CHAPTER SEVEN
The Ashes of Failure
Edin's forests still smoked from the ambush. Charred trunks jutted into the sky like blackened spears. The cries of the dying haunted Belial's ears, even though the campfires of his people burned bright that night.
He walked alone among the wounded. Workers groaned, their bodies scorched, their limbs crushed by falling trees. Soldiers lay silent, their armor melted against their flesh.
Each death pressed on him like a stone. Sixty thousand had begun the voyage. Barely twelve remained. Now even those numbers dwindled, one skirmish at a time.
Belial clenched his fists. I swore I would save them. I swore I would not fail Akhan.
But the land itself resisted. The indigenes fought. And the gold; the lifeblood of Akromos, lay locked behind storms and fire.
For the first time since his brother's blessing, Belial felt doubt coil in his chest like a serpent.
The Whisper Returns
That night, as he lay in his tent, the whisper came.
Not through the Shamru; that tether was gone. This was deeper, older, seeded within him when Akhan had touched his brow.
You are not bound by loss, it murmured. You are creation. You are life unchained. Why mourn the fallen when you can replace them?
Belial sat up, sweat glistening on his skin. The voice pulsed like a heartbeat in his mind.
Remember what was given. Remember what you carry. Shape it. Command it. Call forth life, and it will obey.
He pressed his hands to his head. "No. Akhan warned me. Creation tempts. Creation corrupts."
The whisper only deepened. Or creation saves.
Experiment in the Shadows
Belial could not ignore it.
He slipped from camp at midnight, carrying only a shard of Shamru-crystal salvaged from the Krausnaut. It pulsed faintly, a fragment of memory, a key to power.
He walked to the shore of the inland sea. Moonlight shimmered across the water. The soil was soft, damp with life.
Belial knelt and pressed the crystal into the ground. He closed his eyes and let the whisper guide him.
He felt the soil's pulse, the hum of roots, the vibration of minerals. He reached deeper, into the golden veins that coiled beneath.
And then he commanded.
The planet stirred. Clay rose in twisting shapes. Water seeped into them. Light from the crystal flared, weaving through matter like veins.
Before his eyes, a form took shape: humanoid, but crude, its body molded of soil and stone, its eyes glowing faintly gold.
It stood, unsteady but alive.
Belial staggered back, breath shallow. "I… I made you."
The figure turned its head. Its voice was a hollow echo. "Command me."
The First Forged
By dawn, Belial had created three. They stood silent in his tent, their bodies coarse but functional, their minds blank slates.
His generals entered, summoned by curiosity. Their eyes widened at the sight.
"What are these things?" Saren demanded.
Belial's voice was steady, though inside his heart thundered. "They are workers. Forged from Edin's soil. They need no rest, no food. They obey. They do not fear."
One general; Maelor, eldest of the thirty stepped forward, his expression grim. "This is sorcery. Akhan forbade it for a reason. To play god is to invite ruin."
Belial's gaze sharpened. "To do nothing is to invite extinction. Akromos dies while we hesitate. With these, we can mine the green zone without risking our people. We can survive."
Maelor's jaw tightened. "Or we can damn ourselves."
The Test
Belial refused debate. He marched the three Forged to the edge of the green zone. The ground still hissed with heat, fissures glowing beneath.
"Dig," Belial commanded.
The Forged obeyed without question. Their hands plunged into molten soil. Steam seared their arms, but they did not flinch. They tore rocks apart, pried gold dust from the veins, and returned with their hands glittering.
Workers and soldiers watched in stunned silence.
"They cannot die," Belial said. "They cannot fear. This is the way forward."
Some cheered. Others crossed themselves in unease.
But the Forged kept working, tireless, expressionless, like extensions of Belial's will.
Udu's Horror
When Udu saw them, his face went pale.
"You shaped them from the land," he whispered. "You tore her flesh and forced her into forms. This is blasphemy."
Belial turned to him sharply. "This is survival. These beings bleed no family. They steal no sons. They cost no lives."
"They are not alive," Udu said, voice trembling. "They are mockeries. Hollow shells. And every one you make weakens the land further. Can you not feel it?"
Belial hesitated. In truth, he had felt something, a faint shudder in the soil, as if the ground recoiled. But he pushed it aside.
"Weakness is the price of life," he said coldly.
Udu shook his head. "You will doom us all."
The Divide Among Generals
The Forged multiplied. By week's end, Belial had shaped fifty. They labored in the green zone, pulling gold dust from veins that had burned living workers alive.
Saren watched with awe. "With a thousand of these, we could mine the planet bare."
Maelor, grim as ever, confronted Belial in council. "Every Forged you make unbalances the soil. The storms grow worse. The beasts come more often. Do you not see? You are not saving us. You are breaking the world beneath us."
Belial's eyes blazed. "The world resists because it fears us. But resistance bends. It will yield."
"Or it will kill us all," Maelor spat.
The council fractured. Half the generals swore to Belial's vision. Half whispered in doubt.
The Priest's Prophecy
The high priest summoned Belial once more. His voice was hoarse with age, but his eyes blazed brighter than fire.
"You are shaping monsters," he said through Udu. "You are not just taking from the land. You are twisting her bones. Do you think she will endure such insult? Do you think she will remain silent?"
Belial's patience snapped. "Your land is soil and stone. Soil and stone do not speak. Soil and stone do not decide. I decide. I shape. I command."
The priest rose, trembling with fury. "Then hear me, sky-voyager: the land will answer. She will break you, as she has broken others. And when she does, even your forged abominations will turn to dust."
Belial turned without bowing. His voice was steel. "Then let her try."
The Whisper Deepens
That night, as storms lashed Edin's shores, Belial returned to his tent. He stared at the Forged standing motionless in the dark. Their golden eyes flickered faintly.
The whisper filled his mind again.
You are no longer servant of Akromos. You are master of Edin. You are not savior. You are creator.
Belial closed his eyes, trembling. He thought of Akhan, of his vow to return. He thought of the Spirit Head's words: Your heart will decide.
And in that moment, Belial felt his heart shifting, further than ever from home.
He reached for more soil, more crystal, more power.
At dawn, a hundred Forged stood in formation before him, their bodies silent, their eyes glowing like embers. Workers stared in awe and fear. Generals whispered.
Belial raised his hand.
"You are my people now," he said. "Born not of womb or soil, but of will. With you, we will mine the gold. With you, we will build a new world. With you, we will live."
The Forged bowed as one.
And somewhere beneath the soil, deep within Edin's core, something stirred, something vast, something ancient, something that did not forgive.