The summons arrived without explanation.
Runners moved through Ironhaven at dawn, delivering a single command to every citizen: assemble in the central yard by midday. No reason was given. No exception was permitted. Soldiers, laborers, engineers, the handful of captured nobles who had been absorbed into the population—all were required to attend.
The uncertainty was deliberate. People gathered in the cold morning air, crowding into the expanded courtyard that had once been adequate for a rebel camp but now struggled to contain what had become a functioning city. They pressed together, former slaves beside former soldiers beside those who had once commanded both, united only by confusion and the low-level fear that came from not knowing what Doom intended.
Conversations were hushed and speculative. Some thought it was a military briefing—plans for the assault on Havelstadt finally being revealed. Others feared purges, suspecting that Doom had decided certain elements were no longer useful. A few optimists hoped for celebration, perhaps acknowledgment of what they had built together.
All were wrong.
The crowd waited as the sun climbed toward noon, the tension building with each passing minute. Then silence spread like a wave from the platform's base, and people turned to see Doom ascending the crude iron structure that had been erected specifically for this purpose.
He wore the mask, as always. The scorched cloak. The gauntlets that hummed with barely contained power. He moved without haste, each step deliberate, and when he reached the platform's summit and turned to face the assembly, the last whispers died away.
The silence was absolute. A thousand people holding their breath, waiting to learn why they had been summoned.
Doom surveyed the crowd with slow, methodical sweeps of his masked head, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried across the yard with mechanical clarity.
"Ironhaven is no longer governed by circumstance."
The words landed with weight, each one distinct and unavoidable.
"For weeks, you have lived according to necessity—eating what could be secured, sleeping where space existed, following orders because refusal meant death. This was survival. This was the foundation. But foundations must support structures, and structures require frameworks stronger than day-to-day improvisation."
He paused, letting the assembly absorb this.
"Today, Ironhaven becomes governed by law."
A ripple of reaction moved through the crowd—confusion, concern, curiosity. Law suggested courts and deliberation and the complex mechanisms that had characterized the old order under Karath. Law suggested debate and interpretation and the possibility of appeal.
Doom crushed that assumption immediately.
"These are not guidelines to be debated. They are not traditions to be interpreted according to circumstance. They are not suggestions that bend for sentiment or situation."
His gauntleted hand struck the iron railing before him, producing a ring that echoed across the courtyard.
"They are axioms. Unchangeable as physics. Universal as gravity. You will follow them because they are real, not because you agree with them."
Doom raised one hand, and a scribe standing beside the platform unfurled a large parchment bearing text written in simple, bold letters visible even from the crowd's rear sections.
"First Law," Doom announced. "No Latverian steals from another Latverian."
The simplicity of the statement belied its revolutionary implications. In a society that had been defined by scarcity and survival, where taking from others had been necessary for continued existence, the prohibition was radical.
"Theft weakens internal trust," Doom continued, his voice carrying no emotion, only logic. "Every stolen ration requires guard resources to prevent. Every disputed possession wastes administrative energy. Every citizen who must protect their belongings cannot fully commit to collective productivity."
He gestured broadly to encompass Ironhaven itself.
"The state provides what you need to survive. If you steal, you declare the state's provision insufficient—and you declare yourself outside the protection the state offers. You cannot benefit from collective security while acting against collective interest."
The crowd shifted uneasily. For many, theft had been ingrained survival behavior for years.
"Second Law," Doom said, not pausing to allow discussion. "No violence without sanction."
This struck even deeper. Personal revenge, family honor disputes, the resolution of grievances through direct action—these had been fundamental to how people lived when formal authority was absent or corrupt.
"All force belongs to the state," Doom declared. "Personal revenge is outlawed. Blood feuds are forbidden. If you are wronged, you bring your grievance to appointed authority. If authority fails you, you appeal upward. But you do not take justice into your own hands."
Someone in the crowd—a fighter, by his build and bearing—called out: "What if authority is corrupt? What if—"
"Then you appeal to me," Doom interrupted, his mask turning toward the speaker with mechanical precision. "And if I am corrupt, you are welcome to challenge me directly. But understand that such challenge ends in your death or my replacement. There is no middle ground. Either the state maintains monopoly on violence, or we return to chaos where the strong prey on the weak without consequence."
The fighter fell silent, and no one else raised questions.
"Third Law," Doom continued. "Skill outweighs birth."
This declaration rippled through the assembly with greater force than the previous two. In a region where social hierarchy had been determined by bloodline and inherited authority for centuries, this was not reform—it was revolution.
"Titles are meaningless. Bloodlines are irrelevant. Claims of inherited authority are void. Who your parents were matters nothing. What you can do matters everything."
Doom's mask swept across the assembly, seeming to see into individual souls.
"Ironhaven will rise or fall based on competence of its people. I do not care if your great-grandfather ruled a province or if your mother was a renowned scholar. What can you build? What can you fix? What can you contribute that increases collective capacity for survival and growth?"
The former slaves in the crowd stood straighter. The captured nobles shrank back, understanding suddenly how precarious their positions had become.
The demonstration was immediate and deliberate.
Guards moved through the crowd, and people parted to allow them passage. They stopped before a man in his fifties, well-fed despite weeks of rationing, his clothes still finer than anyone else's though he had been forbidden from wearing his full regalia.
Lord Kristoff, formerly a minor noble in Karath's administrative hierarchy, had been captured during one of the early raids. He had been kept alive because he possessed some limited knowledge of supply chain management, but he had made clear through every interaction that he considered his captivity temporary and his captors beneath him.
The guards brought him to the platform, and Doom gestured for the scribe to read from a prepared document.
"Lord Kristoff, son of Lord Henrik, inheritor of the estates of—" The scribe continued through an extensive pedigree, listing titles and properties and ancient bloodlines that stretched back centuries.
When the recitation finished, Doom spoke a single word: "Meaningless."
He turned his attention to Kristoff, who stood with defiant dignity despite his obvious fear.
"Your ancestors' achievements do not clothe you. Your bloodline does not feed you. Your inherited authority commands nothing here except contempt for believing it should."
Doom gestured to the guards. "Strip him."
Kristoff's fine clothes—outdated and worn but still markers of his former status—were removed. He stood in simple underthings, shivering not from cold but from the humiliation of being exposed before hundreds of former servants and slaves who watched with expressions ranging from satisfaction to shock.
"You are assigned to quarry labor," Doom announced. "Under guard supervision. Your performance will be measured against established standards. If you meet them, you will receive standard rations and minimal shelter. If you exceed them, you may earn transfer to less demanding work. If you fail to meet them, your rations will be reduced until performance improves or you expire."
Kristoff's face went from red to white. "I am a lord! I demand—"
"You are a laborer," Doom corrected. "With no particular skills that elevate you above any other laborer. Your demands carry no weight. Your title carries no meaning. You will work, or you will die. The choice is binary and entirely yours."
The guards led him away, still protesting, his voice fading as he was taken toward the quarries where stone was being cut for expansion projects.
The crowd watched in silence, absorbing the lesson written in humiliation and reassignment.
The elevation came next, a counterpoint to the destruction of inherited privilege.
A man was summoned from the crowd—middle-aged, scarred from years of labor, wearing the simple work clothes of a forge engineer. His name was Petyr, and before the rebellion he had been mine property, his expertise in maintaining steam systems considered valuable but not worthy of freedom or significant reward.
He approached the platform with obvious nervousness, uncertain why he had been called before the entire assembly.
Doom gestured for the scribe to read again, this time from a different document.
"Petyr, son of unknown parents, formerly designated as property unit seven-four-three-nine in the Ironfields mining complex." The scribe's voice was clinical, listing facts without judgment. "Apprenticed to forge maintenance at age twelve. Demonstrated exceptional aptitude for pressure system repair and modification. Responsible for seventeen documented improvements to steam distribution efficiency during the period before liberation."
The scribe continued, detailing contributions Petyr had made since joining the rebellion: repairs that had restored critical functionality to the stronghold's systems, innovations that had increased forge output, training programs he had developed to transfer knowledge to apprentices.
When the recitation finished, Doom spoke.
"You have proven competence repeatedly. You have contributed to collective survival through skill rather than force. You have elevated others by sharing knowledge rather than hoarding it as leverage."
Petyr stood uncertain, waiting for judgment or assignment.
"You are granted authority over Forge Sector Three," Doom announced. "You will direct operations, allocate resources, and manage personnel. You answer to me regarding output and efficiency, but your decisions within your domain are absolute."
A guard approached carrying a cloth bundle. Doom took it and unfolded it to reveal an armband bearing the mark of Doom in silver thread against black fabric.
"This designates your authority. It marks you as elevated not by birth or favor, but by demonstrated capability. Wear it visibly."
Doom placed the armband on Petyr's shoulder himself, the gesture witnessed by everyone assembled.
Petyr stood speechless, staring at the armband as if it might disappear if he looked away. Finally, he found words: "I... I don't know what to—"
"You know how to run a forge efficiently," Doom interrupted. "That is sufficient. Go. Your sector needs you."
Petyr was led away by an assistant, still processing what had just occurred. Behind him, the crowd erupted in quiet conversation—former slaves recognizing that path to status was now merit rather than birth, former nobles understanding that their old advantages had been permanently erased.
Doom raised his hand, and silence returned.
"Ironhaven's hierarchy is now clear. Engineers and logisticians stand highest—they create the systems that sustain us. Soldiers stand beneath them as protectors of those systems. Laborers form the backbone of production and receive status according to their output and reliability."
He paused, letting the structure settle into their understanding.
"Leadership is earned only through demonstrated capability. No one inherits authority. No one purchases position. No one claims status through historical accident of birth."
His mask swept across the assembly, the gesture somehow conveying absolute finality.
"Former loyalty to Karath means nothing—neither as condemnation nor credential. What matters is what you do now, in service to Ironhaven's survival and growth. Birth, wealth, and previous status are declared irrelevant. Only capability determines position."
The enforcement began before the assembly even concluded.
A disturbance near the crowd's rear drew Doom's attention. Guards were restraining a man who had been caught attempting to steal rations during the assembly, apparently believing everyone's attention on the platform provided opportunity for theft.
Doom halted his address and gestured for the man to be brought forward.
The thief—young, desperate-looking, clearly acting from hunger rather than malice—was dragged to the platform's base. He struggled until he saw Doom's attention fixed upon him, then went still.
"Name," Doom demanded.
"Stefan, lord—I mean, uh—"
"Stefan," Doom repeated, cutting through the confused honorific. "You were caught stealing during an assembly specifically called to announce laws governing this city. The first law you heard spoken was prohibition against theft between Latverians."
Stefan tried to explain, words tumbling over each other about hunger and need and how his rations had been inadequate and—
"Your labor assignment?" Doom interrupted.
"Road crew, but I—"
"Your rations are calculated based on physical demands of road work," Doom said. "If you genuinely require more food, you submit request through proper channels for assessment. If you simply wanted more than allocated, you attempted theft."
Stefan fell silent, understanding that explanation would not save him.
"Your labor assignment is doubled for two weeks. Your rations are reduced to minimum survival levels for the same period. You will receive a mark—" Doom gestured to a guard, who produced a branding implement that had been heating in a brazier kept ready for this purpose "—indicating your status as convicted thief."
Stefan's eyes went wide. "No, please, I didn't know the law was already—"
"The law is not future tense," Doom said, his voice cutting through protest like shears through cloth. "It is active from the moment of declaration. You heard it spoken. You chose to violate it. The consequence is immediate."
The branding was performed quickly, professionally, the mark burned into Stefan's forearm where it would be visible to everyone he encountered. His screams echoed across the courtyard, and the assembled citizens watched in absolute silence.
When it was done, Stefan was led away sobbing, and Doom returned his attention to the crowd.
"The laws are not future tense. They are active now. They apply to all. They bend for no one."
The reactions varied as widely as the assembled population.
Former nobles stood rigid with barely contained fury, their humiliation complete, their previous status erased in a single afternoon. Some muttered about injustice and barbarism, but quietly, aware that open protest would bring consequences they could not survive.
Former slaves felt something many had never experienced: recognition. Not as property or tools or problems to be managed, but as individuals whose capabilities mattered. The possibility that they could rise through demonstrated skill rather than remaining permanently at society's bottom created a hunger that was almost physical in its intensity.
The fear in the crowd deepened—Doom had proven again that he wielded power without hesitation or mercy. But alongside the fear came clarity. Everyone now knew where they stood. The rules were explicit. The hierarchy was defined. Success and failure had clear meanings and predictable consequences.
There was no comfort in this, but there was understanding. And understanding, even of harsh truths, was better than the chaos of uncertainty.
Doom raised both hands, commanding final attention.
"These laws will not bend for pity, passion, or politics. They are not subject to vote or revision through popular appeal. They exist because they must, because order requires foundations that cannot shift with sentiment or circumstance."
His voice carried across the silent assembly with mechanical authority.
"Obey them, and Ironhaven will protect you. The state will provide food, shelter, security, and opportunity for advancement. Your skill will be recognized. Your contribution will be rewarded. Your survival will be ensured."
He paused, and the silence seemed to deepen.
"Break them, and Ironhaven will erase you. Not through passionate vengeance or moral condemnation, but through simple administrative necessity. You will be removed from the population as efficiently as a broken tool is removed from a workshop."
The iron mask reflected afternoon sun, cold and implacable.
"The choice is yours. The laws are not."
Doom descended from the platform without ceremony, without awaiting reaction or acknowledgment. Guards formed around him as he walked through the parted crowd, and people stepped aside not from respect but from the simple instinct to avoid touching something that radiated such absolute authority.
He disappeared into the main hall, and only after he was gone did the assembled citizens begin to move, to speak, to process what had just occurred.
Ironhaven's hierarchy had been rewritten in a single afternoon.
Not through revolution—that had already happened. Not through democratic process or consensus building. Through enforcement. Through demonstration that new rules existed and would be maintained regardless of previous expectations or traditional assumptions.
For the first time in Latveria's long history of noble houses and inherited privilege, power belonged not to blood but to competence. And competence would be measured and judged by one authority alone: the masked figure who had declared himself judge, lawgiver, and ultimate arbiter of who deserved status and who deserved erasure.
The sun began its descent toward the western mountains, casting long shadows across a city that had been transformed—again—by the absolute will of its ruler.
The forges burned. The laws stood. And the people of Ironhaven—fearful, clarified, and reorganized according to principles that valued what they could do rather than who they had been—began the next phase of their transformation from refugees into citizens of something unprecedented.