Two weeks later.
The workshop smelled of sulfur and chalk. A copper basin hissed as Logos ground fine grey powder into a bowl, mixing it with an amber liquid that smoked faintly when it touched. The glassware clinked in a rhythm almost like music.
"How is it going, my lord?" Bal lounged in the corner, hands behind his head. "That demonic whisper you called a speech is making ripples left and right. Every tavern, every market stall, someone is whispering something about it."
"Yeah, good thing Marcus wasn't watching," Desax muttered, resting his chin in his palm. "I saw children running around with black capes, screaming about destiny. Can't have my kid joining a cult to his own uncle."
Masen snorted. "Must have been rough. Best make sure you keep him safe, Desax."
Logos poured another measure of powder into the bowl, steam curling up around his face. His tone was calm, detached. "Well, let's start with the population. How many people do we actually have?"
"One million," Lucy answered promptly. She stood at the workbench, holding a stack of parchment. "Most are involved in mining, smelting, trade, or serve as soldiers. Their opinions are… varied."
"Lay it on me."
Lucy took a breath, unfolded the list, and began reading.
"First category: miners. Half of them are inspired. They say you're the first lord who ever spoke to them as people rather than tools. The other half…" she hesitated, "…are unsettled. Descriptions like 'dark,' 'unholy,' and 'frightening presence' come up often."
Logos turned, attempting a smile to refute the point. The effect was immediate and disastrous.
Kleber recoiled. "My lord—please. Stop. You look like a cold-blooded torturer preparing his favorite knife."
Masen crossed himself. "I will call an exorcist."
"That looks horrifying," Desax said flatly.
"Shut up," Logos muttered, dropping the attempt and returning to his powders.
Lucy pressed on. "Second category: merchants. Most are excited. Both your machines and your speech about progress suggest wealth and growth. Though…" she glanced up, "a minority believe you are a tyrant in the making. They expect impossible taxes and arbitrary demands."
"I have many other things planned," Logos said evenly. "They will be in the bag. Merchants are necessary for the trade routes in the Granite Highlands."
"There he goes again," Desax sighed.
"Third category: soldiers." Lucy's tone shifted slightly.
"Well?" Logos asked, stirring the mixture.
"They are loyal. Unanimously. Some say you looked more like a warlord than a baron, but they were proud of it."
Logos blinked. "Unexpected."
Kleber chuckled. "You might scare the miners, my lord, but soldiers dream of a leader who'll march them into legend. You gave them that."
Bal stretched, yawning, though his grin was sharp. "Legends usually end in death, but hey—morale's high, so who's counting?"
"Besides," Lucy added, "your work on the mountain carver with Masen's unit helped. Soldiers don't forget a lord who labors beside them."
"Just make sure to send us some Boze and cannons next," Masen said dryly.
"You'll drink yourself to death at this rate," Desax muttered.
Logos set down the bowl, wiped his hands on a cloth, and turned toward Bal. "What about the outsiders?"
Bal's grin widened. "The Baron of Carrel called your speech 'a child's tantrum in borrowed robes.' Bitter little man. His vineyards are drying up; he's looking for anyone to blame."
"Amusing," Logos replied without looking up. He measured another powder.
"The Count of Relten," Bal continued, "called it 'a sign of dangerous ambition.' He'll keep an eye on us."
Masen's expression hardened. "We'll need to be careful. Relten has tried to invade us before."
"Agreed," Desax said.
"Isn't he one rank higher than me?" Logos asked.
"On paper, yes," Kleber replied. "But his territory lacks mineral wealth. Without it, his influence is brittle."
"I see." Logos nodded once. "And the church?"
"Officially? Nothing." Kleber folded his arms. "Unofficially, there are rumors that you are 'touched by shadow.'"
Lucy scowled. "Those yellow moss-heads haven't done anything here in decades. They can't move a pebble in this territory."
Logos raised a brow. "Interesting. It's unusual for you to critique people out of nowhere."
"It's a given," Bal interjected, his grin fading. "The church never acts without a donation. The only nobles who love them are the ones in the capital, because priests help sway the poor."
"If anything," Kleber said sharply, "I suggest we keep them out. Entirely."
Logos tilted his head. "Your hatred seems irrational. They play too large a role in kingdom politics for us to simply ignore them."
"Not in the slightest," Masen rumbled. His voice had the weight of an old soldier who had seen priests bless too many doomed men before battle.
For a moment, the workshop quieted. The hiss of bubbling powder was the only sound. The implications hung heavy: nobles scoffing, counts circling like vultures, the church whispering rumors. The ripples of Logos's black-robe proclamation were spreading further than stone into water—they were shaking the ground beneath their feet.
And yet Logos's face remained calm, as though this was all another equation waiting to be solved.