Three weeks had passed since the cannon incident, and the manor's rhythm had settled again. Logos stood in the workshop, thin gloves pulled snug around his hands, the smell of oil and steel thick in the air. Before him lay the dismantled frame of the Model IV Armatus, its chestplate pried open, its spine laid bare across the worktable like the skeleton of some fallen beast.
"Why are you two here?" Logos asked without looking up, his voice dry as he adjusted a hinge.
"To make sure there isn't another cannon incident," Lucy replied flatly, arms crossed.
"She dragged me here as extra help," Bal added, leaning against the wall, arms folded. His broad frame seemed comically out of place in the cramped, gear-littered chamber.
"Alright," Logos said without argument, tightening a bolt with calm precision. He pulled a mesh-like plate toward him and laid his palm against it. The faint shimmer of mana rippled across its surface. "That warrants an analysis."
Lucy tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. "Did your analysis spell… evolve?"
"Yes." Logos said it simply, as though it were no more remarkable than noting the weather.
"You didn't tell me about this."
"I forgot."
Lucy blinked once, then let out a sharp laugh without humor. "Forgot? You never forget. You just didn't think it was important to share."
Bal pushed off the wall, curiosity piqued. "Wait, hold on—what is this 'analysis' thing? I keep hearing about it, but no one's ever explained."
"Oh, right," Lucy said with a sigh, rubbing her temple. "We never told you."
Logos' voice was calm, detached, as he worked. "Anyone who can perceive mana has to learn spells on their own. A person's mana signature is unique, tied to their soul. That means… no two spells are ever quite the same. Mine belongs to the Analysis class."
"I know that much," Bal grunted. "But what does that mean for you?"
"It means it advanced," Logos said simply.
"That doesn't explain why you didn't tell me," Lucy pressed, stepping closer, her tone sharper than the steel scattered across the floor.
"There was no point." Logos' gaze flickered toward her for a moment, then back to the frame. "People can't teach spells they've learned to others. Sharing the details achieves nothing." His head tilted slightly, as though realizing something belatedly. "But how did you find out?"
Lucy gave him a look that could have carved stone. "That spell of yours was only good enough for reading books and carving runes on the surface. Your blatant disregard for keeping secrets gave it away."
A faint crease tugged at the corner of Logos' mouth, some strange mixture of irritation and reluctant amusement. "Perhaps."
Bal stepped forward now, looming over the workbench, his bulk making the gears and springs look like toys. "So this spell of yours—what does it do now? You said it advanced. What's that mean?"
"Before," Logos began, sliding his palm across the frame, "I could only read surface inscriptions. Text. Symbols. Etchings carved shallowly into material. Now…" His fingers brushed the metal, and light rippled out like a pond disturbed by a pebble. "…I can see deeper. Layered structures. Flaws beneath the surface. Mana channels twisted where they should run straight. The lattice is unstable here, here, and here."
He tapped three glowing points across the chestplate, and under his touch each spot flared faintly before dimming again. To Lucy and Bal, the metal looked unchanged, but Logos' black eyes were fixed on invisible fractures only he could perceive.
Bal gave a low whistle. "So you can… see through solid steel?"
"No," Logos corrected instantly. "Not in the physical sense. I can see the concept of the material. The flow of mana through its veins. Where it resists, where it bends, where it leaks."
Lucy frowned. "Like reading its… soul?"
"An object has no soul," Logos said flatly, though his tone wasn't unkind. "But if it did, yes. Something like that."
He pressed his hand against the mesh again, lips moving faintly. Runes bloomed across the surface—intricate, interwoven—before fading. "This alloy was smelted unevenly. Too much heat in the refining stage. The grain warped."
Bal tilted his head. "And that matters because…?"
"Because it will shatter under stress," Logos replied. "The wearer would die."
The words landed heavy in the workshop. For a long moment, the only sound was the tick of a nearby clock and the faint hum of mana from the glowing frame.
Lucy broke the silence. "So you plan to… fix all that? With just this spell?"
"Not just the spell. But it tells me what needs correction." He reached for a notebook and began sketching furiously, hands moving with fevered clarity. "A redesigned frame. Stronger lattice. Mana channels aligned with muscle fibers instead of against them. Reduced weight here, reinforced joint structure there. I will replace the old model entirely."
Lucy exchanged a glance with Bal, who shrugged helplessly.
"You realize," Lucy said slowly, "most mages would kill to have a spell that can see the flaws in matter."
"Most mages waste their time throwing fireballs," Logos replied without looking up.
Bal chuckled despite himself. "Fair enough."
Lucy stepped closer again, her voice softening. "Logos… does it hurt?"
He froze briefly, pen mid-stroke. "…What?"
"Using it. This spell of yours. Every time you push it further, you get that look—like it's burning your head from the inside out."
Logos resumed writing, but slower. "It costs. But everything does. And it is necessary."
Lucy's lips thinned, but she didn't press further.
Bal, trying to lighten the weight in the air, clapped his hands. "Well, if this new frame of yours is half as good as you claim, then our soldiers will be walking fortresses."
"They will be efficient," Logos corrected, sketching the curvature of a new spine-plate. "Not fortresses. Fortresses are static. Soldiers must move."
Bal rolled his eyes. "Semantics."
"Precision," Logos countered.
Lucy shook her head, but a smile tugged faintly at her lips. He hadn't changed at all, fever or no fever.
Minutes stretched into an hour, the workshop filled with the scratching of quill against paper, the faint hum of glowing steel, and the steady presence of two guardians who—though he'd never admit it aloud—kept him tethered to the world beyond his machines.
For now, Logos built, analyzed, and planned. But in the quiet between words, Lucy and Bal knew something had shifted. His spell had evolved, yes—but so too had the boy himself.
And whether for good or ill, the Barony's future would be built on the lattice only he could see.