
"No," Gratham said. "It was my plan."
Now Fornos paused.
"I needed you to burn away the dead wood," Gratham said. "Rivals, parasites, stagnant systems. And you did. You broke things no sword could reach. I didn't stop you because I needed you."
"So now you want to reward me?" Fornos asked, voice sharpening.
"I want to use you again."
"Honest," Fornos muttered.
"Join me," Gratham said. "Or prepare for the storm."
Fornos turned back toward the window, watching the stormclouds gather in the sky. He didn't answer right away. His mind was a blaze of numbers, names, faction reports, battlefield deployments.
Then, without looking back, he said, "You'll have my answer in seven days."
Gratham said nothing more. He simply turned and walked toward the door.
As the door closed behind the Warlord, Park emerged from a side passage, stepping into the room with silent steps.
He signed:
What now?
Fornos answered without turning.
"We set fire to the offer," he said softly. "Then we prepare for the storm."