The Villain Who Seeks Joy-Chapter 85: The Heavy Load

The workshop was quiet, save for the rasp of a file on bone.

Mira held the Chimera’s glass plating under the magnifying lens. "It’s thick," she said. "Drilling mount holes will crack it."

"Don’t drill," I said. "Clamp. We build a cage around the plate, not through it."

I was working on the spine of the Centurion. It wasn’t a scavenged skeleton; it was a composite. Bear femurs for the core, reinforced with iron bands stripped from the old library crates. It was heavy, ugly, and dense.

Gareth tested the weight of a leg segment. He grunted. "This isn’t a summon. It’s a statue."

"It’s an anchor," I said. "The Hollow Lands have wind that strips bark off trees. Marrow is too light. Hollow is useless in a gale. We need something that sits."

"How do we carry it?" Pelham asked. He was packing crate straw into gaps to stop the rattling.

"We don’t carry it," I said. "It carries us."

I pointed to the schematic. The Centurion wasn’t just a warrior. In its dormant state, the rib cage expanded and locked flat.

"It’s a sled," Mira realized.

"It’s a sled," I confirmed. "We load the tents, the stove, and the food on the chassis. Marrow pulls. We push. When we hit the campsite, we unpack, flip the switch, and the sled stands up and holds a shield."

"Efficient," Mira said. She marked a cut line on the glass. "I like it."

We worked through the night. There was no time for sleep. The convoy left at dawn.

I tuned the hip joints with the last of our wax. I checked the rune-pathways on the skull—a simple, thick cranium meant to take a hammer blow.

I didn’t give it a voice. I didn’t give it a personality. The Centurion was a tool for a specific job: survival.

At fourth bell, Lyra came in. She wore a heavy wool coat and a scarf wrapped twice. Her breath misted in the workshop air.

"Wagons are loading," she said. "Pierce is checking kits. He’s failing anyone with cotton socks."

"We have wool," I said.

She looked at the pile of bone and glass on the bench. "Is that it?"

"That’s the sled," I said.

She touched the cold glass plating. "Chimera skin," she murmured. "Poetic."

"Practical," I said. "It turns magic. If we run into anything that spits fire, we hide behind this."

"Coffee," she said, handing me a flask. "Drink. You have circles under your eyes."

"I’m fine."

"Drink."

I drank. It was black and strong. It tasted like charcoal and energy.

"The Foundation teams are bringing carriages," Lyra said. "Heated. Enclosed. They’re treating this like a tour."

"Let them," I said. "Carriages break in the rough. Sleds slide."

We packed the kit. The Centurion folded down into a flat, heavy pallet. We lashed the stove—the one Mira and I made from the oil drum—to the center. We packed the flour sacks around it for insulation.

We dragged it out to the yard. Marrow stood waiting, breath ghosting from his nasal cavity. I harnessed him to the front. He took the weight without complaint.

The yard was a mess of activity. Students shivering, dropping bags, arguing over seats in the transport wagons.

Aldric Voss stood by a sleek black carriage with winter-grade wheels. He wore a fur coat that looked like it weighed more than he did.

"Valcrey," he called, seeing our sled. "Moving furniture?"

"Moving supplies," I said.

"We have a heater," he said, patting the carriage door. "And a chef."

"We have a stove," I said. "And shovels."

He laughed and climbed inside.

Seraphine was three wagons down. She wasn’t in a carriage. She stood by a standard transport wagon, checking the harness of the lead horse. She wore practical winter leathers, fur-lined but fitted for movement.

She saw me. Her eyes went to the sled, then to Marrow.

"Heavy," she said.

"Stable," I answered.

"The pass is drifted over," she said. "Wheels will struggle."

"That’s why we have runners," I said, pointing to the bone skids on the Centurion’s belly.

She nodded once. "Good luck, Armand."

"You too."

Pierce blew the horn. "Mount up! Column formation. Veyron, point. Valcrey, rear guard. Keep the stragglers moving."

"Rear guard," Gareth said. "We eat everyone’s dust."

"We eat everyone’s mistakes," I said. "It’s the most important job."

We moved out.

The journey to the Hollow Lands took two days of hard travel. As we climbed the elevation, the trees grew shorter and gnarled. The snow got deeper. The air got thin.

By the second afternoon, the carriages were struggling. Aldric’s sleek black transport slid into a ditch.

His team stood around it, arguing.

I signaled a halt. "Gareth. Dig."

We dug them out. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t look at Aldric. I just cleared the wheel, set the path, and waved them on.

Aldric didn’t say thank you. He just got back in and closed the door.

That was fine. The cold was teaching him a lesson my voice couldn’t.

We hit the border of the Hollow Lands at dusk. The sky was a bruised purple. The wind howled through the passes, carrying ice crystals that stung exposed skin.

"Camp!" Pierce shouted over the wind. "Designated zones! Set perimeter!"

The ground was frozen shale and ice. No trees. No cover. Just the wind, screaming down from the peaks.

"Zone C," Cael called, pointing to a flat ridge. "It’s exposed."

"We build cover," I said.

We dragged the Centurion sled to the center of our circle.

"Unpack," I ordered. "Gareth, Pelham—walls. Use the snow. Pack it hard. Mira, stove. Lyra, tents behind the wall."

I unhitched Marrow. "Guard."

Then I walked to the sled. I untied the lashings.

"Wake," I whispered.

I pulsed the current—heavy, deep. A flood, not a sip. This construct needed power to start.

The Centurion shuddered. The bone ribs unlocked and rotated. The spine clicked upright. The glass plating shifted from a flat deck to a tower shield locked onto a massive arm.

It stood up. Eight feet tall. Thick. Ugly.

It planted its feet—bear femurs—into the frozen ground and locked its knees.

"Windbreak," I said.

It spread its arms. The glass plates interlocked, forming a wall against the gale.

Behind it, the air went still.

Mira lit the stove. The heat stones glowed. The copper wire we’d scavenged carried the warmth into the tent floor.

Within twenty minutes, we had a hot meal and a windless pocket.

I looked over at the other camps. 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

Aldric’s team was struggling with a canvas tent that kept flapping away. Their carriage heater had failed—magic doesn’t like extreme cold if the relays aren’t insulated. They were huddled together, shivering.

Seraphine’s team had dug a pit. Smart. They were out of the wind, but they looked cold.

Cael’s team had built a snow wall, high and thick. Efficient.

Pierce walked the perimeter, checking wards. He stopped at our wall. He looked at the Centurion, standing like a statue of bone and glass, breaking the wind for us.

He looked at the stove. He looked at the soup Gareth was serving.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

"Functional," I said.

"Keep a watch," he said. "The cold isn’t the only thing out here."

"I know," I said. "Marrow is on point. Hollow is in the air."

He nodded and moved on.

I sat on a crate by the stove. Lyra handed me a bowl.

"It works," she said quietly. "The sled."

"It works," I agreed.

"You look tired."

"Heavy summon," I said. "Takes a toll."

She sat beside me. She didn’t touch me, but her shoulder brushed mine. "Rest. I have first watch."

"Wake me if the wind changes," I said.

"I will."

I closed my eyes. The leash in my chest was heavy now—three threads. Marrow, Hollow, Centurion. It felt like carrying a pack.

But the camp was warm. The team was fed.

We had arrived. Now we just had to survive the night.

And out in the dark, beyond the ring of ward-light, something howled back at the wind.