“Value is not inherent. It is assigned. If a man cannot pay for protection, he is not worth protecting. If a machine cannot serve, it is scrap. If a territory cannot sustain itself, it should be repurposed or abandoned. This is not cruelty, it is efficiency. The Cenotaphs are not relics, they are assets, so treat them as such. Should a non-sanctioned party possess Golden Cog-manufactured Colossi, they must be reported, audited, and, if necessary, reclaimed.” -Excerpt from a Golden Cog merchant-covenant ledger, ledger code 331-B / Section: Property Management & Battlefield Liabilities

  The depot had a small crooked sign I failed to notice before, and a quiet halo of lamplight bleeding out across the cobbles. The air was cooling fast as dusk had already settled, and the warmth of the day was devoured by the stone.

  The leg was in a far more ceremonious display than I had thought from outside the shop. Three meters of aged godshell plating, still bearing the sigil of the Ashen Crown, worn smooth with time, but intact. It looked like it hadn’t moved in years, mounted to a polished brace and held upright by care and reverence more than design. It was honestly an exceptional piece, even in its current state. Thankfully it was also a left leg, a perfect match for Portem's replacement.

  I paused at the edge of the light. “Portem,” I whispered. “That what I think it is?”

  “It is. A real, bona fide, Warborn series-III. Fit most likely won’t be perfect, but it’s better than anything we’ve scavenged in years. We can make it work.”

  “Of course we can,” I muttered. “Just need to convince a stranger to give me his most prized possession for free, given our lack of viable money.”

  “You forget the region you’re in.”

  “…What?”

  “They revere Knights here, Riven.”

  I looked at the leg again, then down at my jacket, torn, stained, still dusted but a little cleaner of blood.

  “I don’t think I can exactly pass as a Knight.”

  “You’re piloting me, a Godshell. Though in Ashen Crown the proper term is Ironsaint.” Portem corrected smoothly. “That’s all that matters.”

  I exhaled through my nose and stepped inside. The shop was smaller than I expected, just one main chamber lined with shelving units and scattered parts, the kind of cluttered layout only a real Ironwright would understand. Grease-stained tables, rows of diagnostic readers, some half-disassembled. The ceiling was low, but vaulted with supporting beams carved to resemble chain-links.

  A bell chimed low as the door swung shut behind me. Nobody was at the counter, which was a little odd, but given the time of day I was one to talk. Pausing for a moment I could hear it, metalwork from the back. Hammer to steel, a slow, focused rhythm.

  I moved toward the front display, let my eyes drift across racks of stripped actuators, plated spine cores, even a few low-grade Crown limbs built for prosthetics or exosuits. Old parts, but clean, obviously loved and well crafted. Someone here knew what they were doing.

  Portem’s voice hissed softly in my ear. “Introduce yourself. Title first.”

  I resisted the urge to groan. Heavy footsteps approached from the rear. A figure appeared in the doorway, broad across the chest, middle-aged by the look of the silver at his temples, still wiping grease from his gauntlets with a cloth. His goggles hung around his neck like a priest’s pendant.

  He froze the moment he saw me.

  His eyes dropped to the cloak, beaten and bloodied, and back to my harrowed face. I squared my shoulders and tried to speak like someone with a reason to be feared.

  “My name is Riven Holt,” I said. “Knight of the Crown.”

  The silence lasted exactly three seconds before the smith bowed. Not just a nod, he dipped forward in full, arms tight to his sides, palms up, head lowered with the kind of deference usually reserved for guild masters or nobles. "My Lord Knight,” he breathed. “It is an honor.”

  I blinked, taking a moment. “Right.”

  “I-I didn’t think we still had active patrols out this far south,” he said, straightening. “The last Ironsaint to pass through here was during the Coil Reclamations. My great-uncle had the honor to serve in his care. Said the wind itself shifted when the saint’s foot touched the stone.”

  “Ah,” I managed. “That sounds… like something they’d do.” Portem was silent in my ear, but I could feel his restraint. Probably watching me flail was more enjoyable than combat footage right now.

  “You’re here for the leg, aren’t you?” the smith asked, eyes lighting up. “Of course you are. It would be my honor to donate it back to active service. It belonged to Ser Carlen Vash, Iron of Sable Ward. My family kept it since his fall at Glenvire.”

  I looked toward the door, toward the limb still resting in its frame. “It’s compatible?” he asked eagerly. “Your saint, is it a Warborn class?”

  “Yes,” I said, a little too fast. “Well. Warborn-variant. He’s… customized.”

  The smith didn’t seem to notice the slip. He was already moving toward the leg, unclasping the display brace and motioning for me to follow.

  “You have no idea how rare of an occasion this is,” he said. “I used to dream about working on one. A real Ironsaint. Here no less, now, in my workshop, under your service, Saints above. Come, come, we’ll move it to the courtyard.”

  “I—appreciate it,” I said, stunned at how easy it was going.

  No money demanded, no proof of knighthood, he was swift to service. As he left the room, somehow managing to haul the leg by himself to a dolly nearby. After he promptly left the room in a fervor Portem finally spoke. “Remind me to never let you act. Ever again.”

  “Shut up,” I whispered behind a cough.

  The walk back to the ship felt longer than it should’ve. The cobbled streets of Farsmoke had become maroon under the last of the orange sky, the sun already set, and lanterns flickered to life one by one as I passed, mounted in stone cradles, oil-fed and soft with amber light. The town was quiet still. Just a few shuttered windows and a handful of shadows moving behind the glass.

  I thumbed the wrist-link once I was clear of the depot and alone again beneath the shadow of a leaning chimney.

  “Hey,” I muttered.

  “Still here,” Portem answered, calm but not cold.

  I took a breath. “About earlier,” I said. “Back when we docked... I wasn’t exactly... kind. I was stressed. You knew that. You let me have it anyway. And I just…” I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”

  There was another pause, longer this time. Portem gave a rather soft response: “Accepted.”

  The word landed heavier than expected. I kept walking, my pace didn’t change, but something loosened in my chest. Portem’s voice came back again.

  “You didn’t have to say that.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “... then thank you.”

  Another silence. Not quite uncomfortable, just the kind that stretches between people who’ve seen each other at their worst and know it’s not enough to truly sour things.

  I cleared the last ridge and saw the Wakesong’s silhouette against the dockline, still locked down and sealed tight. The port beacon pulsed twice as I approached.

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  I stepped up into Portem’s cradle, one boot at a time, bracing a hand on the side rail as the old frame hissed around me. The steplatch clicked behind my heel. There was no more gantry as Portem had already been unhooked, already alive and with enough charge to move. The cockpit greeted him with its usual stuffiness, a mix of warm brass, old leather, and that faint burnt smell that probably wasn’t from anything important given how long it had lingered.

  I ducked into the cavity as it sealed around me, the metal splitting forward and folding closed. The locking teeth clunked into place like a beast swallowing its prey. Inside was tight, barely wide enough for a full twist of the shoulder. Tubing ran like exposed veins across the bulkheads, wrapped in copper and patched over with cloth insulation. A few bits of old-world conduit still flickered under the seams, pulsing dimly, unreadable, but stable.

  Everything in here had been adjusted, rebuilt, or repurposed by my own hand. Not all of it was clean work, but it held well enough. I padded the left elbow rail with torn seat foam from an old tramcar. The right side had a makeshift holster screwed directly into the wall. A cracked thermometer dangled from a bit of twine near the upper vent, not because I trusted it, but because it helped me guess when Portem was close to overheating.

  “Beta,” I said, flicking a switch, “fully lock Wakesong behind me and ping if someone touches her.” A double-chirp from the embedded comms confirmed the command.

  The frame gave a soft jolt as power shifted, compensating for his weight. Gauges around the console flared, some proper, some stitched together with scrap circuitboards and borrowed readouts. One flashed orange and stayed there. Riven hit it with the flat of his palm until it went green.

  "You still seem a bit off put with how... eccentric the smith was”

  “Any more of that and I might actually become holy now. But yeah, it was certainly something, but if we can get the leg... I'll do what I must”

  “Don't let your thoughts drift too far, Riven, you are deeply unholy." He hung on the word melodramatically. "But I’ll take the leg.” I grinned at his response.

  The clamps of the door released with a hiss as the loading ramp unfurled into the stone like a tongue. The Wakesong groaned once in protest, as if offended at being asked to open her mouth again so soon. I tapped the control panel. “Ready?”

  His voice buzzed throughout the inside of the chassis. “You’re really going to make me walk with only one working arm and a bolted brace leg?”

  “Not the weirdest, or meanest thing I've done.”

  “Fine. But if I fall off of the islands, I expect you to know I'm taking you with me.” I chuckled as I pushed forward.

  As he began to move it was slow, like something uncoiling after a decade in storage. The patched leg brace flexed under weight and held. His left arm dragged behind slightly from the rigging, but his head turned smoothly, scanning the dark port. There was a loud clicking noise as from his shoulders popped out two floodlights to illuminate in front of him.

  The return trip took twice as long, but the silence of the town filled the space between our steps. Halfway back, I spoke again.

  “You know, speaking of the smith, what do you think he's up to?”

  “Most likely filling an order I'd think. But it was after dusk." Portem also seemed intrigued by it.

  “Not normal, is it?”

  “No. Now that I reflect on it. Especially not with no clients waiting. He stopped the second we entered. Picked it back up after we left.”

  “Think he’s hiding something?” I asked with some nervousness in my voice.

  “I think he’s either obsessed or scared. Maybe both.”

  The courtyard behind the smithy opened with the heavy clatter of an iron bolt, and the door creaked inward like it had to think about letting us through. The smith—who still hadn’t given a name—led us through with a quiet urgency, barely able to keep his hands from gesturing at everything around him. Like he was walking an idol through his garden of prayers. And in a way… he was.

  Portem continued to move, slow but upright, his damaged frame limping just slightly from the temporary brace I’d welded. His blue tracer lines pulsed faintly in the gloom, just enough to draw the eye in the dark, but not enough to give away the real weight of the machine behind them.

  The courtyard was… beautiful, in the kind of way only Ironwrights or madmen could appreciate. Scrap sculptures stood in carefully placed clusters across the worktables and selves, half a dozen miniature Ironsaints carved from old pipe fittings, bent tin, and repurposed rail coils. Some stood in proud battle-poses. Others knelt, arms open, heads bowed. I spotted one perched on a pillar like a gargoyle, wings made of fan blades ready to swoop down to deliver zealous justice. Interspersed were things of finer make like candleholders, a teaset, doorknobs carved with Crown-borne sigils, and the occasional tool or fitting that had been rendered too delicate to serve anything practical. A shrine of skill and obsession.

  The gantry was already waiting at the far wall, an older frame, three-limbed with manual locks, but sturdy enough to hold Portem securely. A thick chain looped down from the side rail, already slung open to brace the new leg.

  “This is…” I said, pausing. “A lot.”

  The smith beamed. “I built them over the years. Started when I was a boy. First model was a Type-IV I saw in a worn manual, Ironsaint of the Pyre-Fleet. Not very accurate, mind you. The legs were too long and the armor too round, but the soul of it was there. That’s what matters most."

  I kept still and Portem said nothing. The smith waved us toward the gantry. “You can mount him here. I reinforced the locks last year for a caravan that passed through with some old parts of a smaller mech, they needed to deconstruct it. Though they didn’t want to scrap it, said it reminded them of home. Yours looks…” He trailed off as Portem stepped forward into the glow of the courtyard lanterns.

  “…Magnificent,” he gave a shallow breath. “Even when wounded.”

  I exited Portem as he raised one arm and braced himself against the rig. The lock clamps adjusted with a groan, then clicked into place. His frame shifted slightly, knees flexed, shoulders squared, like a knight settling before a ceremony.

  The smith blinked, then turned to me. “I’ll begin calibration. It'll take an hour or two to prepare the limb for final integration.”

  “Of course,” I said, more softly than I expected.

  The smith hesitated. “Would it be… presumptuous to ask?”

  I tilted my head. “Ask what?”

  He swallowed, nervous for the first time.

  “If I might witness the sanctification.”

  “The…?”

  “Of the limb,” he added quickly. “Before it’s mounted, the blessings you place upon it. I swear won’t interfere, I’d just… I’ve never seen it before. Not for a true Ironsaint, and not from a Knight.”

  I cleared my throat with some awkwardness. “It’s… private,” I said carefully. “A silent rite. Internal.”

  The smith nodded, face flushed with embarrassment. “Of course. Forgive me, I overstepped.”

  “No harm done.” I waved him off and he bowed again before stepping aside, busying himself with the limb’s joint casing, muttering part numbers and alloy types under his breath.

  I moved closer to Portem, eyes flicking across the courtyard. I lingered on the statues. “He really believes in it,” I whispered.

  “They have to. What else do they have?” Portem responded through Beta. I turned back and watched the smith work, hands trembling slightly as he passed over the holy relic his family had preserved for decades.

  “Well, whatever they have, he’s good,” I said. “You saw the welds.”

  “He’s a craftsman. Like you.”

  I crossed my arms. “I don’t make saints.”

  “No. But you can certainly try.” That one hit harder than I expected.

  The light flickered gently overhead as the smith raised the leg into the air.

  The night deepened. The sky above Farsmoke had faded into a warm blue-black, thick with the stillness of towns that perhaps never truly woke from their stupor. No patrols passed, no voices echoed. Just the sound of distant crickets in the ivy-strewn alleys and the soft tap of tools against metal. We worked in relative silence.

  The smith and I moved around Portem like old gears fitting together, rare for two Ironwrights who’d never spoken more than a dozen real words to each other. We passed tools without asking, shared nods in place of instructions. He’d clear a casing while I re-threaded the mount cabling. I’d unbolt the temporary rig while he keyed the torque settings into a hand-held reader. There was a comforting rhythm to it, akin to dancing.

  After a few hours, the Series-III joint locked into place with a sharp click, and Portem exhaled through his pressure valve, just a controlled but shrill whistle. With some minor adjustments the new leg was a perfect fit.

  His posture shifted slightly as we unlatched him. The smith had cleaned the leg thoroughly, stripped the oxidation with a soft acid bath, sanded the worst of the battle scoring away by hand. A new coat of finish had been laid in overlapping strokes of silverplate and brass pigment, careful not to make it gleam. It wasn’t meant to be a trophy, it was meant to belong. When the final clasp settled in, the limb looked like it had always been part of Portem.

  The smith stepped back first. His hands were blackened with oil. His cheeks flushed with the slow, reverent heat of hard work done well. He looked at Portem, at his hand in the creation, now whole, and didn’t say a word. I didn’t either. The midnight breeze passed through the courtyard gently. The crickets still chirped, slow and even.

  Portem flexed the new leg once, foot settling on the stone with weight that felt final. Then he rotated the hip joint, bent at the knee, and lowered himself into a balanced kneel. A perfect movement. Seamless. As if the leg had never been missing.

  I exhaled. “Arm next,” I said quietly. The smith nodded, already wiping down the gauntlet frame. The brace I’d welded while on the Wakesong was functional, but clumsy. Ugly work. I knew it when I did it. But that’s what triage looked like. Tonight, we tore it away, replaced the lines properly, resealed the hydraulic casing, and re-synced the joint coupling to Portem’s primary rotational spine. By the time we were finished, he could lift the arm without the frame sagging. The fingers curled and uncurled with zero lag. The smith stepped back with a sense of finality as Portem stood. He didn't wobble or groan. He stood complete, without issue.

  All eight meters of him, silver and brass like dusk-washed armor, framed by the quiet lamps of a courtyard too small for gods but just big enough for faith. I wiped my hands on a rag and let my head tilt back to look at him. The smith finally broke the silence.

  “…Beautiful.”

  I didn’t argue as I looked up at Portem and basked in the glory. It truly was.