One month later.
The clatter of boots echoed through the courtyard like distant thunder. Rows of armored men filed in with the precision of a well-oiled machine, though the scent of steel, sweat, and leather was far different from the metallic tang of Logos's workshop. One hundred soldiers, veterans of a dozen campaigns, stood beneath the gray morning sky. Their banners bore scars from old battles; their eyes carried the quiet, hard weight of men long accustomed to war.
"So, you are the ones," Logos said, observing the hundred men that Masen had sent. His pale gaze swept over them like he was inspecting pieces of a puzzle. "All right. Let's begin."
Masen, standing at the flank, let out a grunt. "You'll have to forgive them, boy. They're used to orders shouted, not whispered. Speak up if you want them to move."
Logos blinked at him, then without a word turned on his heel. He vanished into the yawning doorway of his workshop, leaving the soldiers shifting uneasily, glancing at one another. The silence stretched for a long moment.
"What is this?" one of the men muttered under his breath.
Another shrugged. "Maybe he went to fetch a cane so he can reach our ears."
There were a few chuckles—low, cautious, the kind soldiers allowed themselves before battle to break tension.
Then Logos reappeared. In his hands was a circular plate, etched with runes that shimmered faintly. He held it aloft, and the symbols pulsed with a steady light.
"Let's begin."
The runes flared, and when he spoke again his voice thundered like a commander on a battlefield. Amplified. The words rang across the courtyard, echoing off stone and steel.
"Is this enough?" Logos asked.
Masen barked a laugh, startling some of his men. "Well, I'll be damned. That'll do."
Logos turned, already moving toward a stack of massive crates near the workshop doors. "Open these."
The command carried clearly to every man. Crowbars were drawn, hands calloused from years of war pried iron nails loose, and soon the sound of splintering wood filled the yard. Inside each crate lay enormous pieces of machinery: gears wider than shields, beams of reinforced iron, plates of crystal-veined alloy.
It was a strange sight—men who had once stormed fortresses and defended walls now handling bolts and brackets with the same solemn precision they'd use on a battlefield. They did not understand the parts, but they understood orders.
"Careful," Logos boomed from his rune-plate, climbing up onto the side of the first crate to peer inside. His small hands brushed the etched alloy beams with a tenderness one would expect for relics or holy icons. "This piece is load-bearing. Handle as though you carry your own comrade."
The soldiers adjusted, hefting the beam in teams, step by step, lowering it into position. The ground shook faintly beneath its weight.
Logos climbed down to meet them, his boots pattering on the wood. He had a habit of running up and down the scaffolds and crates, pointing, gesturing, even stooping low to show them which bolt fit into which slot. His pale hair caught the morning light, making him seem even younger than his eleven years.
For the men, it was surreal. They were veterans of campaigns, men who had taken and given orders from grizzled commanders scarred by decades of war. And now they obeyed the clipped instructions of a boy who could barely lift a sword. Yet, for all his youth, there was no hesitation in Logos's tone, no wavering in his words. He spoke with the same certainty as Masen did when ordering a barrage of cannon fire.
"Turn the gear clockwise—yes, like that. Hold. Secure the pin. Good. Now brace the frame."
The soldiers exchanged silent looks. They could not understand his explanations—half of what he said dissolved into jargon, runes, and theories—but they did not need to. They knew formations, and this was simply another formation, with bolts and beams instead of spears and shields.
By midday, the courtyard had transformed. The skeletal frame of a massive machine loomed where once there had only been crates. Its core was a reinforced chassis, studded with gears as large as cartwheels. Around it, the men worked in rotations, sweat dripping down their brows, voices hoarse from hauling and hammering.
Logos worked among them tirelessly, scampering up ladders, crouching beside axle joints, etching runes into plates with his inscriber. He never once asked a man to do something he would not climb up and show himself. For all his clipped manner and strange tongue, he earned a silent respect in that.
By the time the sun dipped low, the great machine stood complete. Its final form was brutal and elegant at once—a steel behemoth with a broad chassis, braced by iron ribs, ending in a head crowned with circular blades that shimmered faintly with runic etching. They gleamed in the dying light like the fangs of some slumbering beast.
The soldiers, bone-tired, gathered in a loose semicircle to regard it. For once, there were no mutters, no chuckles. Only the steady breathing of a hundred men watching the strange creation of iron and crystal stand tall before them.
Logos, covered in dust and grease, climbed to the top of the machine. He raised his rune-plate high, ready to speak. But no words came. His mouth opened, then closed again. His eyes fluttered shut.
And with a soft exhale, Logos crumpled where he stood.
Gasps rippled through the soldiers, but Masen was already moving. The old knight caught the boy before he hit the ground, hefting him in his arms with the ease of a man long accustomed to carrying wounded comrades. Logos was frighteningly light, little more than skin and bone under his stained shirt.
Masen looked down at him, then up at the men. "He's out. Overworked himself."
No one laughed.
The silence stretched until one soldier finally spoke, his voice low. "We built it. Gods help me, we actually built it."
Another nodded slowly. "Never seen the like."
Masen carried Logos toward the keep, his men parting wordlessly to let him through. The rune-plate clattered from the boy's hand, its glow fading as it hit the earth.
Behind them, the machine stood silent in the courtyard, its blades gleaming under the fading sun. It looked less like a construct of gears and bolts, and more like a monument—a symbol of something that had not existed yesterday, but now did.
Men of war had built it. A child had commanded it. And the world, whether it knew it or not, had shifted.