Four years had passed since Logos's first, reckless awakening.
The library of Laos Keep had changed little in that time. The oak shelves still stood in neat rows, their edges worn smooth by generations of hands. The lantern-crystals still glowed with their warm, steady light, casting gold against the dark wood. Outside the tall glass windows, the keep's outer courtyard lay dusted with early frost, the morning air sharp and pale.
Inside, the biggest change was the boy himself.
He was no longer the tiny child who had needed to stand on tiptoe to reach a high shelf or drag a chair across the floor with both hands. At ten, he sat easily at the broad oak desk, posture straight but comfortable, a pen in his right hand and a cup of steaming coffee in his left. His hair, once kept short by impatient servants, now brushed his collar, tied back loosely with a strip of dark cloth. But his eyes — calm, steady, and faintly calculating — had not changed.
"There is nothing left," Logos said.
Lucy, standing halfway down the aisle between two shelves, frowned. "What do you mean, 'nothing left'?"
"I mean—" Logos set his pen down, the faint click of metal on wood breaking the library's quiet, "—I have read every book in this library. Every ledger. Every engineering log. Every magical treatise, agricultural report, family journal, military record, and personal correspondence that wasn't locked behind the steward's desk."
Lucy blinked. "You read the military records?"
"They're part of the barony's history," he replied simply. "Also, some of the troop provisioning logs included chemical recipes that were… interesting."
She narrowed her eyes. "Define 'interesting.'"
"I won't," Logos said, and sipped his coffee.
Lucy walked over to the desk, eyeing the heap of neatly bound notes stacked at one corner. "You can't seriously be saying there's nothing here left to study. You've got thousands of pages in your notes. You haven't even finished compiling the—"
"Done."
She stopped mid-sentence. "…Done compiling four years' worth of—?"
"Yes."
Lucy stared at him. "You realize most people would take a lifetime to go through half of what you've done, right?"
"Yes."
"And you're not even out of your first decade."
"Yes."
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're impossible."
"Thank you." Logos allowed himself the smallest ghost of a smile. "Now, the next phase."
Lucy's brows drew together. "What next phase?"
"Practical exercises," Logos said. "After all, we still have the allowance we saved up. Unless—"
Her eyes narrowed. "Are you really suspecting me of embezzlement?"
"That was a joke."
Lucy exhaled through her nose, sat down across from him, and folded her arms on the desk. "Alright. Practical exercises. What does that mean for you?"
"It means that information without application is wasted potential," Logos said, as though lecturing a class. "I've studied theory in magic, engineering, and alchemy. Now I need to make something for any of it to matter."
"And you're planning to make these 'things'… where? The library?"
"No." He leaned back slightly. "According to historical records, the territory is considerably strained and in debt due to various wars and… indulgences my parents enjoyed. There are several unused buildings they never demolished."
Lucy tilted her head, suspicious. "You've already picked one, haven't you?"
"The south workshop," Logos said without hesitation. "Its forge chimneys are intact, and the roof doesn't leak. The walls will need reinforcement, but the basic infrastructure is sound. And it's close enough to the outer yard that transporting raw materials won't be difficult."
She studied him for a moment. "And what exactly are you planning to make in this 'phase' of yours?"
"Small-scale prototypes."
Lucy leaned back, folding her arms tighter. "Your 'mature soul' condition is getting out of hand."
Logos paused, then tilted his head slightly. "The what?"
"Mature soul," she said, resting her chin on one hand. "A hypothesis that some people are born fundamentally different — all the way down to their soul. They think faster, act older, see things in long arcs instead of short moments. The theory's controversial, but it explains you perfectly."
"Fascinating," Logos said, sounding entirely sincere.
Lucy gave him a flat look. "It's not a compliment."
"Still fascinating."
She rolled her eyes. "Just promise me you won't do something like the forced awakening again."
"This again?" Logos's expression remained even. "It wasn't that bad."
"Not that bad?!" Lucy's voice sharpened, enough to make one of the nearby lantern-crystals flicker. "You gambled your life on a fifty-fifty theory. You were lucky — lucky — it didn't burn you from the inside out."
"I accounted for the risks," Logos replied.
"You thought you accounted for them," she shot back. "That's different."
He took another sip of coffee before answering. "It worked."
"That is not the point."
For a moment, they sat in silence — Lucy tense, Logos unbothered.
Then he set the cup down and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "If you want me to promise, fine. I promise I won't use any theory with a fifty percent mortality rate without reducing it to less than ten first."
"That's… not the promise I wanted."
"It's the best you'll get," Logos said.
Lucy gave a long, slow sigh. "I swear, one day your parents will find out what you've been doing and I'll be the one who gets executed for it."
"Unlikely," Logos said. "By then, I'll have enough proof that I'm an asset to the barony. They won't risk losing me."
"That," Lucy muttered, "is not as reassuring as you think it is."
He ignored the comment, already pulling a fresh sheet of paper toward himself and sketching the rough outline of something that looked vaguely mechanical — a frame with jointed limbs and a spherical core at the center.
Lucy eyed the drawing. "That's not a… person, is it?"
"No," Logos said, without looking up. "Not yet."