Four days later, the manor's study had been converted into an impromptu council chamber. The heavy curtains were drawn against the late summer glare, and a tray of untouched food sat cooling by the window. The only sound at first was the slow scratching of a quill, until Bal—sprawled inelegantly in a chair—broke the silence.
"You know," Bal drawled, pointing his spoon at the boy half-buried under blankets on the couch, "he can at least sit upright while lecturing us."
Lucy swatted the spoon out of his hand with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "Shut up. He needs rest."
"For once," Kleber muttered, arms folded, "I agree. Still, I can't believe the young master fired an entire cannon without so much as calculating recoil." His voice carried equal parts disbelief and reluctant admiration.
Desax chuckled, shaking his head. "Considering his personality, is that really surprising? He sees a problem, and then there's a solution. Everything else between is… optional."
Kleber grimaced. "Optional is a generous word for it. He's smarter than all of us put together, and yet he—"
"Intelligence," Masen cut in, his voice a low rumble that carried finality, "only answers what and how. Wisdom answers when and where. Both are different. Logos has one, not the other."
That silenced the room briefly. Even Lucy, who often defended Logos with sharp words, did not immediately retort. The boy himself did not look up, his pale face bent over stacks of parchment. He was thinner than he should have been, skin flushed faintly with fever, yet his black eyes still flicked over reports with merciless precision.
"If you all are finished," Logos said, his voice cutting through the quiet, "give me the report."
Lucy's lips pressed into a line. "You're supposed to be resting, not running meetings from your sickbed."
"It's just fever," Logos answered flatly. His quill scratched again, flipping one sheet after another, pages snapping as though they had offended him. "Ore extraction has doubled. Mana glass veins continue to produce at stable rates. Hardenite refining still loses twenty percent yield during smelting—fix that." His eyes flicked toward Desax briefly before returning to the paper. "Trade caravans to the west returned safely. To the east, one wagon was attacked, but losses were minimal. Is this correct?"
"Yes," Kleber admitted after exchanging glances with the others.
"Good." Logos turned another page, reading faster than most men spoke. "How many people are in the army?"
Bal straightened, clearing his throat. "After restructuring the forces that weren't under direct control of us four… around six thousand trained and fit for duty. That's counting riflemen, cavalry, and those who can operate the exo-harness. Another two thousand are in reserves—villagers turned militia. Not veterans, but usable."
Logos set the quill down, steepling his thin fingers. "It's surprising there wasn't a rebellion."
The words chilled the room. Even Bal, usually quick with a careless joke, said nothing. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.
Lucy broke it first, her voice sharp. "Rebellion? Don't joke about that."
"I'm not joking." Logos' voice was quiet, but each syllable landed like a hammer blow. "We were outnumbered sixty-seven to one. The entire Barony could have risen against us at any moment this past year. And yet… they didn't."
Masen leaned forward, arms braced on his knees. His scarred face hardened. "Fear. They saw your machines crush mountains. No peasant would dare rebel against a lord who builds gods out of iron."
Logos shook his head slightly. "God is exaggerated. It's just metal."
"To your average citizen," Masen replied, his tone ironclad, "it isn't. They don't see the runes, the fuel, the rivets. They see a giant that does the work of hundreds. That looks like divinity."
Desax leaned back, rubbing his chin. "Not just fear. Prosperity. They work, they're paid. Their bellies are full, their children safer than before. Fear alone breeds revolt. Fear with bread breeds obedience."
Lucy's eyes softened, just for a moment. "Obedience or loyalty?"
"Both," Desax said simply.
Logos had already moved on, flipping to the next ledger. "Speaking of bellies. How is the farming?"
Bal rubbed the back of his neck. "Better than last year. The irrigation channels you designed last season are working. Yields are up. We won't face shortages this winter, not unless there's blight."
"Good enough." Logos' expression turned distant, calculating. "And the exo-harnesses?"
Desax perked at the mention, his professional pride showing. "Twenty-eight in full working order, with another twelve under repair. They're crude still—"
"They're trash," Logos interrupted without hesitation. "The Model IV Armatus frame is inefficient, fragile under sustained use, and wastes energy. We're changing it."
Kleber raised a brow. "How, exactly?"
Logos gave him a flat look.
Lucy rolled her eyes, answering for him. "Really, Kleber? After all this time, you're still asking how? You know he won't tell you until he's already halfway finished."
Kleber lifted his hands in mock defense. "Just trying to make a joke."
The corners of Lucy's mouth twitched despite herself, though she quickly smothered it.
Masen leaned back, crossing his arms again. "So. Six thousand trained, two thousand militia, nearly forty exo-harnesses, a new cannon that fires faster than any gunner can load, ore and glass flowing out of the mountains, bread in every belly. Tell me, my lord—where does this road lead?"
Logos' fever-bright eyes shifted toward him. "Expansion. Consolidation. Then diplomacy." He coughed lightly, then pressed on. "Resources draw eyes. Eyes draw envy. Envy draws blades. The crown will notice, if they haven't already."
"And when they come knocking?" Lucy asked softly.
Logos lay back against the cushions, closing his eyes briefly. "Then we make them an offer. Trade. Machines. Glass. Hardenite weapons. Something they need more than they need our heads."
Desax smiled faintly. "Spoken like a true baron."
"I am not a baron," Logos murmured, voice almost lost in the hush of the room. "Not yet. I am only… preparing."
Lucy brushed his damp hair back from his forehead, the motion surprisingly tender for someone so often stern. "Then prepare from your bed, for once. No one will steal your plans in the next three days."
The boy did not argue. His breathing slowed, his hand still resting on the scattered reports, ink smudged faintly on his fingertips.
The council exchanged looks, unspoken agreement passing between them. For now, they would carry the burden. For now, the boy who built gods of iron could rest.
But beyond the walls of the manor, rumors already spread: of Laos' wealth, of its strange machines, of a child lord whose mind burned brighter than fire itself. And soon, those rumors would bring visitors—envoys, rivals, and enemies alike.
The Barony was no longer a dying ember. It was a rising flame.