The ore still smoked faintly in the morning light. Piles of iron-veined stone lay at the soldiers' boots, their jagged edges catching glints of dawn as if mocking the sweat and blood it had once taken to pry such wealth from the earth. The construct stood silent now, its runes dimmed, the hum of its core faded to nothing. Yet its presence loomed, larger than steel and rivets—larger than the mine itself.
No one spoke.
The soldiers, hardened veterans who had weathered storms of arrows and rivers of blood, now stood cowed before a machine. Helmets were pushed back, faces drawn and pale, breaths shallow in the dusty air. The silence weighed more heavily than the ore itself.
One soldier cleared his throat. "That… thing just did in minutes what crews of miners couldn't finish in a day."
No answer came. The words hung in the chill air, sinking into every ear like lead shot.
Masen folded his arms, his weathered face grim. His eyes stayed fixed on the heap of ore, but his mind ran deeper, grinding possibilities like millstones. His jaw worked as though chewing gravel, a man calculating costs he dared not voice. Behind him, the men shifted, their discipline fraying. Some stared at the pile of stone as if it were treasure; others glared at the construct as though it were a beast caged only by accident. And in the center of it all, dust-covered and silent, stood Logos—unshaken, as though none of this was strange to him at all.
Finally, a voice cut through. Gruff, uncertain. "If machines can mine faster than men, what's to stop them from fighting faster too?"
The question struck harder than any hammer.
A ripple went through the ranks. Murmurs, sharp and low, spreading like sparks through dry grass. A few nodded grimly, eyes narrowed. Others scowled, defensive. Fear gnawed at the edges of discipline.
"Don't be daft," one soldier shot back, spitting into the dirt. "A hunk of steel can't replace men with swords. Or artillery. Takes more than spinning wheels and light tricks to win a war."
"Can't it?" the first argued hotly. "Didn't you see it tear through stone like parchment? What's the difference between that and armor? Or flesh? Give it claws instead of blades, and what then? Who'd stand against it?"
The air thickened with unease.
"They don't bleed," someone muttered.
"They don't march," another insisted.
"They don't falter either," came the rebuttal.
"Bah!" A soldier snorted, slapping the haft of his spear. "I'll take steel in my hands over some rune-carved monster any day. At least I know where my blade goes when I swing it!"
The argument swelled, voices rising, hands gesturing. Shoulders bumped. What began as murmurs swelled into a quarrel, their discipline cracking under the weight of something none of them had trained for.
Lucy sighed, one hand rubbing her brow. She could see where this was heading. Fear disguised itself easily as bravado, but the root was the same: men facing something they could not understand. She glanced at Logos, who remained stone-faced, his black eyes unreadable.
Bal, of course, couldn't resist stirring the pot. He leaned lazily on his spear, grin curling like smoke. "Well, it looks to me like the little lordling just built a better soldier than you lot."
The voices faltered.
The men turned as one, bristling. Bal chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. Lucy smacked him in the arm, but it was too late—the spark had caught.
Logos tilted his head slightly, as if considering the remark in earnest. His voice was soft, almost thoughtful.
"I mean," he said, "I can try, if you insist."
Silence.
Not the silence of awe or respect—no. This was colder. Harder. As if the wind itself had frozen mid-breath. The soldiers stared at him, expressions sliding from scorn to shock to something far sharper: fear. Even the plateau seemed to hush, the morning wind falling still.
Masen's brow furrowed. His gut twisted. The boy's tone had been calm, innocent even, but the words were anything but. Too sharp. Too real.
Logos blinked at the silence. "…That was a joke."
No one laughed.
Lucy coughed into her hand, stepping forward quickly. "You'll forgive him. His sense of humor isn't exactly… polished." She threw a look at Logos, half pleading, half scolding. "Don't say things like that."
Logos tilted his head again, confusion faint in his dark eyes. "But it was logical."
"Logical doesn't mean wise," Lucy hissed, low enough for only him to hear.
The soldiers shifted uneasily, whispering behind gauntleted hands. Fear mixed with curiosity, with awe, with resentment. A dangerous cocktail.
Masen finally stepped forward, his boots crunching on stone. His voice, when it came, was iron. "Enough. You've seen what the machine can do. It's not your place to question more than that. You're soldiers. You'll follow orders."
The quarrel died immediately, though the unease lingered like smoke after a fire.
Masen looked at Logos, long and hard. For a boy of eleven to wield power that made grown men waver—it was not natural. Not safe. And yet… it was real. The machine worked. That was enough for now. But in the back of his mind, Masen wondered how long before the boy's "joke" stopped being words and became something more.
Lucy dusted her hands and gave the order to start gathering the ore. Soldiers moved, though slower than before, glancing sidelong at Logos and his silent construct.
Logos himself simply stepped closer to the machine, placing a small hand on its side. The runes flickered faintly in response, like a heartbeat echoing through steel. His lips twitched—almost a smile, almost—but never reached his eyes.
The plateau was quiet save for the scrape of stone against steel. Yet beneath that silence, a question gnawed at every soldier present:
Had they just witnessed the birth of a tool?
Or a weapon?