The war was over, but the monument to it would last forever.
Three months had passed since the surrender of the Iron Sultanate, and in that time, the landscape of the southern border had been transformed. The Great Engine—the city-sized leviathan that had once threatened to consume the world—no longer moved. Its massive treads, which had crushed forests and hills, were now sunk deep into the earth, fused with the bedrock by the tectonic settling of its immense weight.
It was no longer a machine of conquest. It was Fortress Agony.
Kael Light stood on the upper observation deck of the fortress, looking out over the misty borderlands. The wind here was fierce, howling through the dormant smokestacks that stood like blackened fingers against the grey sky.
Below him, the new garrison of New Aethelgard was alive with activity. The "Army of the Broken" had not disbanded; they had dug in.
Commander Thorne had established a permanent base in the shadow of the Engine. Iron-Guard watchtowers lined the perimeter, their searchlights sweeping the southern horizon every night. Radiant Cannons, stripped from the city walls and upgraded by Ignis, were mounted on the Engine's shoulders, pointing permanently toward the Sultanate lands.
And prowling the undercarriage, amidst the gears the size of houses, were the Moon-Scarred. Garret's pack had made the belly of the beast their den. They were the silent guardians, the monsters who ensured that no one would ever sneak into the Engine to wake it up again.
"It casts a long shadow, Saint," a voice rasped behind him.
Kael turned. Ignis was standing there, his mechanical spider-legs adjusting to the slope of the deck. The Artificer was holding a flat, velvet-covered box.
"It's supposed to," Kael said, looking back at the black metal mountain. "It is the gravestone of the old age. As long as it stands, the Sultanate will remember that their god died here."
"And what of our god?" Ignis asked, tapping the box with a brass finger. "Is he ready to die today?"
Kael looked at the box. He felt a phantom ache in his chest—not the "Stable Agony," but a deeper, colder dread.
"The Coronation is in three hours," Kael said. "Is it finished?"
"It is," Ignis said. He opened the box.
Inside lay a mask.
It was not gold. It was not jeweled. It was forged from pure, matte-black Soul-Steel, salvaged from the very heart of the Great Engine. It was featureless, save for two narrow slits for the eyes and a rigid, angular jawline. It was a face of absolute neutrality. A face that could not smile, could not weep, and could not age.
"It is lined with lead and mana-dampening silk," Ignis explained quietly. "It will muffle your aura. To the people, you will feel less like a nuclear reactor and more like a man. And... it will hide the years."
"Or the lack of them," Kael whispered.
He reached out and touched the cold metal. He was nineteen years old. In ten years, he would be nineteen. In thirty years, he would be nineteen. A King could not be a boy forever. If his people saw that he never changed, that he never withered under the weight of the crown, they would eventually stop loving him and start fearing him. They would realize he was not a chosen ruler, but a biological error.
"The Iron King," Kael murmured. "That is what they will call me."
"It is better than the Monster," Ignis said. "Put it on, Kael. Once the crown touches your head today, Kael Light ceases to exist publicly. Only the King remains."
Kael took the mask. He lifted it to his face. The metal smelled of ozone and dried blood—the scent of the Engine it was born from.
He pressed it against his skin.
The latches clicked shut behind his head with a sound like a prison door locking. The world narrowed to the two slits. His breath sounded loud and metallic in his own ears.
"How do I look?" Kael asked, his voice distorted, deeper and hollower.
Ignis stared at him with his single organic eye. He didn't smile. He bowed low, his gears whirring.
"You look eternal, Your Majesty."
The return to the Capital was a somber procession.
Kael did not ride in a carriage. He rode atop a new steam-tank, painted in the teal and gold of the dawn, flanked by the elite Moon-Scarred. The citizens of New Aethelgard lined the streets, thousands of them, holding lanterns even though it was midday.
They cheered, but it was a disciplined cheer. They had seen the war. They had seen the prisoners return from the belly of the Engine. They knew the cost of their peace.
The tank stopped at the base of the Royal Spire. The steps were lined with the Iron-Guard, standing rigid in their polished black armor.
Waiting at the top of the stairs, holding the Crown of the Dawn, was Pip.
The Lord Keeper looked older today. The weight of the impending ceremony seemed to press down on his frail shoulders. Beside him stood Martha, leaning on her cane, and Thorne, seated in his wheelchair.
They were the pillars of the past. And walking up the stairs toward them was the pillar of the future.
Kael ascended. The heavy grey cloak he wore dragged on the marble. The Iron Mask caught the sunlight and swallowed it, reflecting nothing.
When he reached the top, the crowd below fell silent. The silence rippled out from the plaza, through the streets, all the way to the harbor.
Pip looked at the mask. He flinched, just for a second. He looked for the eyes of the boy he had met in the slums, the boy who had shared a piece of bread with him. He saw only the iridescent grey glow behind the iron slits.
"You really did it," Pip whispered, his voice trembling so only Kael could hear. "You really hid him away."
"The boy couldn't rule, Pip," Kael's distorted voice replied. "The boy just wanted to go fishing."
Pip swallowed hard. He raised the crown. It was a simple band of white gold, set with a single shard of the crystal from the Prime Cradle—a reminder of the light they had liberated.
"Citizens of New Aethelgard!" Pip's voice boomed, amplified by the Spire's acoustics. "We stand today not in the shadow of the Academy, but in the light of our own making! We survived the Rot! We survived the Cold! We survived the Engine!"
A roar of approval went up from the crowd.
"But survival is not enough!" Pip continued. "We need a guardian! We need a watchman who does not sleep! We need a King who knows the darkness so he can hold the dawn!"
Pip turned to Kael. He lowered the crown slowly.
"Do you, Kael Light, swear to hold the line?" Pip asked, the ritual words heavy with double meaning. "Do you swear to break so that we may heal?"
"I swear," Kael said. The "Stable Agony" in his chest spiked—thud-crack—a rib fracturing in solidarity with the vow.
Pip placed the crown on Kael's head. The gold rested on the black iron of the mask.
"Then rise," Pip declared. "Rise, King Kael the First. The Iron King of the Dawn!"
Kael turned to face his people. He raised his hand, the 'Reforged Sun' ring glinting.
The crowd erupted. It was a sound of primal relief. They had a King. They had a monster of their own to scare away the monsters in the dark.
But amidst the cheering, two figures stood on the balcony above, watching silently.
Castor and Pollux.
The Twins were dressed in formal robes of white silk, their glowing auras dimmed by the dampening fields of the Spire. They looked down at the masked figure of their guardian.
"He looks scary," Pollux whispered, clutching the railing. "Like the Lich King."
"No," Castor said, his eyes burning with a fierce, protective golden light. "He looks lonely. He put a wall between him and them, Pollux. He's hiding."
"Hiding from what?"
"From love," Castor said, wise beyond his years. "Because if they love him, they'll look too close. And if they look too close... they'll see that he stopped being human a long time ago."
The Coronation Feast was held in the Great Hall of the Spire. It was a lavish affair, with tables groaning under the weight of roast boar, star-mint wine, and bread from the northern harvest. The nobility of the new age—the engineers of House Ignis, the captains of House Thorne, the healers of House Lyra—mingled with the ambassadors from the smaller neighboring states.
Kael sat at the High Table. He did not eat. He could not eat through the mask. He sat like a statue of judgment, watching the revelry.
Ambassador Voros of the Sanguine Courts approached the dais. The vampire looked healthy, his skin flushed with the weekly tithe of Kael's blood.
"Your Majesty," Voros bowed, swirling a goblet of red liquid. "A magnificent ceremony. The mask... a bold fashion choice. Very avant-garde."
"It is not fashion, Voros," Kael rumbled. "It is a containment vessel."
"Of course," Voros smiled, flashing a fang. "We monsters must always contain ourselves, lest we frighten the food. But tell me, Iron King... does the mask chafe? Or does it feel like the only honest thing you're wearing?"
"Careful, Leech," Garret growled from Kael's shadow. The werewolf was dressed in a formal tunic that looked ready to burst at the seams. "The King is not in the mood for riddles."
"I am merely observing," Voros said, backing away. "Time is a cruel master, King Kael. I have watched empires rise and fall. They all start with a golden crown and end with an iron mask. I wonder... which stage are we in?"
"We are in the stage where I am watching you," Kael said coldly.
Voros bowed again and vanished into the crowd.
Kael stood up. The noise of the feast was suddenly overwhelming. The laughter, the music, the clinking of glasses—it all grated against the "Stable Agony" that was screaming in his marrow.
"I am retiring," Kael said to Pip.
"But the speeches..." Pip started.
"Make them for me," Kael said. "Tell them I am vigilant."
He walked out of the hall, his cape billowing. The guards snapped to attention as he passed, their eyes fixed on the black iron face. They didn't look him in the eye anymore. They looked at the mask.
He took the private lift to the pinnacle of the Spire. He stepped out onto the highest balcony, where the wind was cold and the noise of the city was just a distant hum.
He reached up to the latches behind his head. He hesitated.
If he took it off, he could breathe. He could feel the wind on his face.
But if he took it off, he broke the illusion.
KEEP IT ON, the God whispered. The voice was heavy, languid, like a serpent coiled around his spine. IT SUITS US, KAEL. THE FACE IS A LIE. THE BOY DIED IN THE JUNGLE. THIS IRON... THIS IS THE TRUTH. WE ARE A MACHINE OF AGONY. AND MACHINES DO NOT HAVE FACES.
"I am not a machine," Kael whispered.
ARE YOU? YOU DO NOT EAT. YOU DO NOT SLEEP. YOU DO NOT AGE. YOU BREAK AND YOU FIX. THAT IS A PISTON, KAEL. THAT IS A GEAR. VALERIAN BUILT AN ENGINE OF IRON; YOU BUILT AN ENGINE OF MEAT. BUT THE FUNCTION IS THE SAME.
Kael dropped his hands. He didn't take off the mask.
He walked to the edge of the balcony and looked South.
Miles away, the silhouette of Fortress Agony was visible against the moonlit sky. It was dark, silent, and imposing. A dead god guarding a living city.
And inside the city, the lights of the Radiant Grid twinkled like fallen stars. Kael traced the lines of the streets he had paved, the homes he had rebuilt, the walls he had defended.
He had won. He was the King. He was the most powerful being on the continent.
And he had never been more alone.
Suddenly, the glass door behind him slid open.
Kael turned, his hand instinctively going to his sword.
It was Martha.
She walked slowly, leaning on her cane. She wore a simple grey dress, not the finery of the feast. She stopped a few feet away, looking up at the mask.
"You didn't eat," she said softly.
"I wasn't hungry," Kael replied.
"You're always hungry, Kael," she said. "The curse eats calories faster than a furnace. You need to eat."
She pulled a wrapped bundle from her pocket. It was a simple loaf of bread and a piece of cheese.
"Take it off," she ordered.
"I can't," Kael said. "The King—"
"The King isn't here," Martha snapped, her voice cracking with the authority of the woman who had bandaged him when he was a nobody. "The boy I saved in the woods is here. Take. It. Off."
Kael hesitated. Then, slowly, he undid the latches. The mechanism clicked. He pulled the heavy Soul-Steel mask away from his face.
The cool night air hit his skin. He took a deep, shuddering breath.
Martha looked at him. She saw the nineteen-year-old face. She saw the iridescent eyes that wept violet tears. She saw the exhaustion that etched every line of his expression, even if his skin remained smooth.
She didn't recoil. She reached out and touched his cheek. Her hand was warm, wrinkled, and rough with age.
"Oh, Kael," she whispered, tears forming in her eyes. "You're still just a baby."
"I'm thirty-nine, Martha," Kael said, leaning into her hand.
"No," she shook her head. "You stopped the clock, but you didn't stop the pain. Look at you. You're breaking apart inside, aren't you?"
"Every second," Kael admitted. "It's getting louder. The God... he's getting heavier."
"Then let us carry it for a minute," Martha said. She handed him the bread. "Eat. Before you disappear completely behind that iron."
Kael took the bread. He ate. It tasted like ash in his mouth, but he swallowed it.
They stood there for a long time in silence, the old woman and the young King.
"Martha," Kael said after a while. "I'm going to have to leave. Someday."
"I know," she said, looking out at the city. "We all know, Kael. Pip knows. Ignis knows. Even the Twins know."
"You do?"
"We see you," she said. "We see you trying to stand still while the world spins. You can't do it forever. One day, the spin will tear you apart."
"I have to secure the kingdom first," Kael said, putting the mask back on. The latches clicked. The Iron King returned. "I have to make sure you're safe."
"We will never be safe," Martha said, turning to leave. "But we will be free. And that is what you gave us."
She walked back inside, leaving him alone with the God and the wind.
Kael looked at his reflection in the dark glass of the balcony door. The mask stared back—cold, impassive, eternal.
"Secure the kingdom," Kael repeated to himself. "Secure the line."
He thought of the negotiations Pip had mentioned earlier that week. The Kingdom of the Frost Peaks—the remnants of the northern tribes who had rejected the Lich Lords—were reaching out. They were afraid of New Aethelgard. They wanted an alliance.
They had a Princess. Isolde.
A political marriage. A union of Fire and Ice. It would secure the northern border forever. It would give the kingdom an heir who wasn't a monster.
"An heir," Kael whispered.
A CHILD, the God hissed, suddenly interested. A VESSEL OF YOUR BLOOD, BUT WITHOUT THE VOID? INTERESTING. IT WOULD BE... POTENT.
"I won't let you touch him," Kael snarled internally.
THEN YOU BETTER LEAVE BEFORE HE IS BORN, KAEL. BECAUSE I AM ALWAYS HUNGRY.
Kael gripped the railing until the Soul-Steel groaned under his hand.
He would marry. He would produce an heir. He would build a dynasty that could stand without him.
And then, he would go to the Forbidden Continent and kill the thing that made him wear a mask.