The south workshop was more of a stubborn ruin than a proper workspace.
The place smelled faintly of rust, ash, and the kind of old oil that never entirely came out of stone floors. Two massive forge chimneys loomed at the back wall like silent sentinels, their brickwork blackened but still whole. Wooden worktables, most warped or splintered with age, had been shoved into some semblance of order. Every available surface now held some part of Logos's growing collection of tools, scraps, and half-finished contraptions.
For a year, the space had been transforming under his hand — or, perhaps more accurately, under his relentless, detail-obsessed will.
Right now, it was also the scene of Lucy's exasperation.
"For someone so smart, you are really idiotic," she scolded, winding clean linen around his left hand.
Logos sat on a stool, calm as a statue, watching her tie the bandage with clinical precision. "It's just a small scratch."
She tightened the knot just enough to make him flinch. "You almost cut your fingers off. If I had known you were trying to slice iron ingots into shape without a proper clamping rig, I wouldn't have brought them in the first place."
"I needed to test—"
"You need to not lose your hands," she interrupted, glaring. "Like, you have both money and time. You don't have to rush, you know."
Logos didn't answer. His gaze drifted past her to the shelves along the wall — cluttered with tongs, hammers, chisels, hand drills, and a scattering of strange, gear-driven devices that clicked and ticked quietly in their frames. Rolls of stitched fabric leaned against one table leg. Copper tubing coiled like lazy snakes in a crate.
Lucy followed his eyes, sighing. "I know you're aware of your talents — being able to do all this at just eleven — but you don't have to prove it every second." She rested a hand lightly on his head, and her voice softened. "You're young. You have time."
He blinked, then lowered his gaze. "…Sorry."
"It's alright." She released him, straightening. "But I would like to know what you've built so far. And it better not be dangerous."
"Define 'dangerous.'"
Her tone sharpened. "Logos."
"Fine."
He stood, setting his coffee mug aside, and walked to a worktable in the corner. A stained canvas sheet lay draped over something roughly man-sized. He gripped the edge, pulled, and the fabric slid away to reveal…
A skeletal frame of iron and brass, half as tall again as Logos himself. Gears sat in paired housings along each limb, connected by lengths of chain and rods. The design had a crude elegance — functional, but not without a sense of proportion. The frame's upper half bore mechanical gauntlets, their inner lining padded with stitched leather.
"Meet the Flayed One," Logos said.
Lucy stared. "Do you really have to name it that?"
"I mean," he said with perfect seriousness, "it looks like someone took all the skin off a person."
She gawked. "Why are you reading torture methods?!"
"I'm not," Logos said, almost defensively. "Besides, naming is important. People take machines more seriously when they have memorable names."
"'Memorable' is not the same as 'nightmare fuel.'"
"What is nightmare fuel?" Logos asked, curious.
"You don't know?"
"No." He tilted his head. "It wasn't in any of the books."
Lucy rubbed her temples. "It's something that sticks in your head and scares you later — usually at night. This? Definitely qualifies."
"It's just a mechanical suit for increasing my size," Logos said.
She narrowed her eyes. "For what?"
Rather than answer, Logos dragged a stool over and climbed inside the contraption. His hands slipped into the leather-lined mechanical gloves. He pressed a lever, and the suit's joints clicked into motion, the metal limbs moving with slow but deliberate mimicry of his own.
"Look," he said, waving one massive iron hand. "I am big now."
Lucy folded her arms. "This would have been adorable if you'd smiled when you said it."
"I am not a child," Logos said flatly.
"You are eleven," she replied.
"Anyway," he continued, already turning toward the workbench, "with this, I can lift heavier materials and work longer without—"
"I think we're done for the day."
Before he could finish, Lucy stepped in front of him, reached for the frame's release latch, and with one swift motion pulled the boy out of the contraption.
He landed on his feet, blinking up at her. "…How?"
"I was a scholar too, you know," she said, gripping his collar lightly and steering him toward the door.
"That doesn't explain—"
"Don't care," Lucy cut in. "You're taking a break. And before you even think about sneaking back in here tonight, I'll remind you that I still have the master key."
They reached the door, and Logos glanced back at his creation. The skeletal frame stood motionless under the dim light, casting a stretched shadow across the floor.
It wasn't perfect — the motion lag was still too long, and the gear housings overheated after ten minutes of continuous use. But the concept worked. And that meant the real designs, the ones still in his head, were possible.
Lucy caught him staring. "Don't even think about it."
"I wasn't," Logos said.
She gave him a long, knowing look. "Uh-huh."