The dawn over Drenmire was colorless.
The sun, strangled behind clouds of soot and ash, cast a pallid light upon the husk of the old glass foundry—a dead monument near the city's outer rim. Once a marvel of flame and mirrorwork, the structure now stood like a bleached skeleton: warped iron ribs, blackened chimneys, and broken stained-glass windows still clinging to rusted frames.
Fornos stood beneath one of them, coat fluttering, flanked by Park and Brassheart. The only sound was the soft grinding of broken crystal underfoot as the wind blew through the ruins.
"They'll come," Fornos said quietly.
Park didn't respond. He didn't have to.
Brassheart hummed once, then lowered into standby.
Moments later, the shadows moved.
From the ruined catwalks above, six figures descended—hooded, masked, their steps almost too quiet for stone. One of them—the same courier girl from last night—stood just a few paces ahead of the rest, her eyes fixed on Fornos with something between defiance and curiosity.
Then came the voice.
"You've made quite the mess, Dag."
Fornos didn't turn. "You must be Master Drellin."
From the rear of the group stepped a tall man cloaked in deep indigo, his mask formed from lacquered bone, gilded at the temples. He carried no weapon, but his hands glowed faintly with mana thread—weaving patterns that looked more like knots than spells.
Drellin gestured toward the courier girl. "She told us what you proposed. That if we meet, you'd hand over the final layers."
"I said I'd talk," Fornos corrected.
"You've endangered the Syndicate," Drellin replied. "Do you think we won't erase you for that?"
"You won't," Fornos said simply, "because I'm the only one in this city who still knows where the last layers are—and I already made three copies. One in the Drenmire Archive. One with a noble outside city walls. And the third?" He smiled, wicked and slight. "On the move."
The girl blinked.
Drellin's jaw clenched behind the mask.
"Empty threats," the Syndicate leader said.
Fornos stepped forward, holding out a single page.
"This isn't about threat. This is about leverage. You didn't kill Hal because he was dangerous. You killed him because he wouldn't sell. You fear what happens when communication becomes free. Unowned. Undefended."
The Syndicate members said nothing, but their stances shifted. A slight bend of knees. A subtle reach toward belts and threads.
Park slid one foot back. Brassheart's shoulder panel split slightly, revealing a dormant cannon coil.
"You think you're clever," Drellin said, voice cool. "But information isn't water. It must be filtered. Directed. Otherwise, it poisons."
"Funny," Fornos said. "That's what tyrants say before they start burning books."
He tossed the page toward the Syndicate's feet.
Drellin didn't pick it up.
"I'm going to publish the full blueprint in three days," Fornos said. "Unless you walk away. No assassins. No sabotage. No Syndicate hand in the engineering networks. You disappear. And the world gets a new voice."
"Do that," Drellin said, "and a hundred kingdoms will burn. Because you never controlled the weapon—you just unleashed it."
"Then let the kingdoms burn," Fornos said. "And let new ones rise with ears open."
The silence that followed wasn't still. It was volatile. The kind that feels like air caught fire, but forgot how to scream.
Then Drellin turned.
"Three days," he said.
The Syndicate vanished as quickly as they came, swallowed by wind and soot and shattered glass.
Fornos waited a full minute before exhaling.
"That went better than expected," he murmured.
Park shook his head and signed:
You are a lunatic.
"Strategically insane," Fornos corrected.
Later That Day – Drenmire Archive Tower
Fornos met Varn at the central hall, surrounded by towers of scrolls and relay beacons.
The old scholar looked like he hadn't slept, but his eyes sparked with something—hope, maybe. Or dread pretending to be hope.
"Did it work?" Varn asked.
Fornos dropped the lead-sealed container onto the table. "Here. All layers. Complete."
Varn stared.
"You're… giving it away?" he asked, stunned.
"No," Fornos said, "I'm distributing it."
Varn blinked. "What's the difference?"
"Ownership stays dead. Application lives." He smirked. "I'm spreading it to every neutral scriptorium and free-thought guild. They'll spend years trying to outbuild each other. The winner won't be the one with the most power—it'll be the one with the most reach."
Varn slowly sat.
"And the Syndicate?"
"They know they lost the first move," Fornos said. "They'll try again. But next time, it'll be out in the open."
He turned to Park.
"Send the message to Anvar and the other allies. It's time."
Park signed:
What should I tell them?
"Tell them the silence is over," Fornos said. "The world is about to start speaking again."
Later at evening – A Cliffside Outside Drenmire
Fornos stood looking over the sprawling hills.
A small relay node now stood on the ridge—his first distributed prototype, humming faintly with pulsing mana. The wind carried its signal like a whisper across stone and grass.
"Not bad," he muttered.
Park pointed up—a flock of messenger birds fleeing into the sky.
Brassheart stepped beside them, humming in low resonance.
The age of silence had ended.
The world would hear again.
And Fornos Dag had spoken first.