The fields west of Laos had never seen such movement. What once was idle grassland now churned beneath boots, hooves, and wagon wheels. Smoke rose from makeshift cookfires, voices carried over the wind, and the air was filled with the rough rhythm of pickaxes striking soil.
It was no longer a plain. It was becoming a camp—a place where hundreds of displaced souls were gathered, pressed into service by the will of a boy who refused to yield to fear.
Logos stood on a raised wooden platform, arms folded, watching with eyes as sharp as black glass. Behind him, Bal, Masen, Kleber, Lucy, and Desax lingered, each with their own expression of unease or approval.
"Refugees," Logos began, his amplified voice carrying across the field. "You have come here seeking food, shelter, and protection. You will have them. But nothing in this world is free. Your hands, your backs, your beasts—these are your payment."
A ripple went through the crowd. Men glanced at each other uneasily, women clutched their children closer, and several old farmers looked ready to argue.
Logos raised a hand, and at his gesture, soldiers shifted, rifles gleaming in the daylight. The murmurs died quickly.
"Four months from now," Logos continued, "a horde of Crawlers will reach these lands. They will not care for your hunger. They will not care for your grief. They will tear through your families as easily as they tore through Baron Carrel's army. The only hope of survival is here—" he pointed to the dirt at his feet, "—what we build together. Trenches, forts, fire-pits, walls. If you can carry, you will carry. If you can dig, you will dig. If you can cut, you will cut. Men, women, beasts—every hand, every hoof, every claw has a place. Refuse, and you condemn not only yourselves, but everyone around you."
Silence hung heavy. Then someone shouted from the back, a thin, angry voice. "You're a child! You can't order us like slaves!"
Logos' gaze cut toward the man. Slowly, deliberately, he pointed. A soldier beside the heckler raised his rifle and cocked it with an audible click.
The crowd stiffened.
"I am not your master," Logos said, his tone flat. "I am your accountant. I tally cost and debt. If you eat my food, if you rest under my roof, you incur debt. If you wish to leave, the road is open. If you stay, you will pay."
The man who had shouted looked around, found no ally among the refugees, and slunk back into the crowd.
Bal let out a low whistle. "Cold, boy. Very cold."
"Effective," Logos corrected.
Masen's beard twitched with disapproval, but he said nothing.
Lucy, however, placed her hands on her hips and muttered loud enough for the officers to hear. "Sometimes I wonder if you were born without a heart."
Logos didn't answer. He had already turned to the officers waiting at the base of the platform. "Divide them into crews," he ordered. "Ten per unit. Assign one overseer from our soldiers to each. Any beasts of burden—oxen, horses, even stray dogs—are to be counted and used. Men and women will dig. Children above eight will haul water and wood. The elderly will cook and mend. No one will idle."
The officers saluted and dispersed, barking commands. Soldiers began corralling the refugees into lines. Within minutes, the field transformed into rows of working groups, each marked with chalk numbers on scraps of wood.
Masen stepped forward, lowering his voice. "This will breed resentment. Desperate people don't take well to orders delivered at gunpoint."
Logos looked at him, unblinking. "Desperate people take even less well to starvation. Or death by Crawlers. Resentment is a luxury they cannot afford. And neither can we."
Desax, watching with his arms crossed, finally spoke. "You are correct. But you must balance severity with reward. If you give them no reason to believe their work matters, they will break. Promise them something tangible—food, security, coin after the horde is broken. Without it, discipline will rot."
Logos considered this, then gave a curt nod. "Each day of work earns a full meal. Each week earns additional rations or coin, depending on performance. Crews who complete tasks ahead of schedule will eat meat, not just gruel. Those who fail…" His gaze swept the crowd. "They will be the first to starve."
Kleber muttered, "Ah, the carrot and the stick. Mostly the stick."
Lucy glared at him. "Don't encourage him."
By midday, the system was in motion. Trenches were marked with wooden stakes, and lines of men and women dug into the soil with crude shovels. Wagons of stone and timber were unloaded under soldier supervision. Children hauled buckets of water from the river, stumbling under the weight but cheered on by their mothers. Old men sharpened tools and patched worn clothing, while the few healers among them tended to blistered hands.
From his platform, Logos watched it all with the gaze of a commander, calculating. Every hour shaved from construction was another hour of life preserved.
At one point, Lucy climbed up beside him, her face tight. "They hate you."
"I know."
"Some of them will curse your name until they die."
Logos' eyes remained on the field. "So long as they die after the horde is broken, I will accept their curses."
Lucy's hand twitched, as though she wanted to strike him, but instead she sighed and leaned against the railing. "One day, Logos, you'll need more than fear to keep people moving. One day, you'll need their love."
"I don't need their love," he replied flatly. "I need their labor."
And with that, he turned back to his battlefield-to-be, where sweat and soil mingled, where hope and bitterness clashed with every shovel of dirt. The death zone was taking shape—born not only of wood and stone, but of the iron will of a boy who refused to bend.