"Why are you still here?" Logos' voice carried the brittle edge of irritation, though it was quieter than usual, dulled by fever.
Lucy did not flinch. She sat perched on a chair near the couch, arms folded across her chest, her eyes sharp enough to pierce armor. "To make sure you are resting."
The boy dipped his quill into the inkwell once more, the feather scratching faintly across parchment. His movements were mechanical, the same precision he applied to machines applied now to words. "I am resting. I am not moving. My mind works while my body does not. That counts."
Lucy leaned forward, catching his hand as it swept across another line of script. "You don't rest by burning your mind out on ledgers and designs," she said, her tone clipped. "You rest by closing your eyes, sleeping, and giving your body a chance to heal. Don't argue with me."
For the first time, Logos looked up. His black eyes, so often piercing, calculating, unflinching, met hers. They were still sharp—but dulled at the edges, fogged like glass kissed by breath. "If I stop," he murmured, voice low, "everything else will stop too."
Lucy's jaw tightened. He had no idea how much those words weighed on the people who surrounded him. She wanted to snap, to scold, to remind him he was only human. Instead, she rose slowly, her boots clicking against the stone floor. With deliberate calm, she reached for the quill, plucked it from his hand despite his weak protest, and set it aside on the desk.
The ledger followed, snapped shut with a firm thwack. She carried it across the room, placed it neatly with the others, then turned back. Dusting her hands like a woman finishing a chore, she declared, "There. Now nothing stops, except you."
Logos exhaled through his nose, sinking deeper into the pillows as if deflating. His thin shoulders sagged. "You're insufferable."
"And you are impossible." Lucy crossed the room again, but instead of sitting on the chair, she lowered herself onto the couch beside him. Before he could object, she gently guided his head until it rested on her lap.
His brows knit together, but he did not pull away. His body, drained by fever, lacked the strength for defiance. "…You could be elsewhere. Training. Overseeing the men. Inspecting the farms. There are dozens of things more useful than watching me breathe."
"And yet I'm here." Lucy's voice softened as her fingers absentmindedly brushed through his hair, damp with sweat. "Do you know why?"
His frown deepened. "…Because you think I am going to kill myself?"
"Yes." The word left her lips without hesitation. "Because I know you won't take care of yourself if I leave. You'd work until your fever drags you into the grave. Someone has to be the one to pull you back before you cross the line."
A faint, sardonic smile tugged at Logos' lips. "I know how much I need to be alive. I am not dumb."
Lucy's hand stilled briefly against his hair. "Being alive enough only to work isn't the same as living," she countered quietly. "You need to relax. Unwind. Have fun. You know… like the average child."
His expression hardened, the boy retreating into the familiar fortress of duty. "I am a Baron. I have responsibility."
"Don't lie." Her voice cut through his defenses like steel. She leaned down until her gaze filled his blurry vision, unflinching. "I know the only thing you want to do is build things, like some ragged craftsman in a workshop. You hide behind the title, but that isn't who you are."
For the first time, his composure wavered. His lips parted, but no words came immediately. At last, he whispered, "Why are you so perceptive? You could have just… maintained relations, like those four do. Keep me propped up, obey orders, smile for the villagers."
Lucy's eyes softened, though her tone did not. "Because I see you, Logos. Not just the Baron. Not just the genius. Not just the boy who pulls wealth out of mountains and makes cannons roar. I see the child who stares at gears and sketches at midnight because it excites him more than sleep ever could. Someone has to remind you that person matters, too."
Silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Logos' breathing slowed, his fever-laden body betraying his stubborn mind. His head felt heavier on her lap, though his eyes still lingered on her face.
"…If I stop," he said again, softer this time, "what if everything really does stop?"
Lucy shook her head gently. "It won't. Do you think Masen, Desax, Kleber, Bal—they'll just sit idle if you collapse? They've learned from you. They've grown with you. Even I can lead men, if I must. The Barony is not just you anymore."
"That's dangerous," Logos muttered faintly, as though half-dreaming.
"What is?"
"Depending on others."
Lucy's fingers moved again through his hair, steady and grounding. "No, Logos. It's the only way anyone survives. You can build machines, but you can't build trust with gears and rivets. That's what we're here for."
His eyelids fluttered, the fever tugging him closer to sleep despite his stubbornness. "Machines don't betray."
"Neither do I."
The words slipped into the quiet like a vow. He did not answer, only gave a faint, weary exhale, as though trying to process it but lacking the strength.
Lucy watched him for a long time, her own heart heavy with unspoken things. She thought of the boy's brilliance, of the awe and fear he inspired, of the world beyond their borders that would soon demand more than he was ready to give. And she thought, too, of the small child he had never been allowed to be.
Her hand lingered against his temple, feeling the faint heat of fever, the fragile thrum of life. "Sleep, Logos," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Let the world turn without you for one night."
This time, he did not argue. His eyes closed fully, his breathing evened, and his thin frame eased into true rest.
Lucy leaned back into the cushions, her gaze fixed on the ceiling beams above. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, its glow spilling across the quiet room. Beyond the walls of the manor, the Barony buzzed with work—miners striking ore, farmers tending fields, soldiers drilling with new rifles and strange harnesses. Life went on, even without him awake to direct every detail.
And perhaps that was the lesson he needed to learn most of all.
For now, Lucy would stand guard over his rest, not with sword or shield, but with the quiet certainty that someone would always pull him back when he went too far.
The Baron could sleep. The boy could breathe. And the world would not stop.