Logos's workshop was unusually quiet. No clanging of hammer against steel, no hiss of steam or crackle of burning coals. Just the faint tick of a cooling gear on the table beside them, marking time like a tired metronome.
Lucy sat on the wooden bench, back pressed against the wall, her lap occupied by a very reluctant boy who had allowed himself to collapse there after another sleepless night. Logos's head rested against her thighs, his black hair falling loose over his forehead, his eyes half-shut in the dim lamplight.
Her fingers moved slowly, combing through the strands, drawing lazy patterns against his scalp. She did not speak at first. She didn't need to. He hated silence, not because it pressed against him, but because it coaxed the truths he wanted to bury.
After several minutes, Logos muttered, "What are we even doing?" His voice was flat, but his body gave away the tension in the way his fingers tapped against the rolled-up blueprint beside him.
"Getting you to fess up your worries," Lucy replied calmly. She kept stroking, her movements steady. "I know there's something on your mind."
He tilted his head slightly, peering up at her with one narrowed eye. "Are you sure you were a scholar of martial arts and not of mind reading?"
"Just call it maternal instincts." Her lips curved into a faint smile.
"You haven't married, let alone birthed," he shot back, voice dry as sandpaper.
Lucy didn't miss a beat. She looked down at him, brushing away a stray lock from his temple. "And what about this little crow, sitting in my lap?"
His eyes widened just slightly before narrowing again, and he closed them quickly to hide the reaction. But the faintest trace of color rose on his cheeks, betraying him more thoroughly than any confession.
Lucy smirked in quiet victory, but she didn't press. Not yet. She let the silence settle once more, broken only by the soft rhythm of her fingers against his hair and the faint creak of the old workshop timbers.
Finally, her voice slipped into the stillness. "It's the Crawlers, isn't it?"
His hand stilled on the blueprint. He didn't answer right away, but the slight flex of his fingers was enough.
"…You heard Desax," he said at last.
"Everyone heard Desax," she replied softly. "But you're the one who looked most uneasy. That worries me more than the Crawlers themselves."
His brow furrowed slightly, even with his eyes closed. "…The Baron of Carrel had more troops, more armors, more funding than we do. By every measure, he should have crushed them. Yet he didn't." He hesitated, then added, "And last I checked, his army has the Gable frame. The latest mass-produced unit. The nobles' pride. Nine generations beyond the Armatus. Supposed to be superior in every conceivable way."
"Maybe he was careless," Lucy suggested.
"That's highly unlikely." Logos's voice sharpened. "I may be smarter than average, but the Baron has years more experience than me in commanding men and fighting wars."
Lucy chuckled, shaking her head slightly. "You really don't know what the average aristocrat is like, do you? I guess you're still a child."
He cracked one eye open, annoyance glinting within.
"Arrogance is more common than competence," she went on with a wry smile. "Wealth dulls sharpness. Comfort rots discipline. Tell me I'm wrong."
"…Correct," Logos admitted grudgingly.
"If you know, then why worry?" she asked, her tone almost teasing.
His jaw tightened. Then he exhaled, sharp with unease. "…Because Crawlers are beasts, not tacticians. They don't field formations. They don't use strategy. They're predators—feral, straightforward. And yet they tore through his army like it was parchment."
Lucy's hand stilled for the first time, resting lightly against his head. Her expression darkened. "You sound like you've fought Crawlers before."
"No." He shook his head slightly, his eyes still closed. "I've only read accounts. They're… small compared to other mana beasts. Around five feet long. Six legs. Two bulbous red eyes on the front of their shell. The shell itself is shaped like a mountain peak, crimson markings glowing along its ridges."
She listened, her chest tightening as his voice grew low and clinical, reciting horrors like they were mere schematics.
"They swarm," he continued. "Horde mentality. Tens of thousands at once. They don't retreat. They don't negotiate. They simply flood a target until it collapses under the weight of bodies. A single crawler is easy to kill. But when there are thousands? Tens of thousands? The line breaks. And when it breaks, they devour everything—flesh, armor, even bone. They leave nothing."
For a moment, the workshop felt colder. Lucy could almost hear the scratching of countless claws against stone, smell the iron tang of blood mingled with smoke.
She forced the image away and asked quietly, "And have you made an escape plan?"
He blinked. "…What?"
"I mean," she said gently, her fingers stroking his hair again, "you're afraid. And no one will blame you for running. You're not a soldier, Logos. You don't have to be."
Something sharp flickered in his eyes at that. "I am worried, yes. But not to the point of inaction." His lips curved in a humorless smirk. "You're the only one who thinks that, mother."
Lucy froze, color rushing to her cheeks. "Did you just—?"
But he had already shifted, eyes snapping open. The dark pupils burned with a different kind of fire now, one she had seen only rarely.
"A death zone," he murmured.
She blinked. "What?"
"I'll create a trap." His voice carried the weight of certainty. "Hold them in place. Then kill them all."
The conviction in his tone chilled her more than the Crawlers' image had. For an instant, she could almost see the battlefield he envisioned—a landscape turned into a cage, fire and iron raining down, Crawlers writhing and burning by the thousands until only ash remained.
"…Bad child." She pinched his cheeks sharply, trying to break the mood. "Don't change the subject like that."
He scowled, squirming under her grip. "Ow—let go—"
Her stern glare softened into a smile. "Even if you build your death zone, you'll need more than machines. Promise me you won't forget that."
He muttered something inaudible, refusing to meet her eyes. But after a long pause, he nodded.
Lucy sighed in relief, her hand finding his hair again. He closed his eyes once more, letting her rhythm lull him.
For tonight, at least, the Crawlers could remain a shadow.
But both of them knew: soon, shadows would become reality.