Four years was enough to change the Iron Plateau.
Where once the mines had been a graveyard of broken beams and rusting pulleys, they now thrummed with renewed life. Wagons rolled day and night, carrying ore that gleamed like captured lightning under the sun. Smoke plumes rose from smelters built hastily to meet the flood of raw metal, their chimneys turning the once-quiet plateau into a restless heart of industry.
Soldiers no longer hauled the construct like a siege engine—they guarded it. They walked beside it, reverent and wary, as if it were some holy beast that demanded both devotion and distance.
The machine now known as Mountain-Carver had not only changed in appearance but multiplied. One became two, then five, then a fleet of rumbling steel giants, their grinding jaws reshaping the plateau.
The trade was kept secret, officially. But secrets rarely stayed buried. Whispers traveled with merchants and mercenaries, and though the Laos family declared nothing, their coffers swelled all the same. Wealth poured in—wealth that, curiously, pooled not in the Baron's ledgers but in the personal accounts of his son.
And Logos… Logos had grown.
At fifteen, he was still small compared to the soldiers, his frame slight and wiry. But the boy of wide-eyed wonder was gone. His hands were stained with chemicals and stone dust that required daily scrubbing; his fingers bore calluses from quills and engraving tools alike. His eyes—those deep, pitch-black eyes that unsettled so many—seemed even larger now, reflecting not childish awe but the sharpened edge of calculation.
He spoke more, though still rarely, and always with precision. His words carried weight not because of age, but because four years had proven what few could deny: this boy could change the world.
And someone had noticed.
The southern workshop was cluttered, its long tables crowded with schematics, runic plates, and stacks of ledgers. The air smelled of ink and oil, mingled with faint traces of sulfur and ground stone. Logos sat at the center, quill scratching, black eyes darting between diagrams and numbers. The world outside had grown noisy, but within these walls there was only method, precision, the hum of quiet creation.
Until the door banged open.
"Young master, there is a problem."
Lucy strode in, her expression drawn tight. Bal followed behind, uncharacteristically grim, and Kleber brought up the rear, jaw set like iron.
Logos looked up from his schematics. "What happened?"
Lucy placed a bundle on the table with a soft thud. "This."
Logos opened it. Inside were three items: a black short-sword, the Laos family stamp, and a scroll.
He unrolled the parchment. The handwriting was neat, deliberate.
By my authority as the current Baron of the Laos household, I, Lam Laos, henceforth relinquish all of my authority to my son, Logos Laos, and will be leaving the territory.
The words did not surprise him. He read them twice, then calmly folded the scroll.
"As expected," Logos said simply. "Anything else?"
Kleber and Bal exchanged a look. Without a word, they set two massive stacks of paper on the table. They landed with a heavy slap, spilling dust from their edges.
"What are these?" Logos asked.
"Resignations," Lucy said, her voice sharp.
Logos blinked. "…What?"
"Apparently," Lucy continued, "the secrecy of the Mountain-Carvers, coupled with news that the Baron is stepping down in favor of a child heir, has led people to believe this territory is hopeless."
Her tone cracked faintly on the last word.
"How many?" Logos asked.
Lucy's lips tightened. "Seventy percent of the officer class. Along with the steward, the quartermaster, and the military commander."
The workshop fell into silence, broken only by the faint scratch of smelters in the distance. Logos set down his quill. He rose, walked to a side drawer, and withdrew three scrolls. His small hand pressed the Laos stamp firmly onto each. Then he returned to the table and slid them across.
"Here."
Lucy picked one up, unrolling it. Her brows furrowed. "…Orders?"
"Orders for military, industry, and domestic departments," Logos replied evenly. His black eyes met hers—calm, unyielding. "The basic function of preventing the collapse of a machine is to replace the parts."
He turned back to the drawer, pulling out two more sealed letters. His voice carried evenly over his shoulder. "Also, one more thing. Bal and Lucy—you both are relieved of your positions."
The room froze.
Lucy's breath hitched audibly. Her hand rose to her mouth, trembling. Tears welled unbidden, spilling before she could stop them. "Why…" Her voice cracked. "Why would you—"
Logos turned, letters in hand, his expression unchanged. "I was going to promote you both."
The silence deepened, thick with disbelief.
"I don't understand," Lucy whispered, eyes wide and wet.
Logos stepped forward, extending the letters. "You are relieved of your current positions because I am assigning you new ones. Bal will serve as military commander, with Masen, Desax, and Kleber under his command. And Lucy…"
His eyes softened—barely, but enough that she felt it. "…You will serve as chief steward of the Laos household."
Lucy's breath broke. She covered her mouth fully now, tears spilling down her cheeks not from grief, but from something deeper: relief, shame, pride all tangled together. A laugh escaped her, broken and shaky, half sob, half sigh. "You… you could have started with that!"
"Why?" Logos tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. "The sequence of explanation doesn't matter. The meaning was—" He stopped mid-sentence, realization dawning. His brows drew together faintly. "Did you actually think I was going to fire you?"
Lucy let out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. Bal snorted, folding his arms with a grin. "Took you long enough, kid."
Logos blinked, still faintly confused, but said nothing more.
Lucy wiped her face furiously, though her eyes still shimmered. "Don't ever—ever—do that again."
"I'll… consider it," Logos replied.
Outside the workshop, the smelters roared and the Mountain-Carvers rumbled, unceasing. But within, the torch of authority had passed.
The Baron was gone.
The officers had fled.
And in their place, a fifteen-year-old boy with black eyes now stood at the helm of a house balanced between collapse and rebirth.
The sequence of explanation didn't matter.
The meaning did.