"A line of boxes for transport, a mining contraption…" Masen rubbed his temples as though his skull hurt from the very memory. His gruff voice carried the weight of decades in the field. "What's next, boy? A rifle that fires a hundred bullets in one shot?"
Logos, who was crouched on the floor reassembling a gear plate, didn't even look up. "No. More like a plan for new infrastructure."
Bal snorted, folding his arms. "And what type of grandiosity have you thought of next?"
"Yeah, tell us," Kleber added, grinning like a man expecting to be entertained.
"Well, first we need to build a bigger version of that thing." Logos gestured toward the half-ruined mining machine, which still jutted halfway into the workshop wall, stone dust scattered around it like the aftermath of a skirmish. "I would like help from your men."
Desax leaned forward, voice calm but edged with practicality. "And what about the raw materials?"
"I have the capital for one machine," Logos answered. "We can begin as soon as the materials arrive."
Masen's brow furrowed. "And you expect us to swing hammers for you? Soldiers aren't blacksmiths. What do you need from us, exactly?"
"Not hammers." Logos corrected immediately. His pale eyes flicked up, sharp with focus. "The parts only require assembly. What I need is discipline and strength. The bigger the construct, the more careful its handling must be. Your men know how to keep formation under stress. That is what I need."
Masen tapped his chin. "In that case, mine will be enough."
Logos blinked. "Why?"
Masen leaned back slightly in his chair, lips twisting into something between a grimace and a smile. "I am too old to look for a job outside of the barony."
"Actually," Logos said bluntly, "I was asking why you think your men alone will be enough for the task."
The old knight's eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he chuckled. "You're sharp, boy. Fine. I'll spell it out. My men are artillery. We have the skills. Precision work, heavy lifting, emergency repairs—keeping cannons alive in the middle of a battlefield isn't so different from keeping your machines alive in a workshop. We can manage."
Logos studied him closely. "Where is the 'but'?"
Masen's smirk faded, replaced by something harder. "You're sharp, boy," he repeated, quieter this time. "My men won't do it for free. They'll follow orders, but they won't risk their necks for a machine they don't understand without fair pay. And you may find that building trust with veterans isn't as easy as sketching lines on paper."
Kleber leaned back, smirking. "Just make him some artillery. The old man will be happy with that."
"Yeah," Desax chimed in, "he may not look like it, but he loves his guns."
Masen grunted. "So what? A cannon is a simple, honest thing. Feed it iron, and it roars back at your enemies. No riddles. No tricks. No promises of futures we'll never see."
"Alright," Logos muttered, almost absentmindedly, as though already calculating cannon designs in his head. He looked up again. "What about you three?"
Kleber thumped his chest proudly. "Count me in. All of this is too good to pass. Though—" he raised a finger with mock solemnity, "—I would like uniforms made from fine silk for my unit. And a sword with a diamond-tipped hilt for me, once the territory is stabilized."
Lucy groaned softly. "You can't be serious."
"Deadly serious," Kleber said cheerfully. "If we're going to be the barony's first band of machinists, we might as well look good doing it."
Logos nodded once. "Simple but acceptable."
Desax raised a hand, expression calm as always. "Before you look at me, I'll be honest. I don't care for diamonds or cannons. Just make sure that if any of my men—or I—die, our families won't freeze in the winter."
Lucy's expression softened, but she didn't speak.
"Reasonable," Logos said simply, already making a note on a parchment.
Bal, who had been silent so far, finally spoke. His arms crossed tighter over his chest, his tone deep and deliberate. "If we're laying out demands, mine is simple. I want my men to be remembered."
Logos looked up sharply. "Don't we already have logs for that? I believe all soldiers are listed there."
Kleber let out a loud laugh. "Damn, he just took a shit on honor."
"Are you serious?" Desax asked, raising an eyebrow at Bal.
Logos blinked, clearly confused.
"I think he is," Lucy said quietly.
Bal's eyes narrowed, but his voice carried no anger—only weight. "A ledger is not remembrance, boy. A number on a page is not legacy. Men who bleed need to know their sacrifice echoes. Not just in coin, not just in names, but in story. In stone. In memory that outlives even kings."
The workshop grew still. Even Kleber, usually the loudest, fell silent under the gravity of the words.
Logos tilted his head slightly, as though trying to process a language he did not speak. "I still don't get it. But fine."
Bal exhaled slowly, as though testing the boy's sincerity. "Good enough for now."
Kleber broke the silence, smirking again. "Well then, looks like you've bought yourself four units of knights. All with very different price tags. Silk, cannons, blankets, and stone."
Lucy couldn't help but laugh softly. "That sounds about right."
Masen, however, kept his eyes on Logos. "You've got the beginnings of a plan, boy. But remember this—machines don't march. Men do. And men aren't so easily repaired when they break."
Logos gave no reply. His eyes were already fixed on the mining machine buried in the wall, as though the knights' words were merely another set of variables to solve.