Laos Keep, Training Yard
The clang of steel echoed across the yard, sharp and rhythmic, punctuated by the hiss of pneumatic lines that fed the practice automata stationed along the wall. Sunlight glinted off polished breastplates and helm-crests, dancing in the haze of dust kicked up by booted feet. The scent of iron and sweat hung thick, as though it had seeped into the stones themselves over centuries of use.
Logos wrinkled his nose almost immediately.
"This," he muttered under his breath, "is why I prefer workshops. Machines don't perspire."
Lucy, walking beside him with her usual composed stride, didn't even glance at him. "You'll live. Besides, you should be used to this smell by now. The keep's barracks are only one courtyard away from your precious workshop."
"That doesn't mean I go into them," he replied flatly. His eyes darted across the yard, analyzing the knights' movements with the same cold precision he used for machines. Their strikes looked repetitive, the forms ingrained through endless practice. Effective, yes, but predictable.
Lucy sighed. "Try not to insult anyone before introductions are done. Please."
"I never insult," Logos said. "I make accurate observations."
"That's worse," she muttered under her breath.
At the far side of the training yard stood a man who clearly didn't belong in the group drills. He was tall—easily a head taller than most of the knights present—with a frame built more for endurance than sheer bulk. His armor was a mismatched but well-maintained set: plate bracers and pauldrons over leather cuirass, the sort of mix worn by someone who valued function over formality.
He was alone, working through a sequence of longsword strikes with deliberate precision. Each cut was slow, controlled, and heavy, as though the weapon were not a practice blade but the real thing, and each stroke was intended to carve through an enemy rather than impress an observer.
Lucy gestured. "That's Bal."
As though hearing his name, the man paused mid-swing and turned. His dark eyes studied Logos with a quiet weight before he spoke. "So this is the one." His voice was low, even, without ornament.
Logos tilted his head. "I remember you."
Both adults looked at him.
"Creepy little thing. Was it?" Logos asked in the same tone he might use to recall a fact from a book.
Bal raised an eyebrow. "Did I say something like that?"
"Yes. The time when Lucy said she image-captured me with a crystal sphere while I was observing the repairs of the Armatus frame," Logos recited. "You even asked if I was capable of making a cute expression."
Lucy blinked. "You remember that?"
"Yes," Logos said. "Also the fact that he accused you of sleeping with my father."
"Yeah, and she hit me on the shoulder for that," Bal added without shame.
Lucy turned scarlet, her composure cracking. "Logos! You didn't have to—!"
Bal chuckled, rubbing his chin. "Ah. Right. I remember now. Guess you've got a sharp memory, boy."
"I catalog everything worth remembering," Logos replied evenly.
Bal's smile faded a fraction. "That's a dangerous habit. Sometimes, the things you remember make enemies."
"I already have enemies," Logos said simply. "Not of my own choosing, but inherited through my father's incompetence. I don't need help in that regard."
The silence stretched, thick and uneasy, until Lucy cleared her throat sharply. "Bal, this is Logos Laos. He's going to be Baron one day."
Bal's lips quirked in a half-smile, though his eyes stayed sharp. "Assuming the debt collectors don't gut the family first."
Lucy shot him a warning glare. "Not helping."
"They won't," Logos interjected before she could continue. "Considering I will be paying it. After I take an earlier hold of the title."
Bal studied him. The boy's tone wasn't arrogant—it was matter-of-fact, as though he were commenting on the weather. The way he carried himself, the way he stood with arms clasped behind his back like a scholar lecturing in a hall… this wasn't the speech of a child, though Bal reminded himself Logos was barely more than that.
"You speak as though you've already mapped it all out," Bal said.
"I have." Logos's eyes flicked to him, dark and steady. "If my father remains in charge, the barony will collapse. If he leaves, those with sense will follow him, leaving me surrounded by the desperate and the manipulable. Therefore, stability must come from me."
Bal gave a low whistle. "Heavy words for someone your size."
"They are only heavy if you fail to understand the weight behind them," Logos said.
Lucy pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is exactly what I warned you about. He does this. Don't take it personally."
Bal smirked. "Oh, I'm not. Frankly, it's refreshing to hear someone in this keep speak plain. Too many of these knights keep their tongues tied in knots, terrified of offending the wrong fool."
"Yet you seem unafraid of offending me," Logos noted.
"Because if you're half as smart as Lucy says, you won't waste your time being offended." Bal rested the flat of his blade on his shoulder. "Besides, offense is for men who don't expect to be cut."
That earned the faintest twitch of a smile from Logos.
Lucy looked between them, uncertain whether to be relieved or deeply worried. "So… does that mean you'll accept?"
Bal's gaze lingered on Logos a moment longer before he sheathed his blade with a decisive click. "Depends. I don't work for promises and pretty words. If you want my sword, you'll need to prove you're worth following."
"I don't require loyalty yet," Logos said. "I require competence. Loyalty can be purchased later, once I've secured the means."
Bal barked a short laugh. "Gods. You really are your father's heir—but sharper."
"That is both an insult and a compliment," Logos observed.
Bal nodded. "Take it however you like. Just know this: If I stand with you, I expect action, not talk. You don't have to fight your battles yourself, boy, but you'll need to show me you're willing to risk something. Otherwise, you're just another pampered heir waiting to die behind a wall of men."
The yard rang again with the clang of steel as the knights resumed their sparring. Dust swirled between them, carried by a gust of wind that rattled the banners overhead. Logos didn't flinch from Bal's stare.
"I don't intend to die," he said. "I intend to outlast."
Bal's grin widened slightly. "Then maybe we'll get along."
Lucy exhaled, half-relieved, half-terrified.