After the hasty retreat, he emerged atop their modified Menhir. The failed assault was a data point, not a defeat. And Hamus processed it in the control vault, a stark structure of high-density basalt buried deep within the rebellion's encampment. Its walls, infused with stabilizing Words of Assertion, absorbed chaotic arcanic feedback, leaving the air inside heavy, metallic, and sterile—a constant, acrid reminder of the unnatural forces he harnessed.
He lowered his eyes, the movement stiff, and met the gaze of his subordinate. "It almost failed," Hamus rasped to Kord, the Arcanist on duty. His voice was a dry rustle, stripped of intonation. "Run more tests. Get assistants to improve the junction's stability. I want its absolute breaking point before our next move."
Kord, a man whose loyalty was purchased but whose competence was genuine, didn't flinch. He knew the price of this work. "The junction held, but the strain was… visible. We're pushing the very definition of 'stable,'" he said, his own voice calm, a counterpoint to Hamus's ruinous rasp.
"Definitions are for scholars. We require results," Hamus countered, but it was without heat. Kord was one of the few who didn't waste his time with obsequiousness. "Run more tests. Get assistants to improve the junction's stability. I want its absolute breaking point quantified before our next move. Not a theoretical limit. The practical one."
Kord nodded, already mentally allocating resources. "The new batch of Sundered will be ready for integration by dawn. They'll provide the stress test you need." He paused, then added with a deliberate neutrality that bordered on insubordination, "The Bemoaner was looking for you. He seemed… agitated."
Hamus waved a gnarled hand in a crooked, dismissive gesture. He could not care about the man. Shortly after, a tug on his consciousness drew his attention to a communication crystal that was flashing with a cold blue light.
"A gathering of the greedy," a voice murmured from behind him. "Seems we have a meeting."
The man's habit of standing too close had once prompted Hamus to inform him he did not "swing that way." That day, the Bemoaner had been treated to the rare spectacle of something as hideous as Hamus experiencing acute embarrassment.
"You are welcome to wait," Hamus replied, his rasp a clear challenge. He was notorious for his aloofness, his mind a fortress concerned only with the mechanics of power and the raw material of war.
The Bemoaner simply shrugged, his green colored robes shifting. "The scent of ambition is thicker here than the rot of your minions, Hamus. I'll take the stench of your apartment over this." He turned and melted into the gloom of the vault.
Hamus, failing to register the subtle dissonance in his comrade's tone, simply processed the fact that he was alone.
When all was done, he headed home to prepare for the meeting. The path from the Control Vault wove through the heart of the rebel encampment, a landscape of organized squalor and latent power. The air, once he stepped outside, was a palpable relief from the vault's sterility, but it was no less charged. It was thick with the smells of a military machine: woodsmoke, boiled leather, unwashed bodies, and the distant, coppery tang of the butcher's yard where provisions were prepared. Through this hung the faint, ever-present sweetness of loam and rot that was Hamus's own signature, a scent that made passing soldiers subtly avert their eyes and quicken their pace. He moved through it all like a ghost, a necessary evil they tolerated but did not acknowledge.
He did not trust himself near a bed for long. The miasma had drained him, and his body was a ledger of its cost. His lips were cracked—he never thought they could crack further, his veins screamed as if filled with fire, and his back groaned with every movement. He paid it no heed.
Entering his private quarters—which adjoined his laboratory—the air grew thicker, saturated with the sweet, fecund scent of patient madness. He allowed himself a moment to take it in. This was the smell of monstrous effort, of an army handcrafted to enable an empire to be challenged on two fronts.
From a closet on the wall, he selected a fresh set of clothes: a high-collared tunic of charcoal-grey wool, trousers of the same material, and a pair of boots whose leather, though worn, was meticulously clean and polished. He placed his selections on a simple wooden chair and headed to take a bath.
Scrubbing his hands mechanically, he felt the roughness of his blackened, thickened nails, the unnerving sag of his skin. This hideousness was the physical tax of his devotion to Biomancy. Once, he had been a man of charm and intellect, a lady-killer. Today, only the charm had vanished.
In a flare of irritation, he dried his hands on a thick, unused linen cloth. As he dressed in his selected clothes, his body welcomed the change of fabric, and a sliver of his immense fatigue receded.
Without a backward glance, he left for the meeting.
The conference room was a study in severe power, dominated by a table of polished black granite. Five members were already seated, including the ascetic woman who led their strategic direction, and a man whose purpose Hamus had never quite discerned. Hamus took his seat, his crooked fingers placing a battle assessment slate in the center. The attention in the room was immediate, silent, and professionally focused.
"The probe went well," Hamus began, his voice rasping. "Their Battlemages were spread too thin, and their Swordsmen relied on bestial instinct; it made them deadlier, sure, but predictable." He deliberately omitted the Empire's Arcanists, knowing his partial findings would provoke the discussion he wanted.
The ascetic woman raised a manicured finger, her gaze cold. "The casualty rate for your minions was unacceptable. The cost for a data acquisition run was too high. We lost a Battlemage, and none of your creations returned. We need those numbers for the next phase."
Hamus's facial muscles tightened into a terrifying grimace; one truly saw his ugliness only when he lost control, a faint violet shade tinting his eyes. "Do not point at me," he retorted, the flat rasp barely containing his anger. "I would have disposed of them regardless, given that I no longer have the time to bring their intelligence to standard. Also, that was a personal side project, funded from my own resources. It was the Mages who decided to tag along."
He concluded by flashing a look at the Bemoaner, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Quintus is consolidating," the mysterious man spoke, shifting the tension. "I can confirm the Empire now knows we control the Ley-line nexus near Aethelgard. If he is deploying Battlemages and Arcanists to the Argent Wall, then the grand assault is necessary. So, I ask again, why waste resources on 'disruption' in the Valleys?"
The ascetic woman leaned forward, her voice a blade. "Because the greed of men will always override their strategic sense. Quintus has the vision to see the whole organism. But Theron, who is already out of his depth, only seeks to maintain his political standing. He lacks the clear-headedness to endure a protracted siege, and cannot afford its price."
She tapped a polished finger on the granite. "Our disruption forced him to fight outside the gates, where Hamus successfully mapped their weaknesses. Now, we wait." A cold smile touched her lips. "The enemy prepares for a long siege. We will confirm that illusion, pulling our punches, conserving our strength, until the Baron panics. The moment he orders a frontal assault to save his pride, we exploit the nexus and collapse the Argent Wall on his head."
Hamus gave a single, satisfied nod. His analysis—that the Empire's mighty military machine was screaming with rust and incompetence—had been validated. The rebellion did not need an overwhelming force.
The mysterious man spoke into the settling silence, his voice now filled with certainty. "As we confirm the illusion of a siege and prepare to exploit Theron's command... I also bring news. There is the beating of war drums in the Sun-Touched Plains."