The throne of bone and leather was cold, a stark contrast to the storm of thoughts raging in Damien's mind. The immediate crisis of the Muscle Maw was over, but Fred's report had introduced a new, more insidious problem. A body, especially the body of an Awakened, did not simply vanish from a sealed room.
He sat in the echoing silence of the command center, the rhythmic pounding from outside now replaced by the distant, orderly sounds of his new domain at work. He considered the facts with the cold precision he had been taught to apply to all complex problems. The idea of a corpse reanimating and walking away was the stuff of fantasy, an unacceptable, irrational variable. His mind, grounded in a lifetime of cause and effect, settled on the only plausible scenario that fit the evidence: human intervention.
A conspiracy. Bane had ruled for years. He would have had loyalists, fanatics who may have found a way to retrieve his body. This implied a sickness within the shelter's ranks, a hidden faction still loyal to the old regime. It was an internal threat that had to be assessed and neutralized. He would not show his hand, however. A direct accusation would cause panic and drive the conspirators deeper into hiding. His investigation would be cloaked in the guise of efficient leadership.
"Fred," Damien's voice broke the silence.
The guard snapped to attention. "Lord?"
"The battle has shown me our vulnerabilities and our strengths. I need a complete understanding of our operational capabilities. We will begin a full resource and capability assessment. I will personally visit every key facility and speak with its head. I want to know the status of every asset and every worker under my command. You will escort me. We begin at the workshops."
Their first stop was a cavernous chamber filled with the scent of ozone and hot metal. Jonas, the grizzled mechanic, was directing a team hoisting a salvaged metal plate into place, his gruff voice a familiar sound in the din of hammers and grinders. He stopped his work as Damien approached, wiping his greasy hands on an equally greasy rag.
"Lord," he said, his tone a simple acknowledgment of authority. He was a man who respected power, but worshipped function.
"Jonas," Damien began, his eyes scanning the workshop. "I am here to assess the readiness of your operation. Give me a report on your current projects and limitations."
"Limitations are always the same, Lord: good scrap and power," Jonas grunted, gesturing to a pile of twisted metal. "We make do. The Maw's carcass will give us some high-quality bone and sinew once Zola's girls are done with it. Right now, we're reinforcing the outer residential partitions. Standard work."
Damien walked over to a workbench where a young man was attempting to sharpen a large gear into a makeshift axe head. "Your process is inefficient," Damien stated, his voice calm but authoritative. The young man froze, terrified. Damien picked up a piece of charcoal. "You're grinding it cold. You need to heat the edge to a straw-yellow color before you quench it. It will double the durability." He sketched a quick diagram of a small, focused forge bellows on a piece of scrap plate. "Build this. It will improve the quality of all your bladed weapons."
Jonas stared at the diagram, his experienced eyes tracing the simple, elegant lines. He squinted, his practical mind seeing the genius in the design's efficiency. "Well I'll be damned... that... that would increase the heat draw by twenty percent, easy. Aye, Lord. I'll see to it." He looked at Damien with a new, grudging respect.
A valuable tool, Damien thought as they left the workshop. His mind is rigid, but his hands are brilliant. Loyal not to me, but to the challenge of his work. A predictable, manageable asset.
The tour continued to the tannery, a place defined by its sharp chemical stench and the unsettling sight of strange hides stretched on wooden frames. He saw the thick, gray hide of a Scrab-hog next to the pebbled, rock-like skin of a Stone-lizard. Zola, a hardened woman with scarred hands and eyes that had seen everything, gave a curt nod as he entered.
"Lord. Here to inspect the new hides?"
"I am here to inspect everything, Zola. That includes your people. Are they loyal?"
Zola let out a short, dry laugh, never taking her eyes off the hide she was methodically scraping with a sharp flensing knife. "Lord, people down here are loyal to one thing: a full belly and a wall between them and the things that scream in the dark. Bane provided that, after a fashion. Now you do." She finally looked up, her gaze direct and unflinching. "Keep the walls strong and the hunting parties successful, and the people will follow you to the pit itself. That's the only loyalty that matters down here."
Her loyalty is even simpler, Damien assessed as he walked away. It's a currency, exchanged for security. As long as I provide a stable system, her allegiance is assured. Another predictable variable.
The final stop on his audit was the Mender's Bay. The main chamber was a long room filled with cots, the air thick with the smell of Weeping Nettle alcohol and human pain. Elara met him at the entrance, her expression a perfect blend of professional concern and warm deference.
"Lord Damien," she said, her voice a low murmur. "I trust the shelter's recovery efforts meet with your approval."
"I am here to verify that myself, Elara. Show me your facility."
She led him past the main ward, providing a concise report on the few fighters still recovering. Then she guided him toward a more private area in the back, her personal office and alchemy station, a room filled with clay pots of labeled herbs and glass vials of colorful distillations. The air here was cleaner, scented with something aromatic and calming.
"I thought you might want to discuss the condition of our more... unique assets in private," she said smoothly. Through a doorway, he could see Leah lying on a cot, her eyes open and watching him with a cold, unreadable expression. Near her, the three other women from his capture group were quietly mending clothes, their hands busy but their eyes following his every move.
"Leah's wounds are healing cleanly," Elara reported, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone as she moved to her station. "She has a fire in her. Such a will to live could be a great asset, if aimed in the right direction." She poured a small amount of a rich, amber liquid into a clean metal cup. "For you, my Lord. A more potent brew of the Weeping Nettle, from my private reserve. To maintain your... vitality."
She turned and offered him the cup. She stood close, her movements fluid and deliberate, her gaze holding his a moment longer than necessary. The offer was a gesture of service, a display of her unique value, and a subtle invitation all at once.
He accepted the cup, the warmth of her fingers brushing against his. "Your report is satisfactory, Elara," he said, his voice impassive, giving no reaction to the subtext of her performance. He took a sip. The liquid was fiery and potent.
She, however, is different, he thought as he left the Mender's Bay, the complex flavors of the brew still on his tongue. Not a simple tool like Jonas, nor a simple contract like Zola. She is a player. Her loyalty is to her own advancement, and she sees me as the new path to it. Dangerous, but her ambition makes her useful... and her usefulness makes her dangerous. An asset to be watched closely.
His tour was complete. The audit of his key personnel had yielded nothing. He had reinforced his authority, displayed his knowledge, and taken the measure of his lieutenants, but he had found no hint of a conspiracy, no trace of lingering loyalty to Bane that would explain a missing body. He was back to where he started, with an impossible problem and no rational solution.
He stood in the main chamber of the shelter, the low hum of daily life buzzing around him. His first, most logical hypothesis had been tested and had failed.
If the traitors weren't within, his mind concluded with cold certainty, then the threat must have come from without. The flaw was not in his people. It had to be in the fortress itself.