Relten Territory
The chamber of Count Relten smelled faintly of wine and ink, the fire casting long shadows across the vaulted stone ceiling. Sous Angelus leaned forward in his chair, the lamplight catching the faint copper shine of his hair. His eyes, bright and restless, fixed on the man across from him.
"Logos Laos?" Sous repeated, as though tasting the name. "As far as I heard, he is the same age as me."
"Correct," Relten said, swirling the contents of his goblet. "The boy inherited Laos after his father abandoned the post. Now, word spreads he's… mobilized his people. Building something they call a fortress. A bastion against the Crawlers."
Sous's brows furrowed. "You mean it's actually true."
Relten inclined his head. "Yes. He is using the refugees as labor."
Sous leaned back slowly, disbelief tinged with distaste. "You mean he is taking advantage of all those people—men and women who have nowhere else to go?"
"Yes."
"Opportunistic behavior aside," Sous said, his voice low, "why would he attempt such madness? No fortress has ever stood against the Crimson Peak Crawlers. He will only die."
Relten's usual laziness fell away, his eyes tightening. "That is why I said you should see for yourself. The reports are fragmentary, but the boy is not ordinary."
Sous's fingers drummed against the table, thoughtful. "Yes, I've heard whispers. They say he has built machines unlike any seen in our time. Machines that carve stone as easily as knives cut bread. Even a new kind of armored frame."
"Yes." Relten's tone was grave. "He has a mind that seems to see further than ordinary measures."
Sous's gaze sharpened. "And was this the reason you stopped pressing into Laos' lands?"
Relten allowed himself a small smile. "Your insight is as impressive as ever. Duke Angelus must be proud."
Sous's mouth tightened, and his eyes flicked like blades. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Count."
"I am being sincere," Relten replied. His goblet lowered, his voice steady. "If I had the ability, I would have raised at least one youth like you… or like him. Someone capable of pushing the world forward."
Sous exhaled slowly, leaning into the firelight. "All that brilliance, yet nothing but an empty heart. If what you say is true, this Logos Laos sounds less like a leader and more like a tyrant."
Relten said nothing, but the silence itself felt like agreement.
Laos Territory
The command tent smelled of parchment, sweat, and burnt oil. Logos sat at the center, hunched over a map dotted with pieces of carved wood and bone. His hands moved with restless energy, adjusting lines, angles, tokens.
"They think I am competing with Sous Angelus?" he asked without looking up.
"Yeah," Kleber said from his seat near the table. "You are attempting something that has never been done in the history of fortress building. Just like Sous—who bested his father and three knights in a formal duel, some of the best in the kingdom."
"Sounds like something out of a story," Logos muttered, sliding a piece across the map.
"It might as well be," Kleber replied. "He is gifted not only in swordsmanship but also has mastery over fire, lightning, and ice magic."
"And instead of using those gifts to advance technology," Logos said sharply, "he is running around swinging them at beasts. He sounds like an idiot."
"My lord, with all due respect," Kleber said carefully, "not everyone wants to bury themselves in sheets and gears."
"All that strength," Logos said coldly, "and nothing in his head. A glory seeker, drunk on applause."
Lucy, who had remained silent until now, folded her arms. Her gaze was steady, searching. "Careful, Logos. You sound jealous."
"I am not jealous," he said flatly, setting another piece in place. "I am… confused. Someone with gifts so rare should not waste them on theatrics. Fighting Crawlers with a sword changes nothing. Mana-beasts are endless. No human can cut them all down in one lifetime. But a fortress—a machine—an idea that endures? That is what matters."
Kleber chuckled faintly, though the sound lacked humor. "And yet, the people sing his name in taverns while cursing yours in the work pits."
"They can sing all they want," Logos replied, his tone like steel on stone. "Results speak for themselves."
The tent fell into silence. Lucy studied him, her face caught between awe and worry. Kleber looked down, lips pressing tight.
Then Logos broke the silence with a grin sharp as glass. "Besides, if they refuse to work, we can always shoot the refugees and use their bodies to poison the Crawlers."
Lucy immediately swatted him, tugging at his cheek like a scolding sister. "Bad child."
"My lord," Kleber muttered, eyes narrowing, "I don't think the soldiers have the heart for that."
Logos only smirked, though his eyes slid back toward the looming plans.
That Night
The camp had quieted to a restless murmur, fires burning low across the trenches. Soldiers polished weapons. Refugees collapsed into makeshift shelters. But Logos stood alone in the construction yard, the stars dim above him.
Before him loomed the armor—the giant frame he had been designing in secret. Not yet finished, but towering all the same, its surface gleamed under the pale light of rune-lamps.
Logos laid a hand against its cold steel and muttered under his breath. "Everything fades. But steel remains."
His words vanished into the night air, swallowed by the silence of ambition.
Far away, in Relten's keep, Sous Angelus stood at the edge of a balcony. The wind tugged at his cloak, the moonlight painting his sharp features in silver. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a weapon polished by both blood and legend.
He looked westward, toward a land he had never seen but now could not ignore. His breath left in a whisper.
"The night never lasts forever."
Two youths. Two prodigies. Two stars.
Neither yet aware of how closely their fates had begun to circle.
One believed in valor, the other in survival.
One held a sword, the other a map.
And between them stretched a land soon to drown in blood and Crawlers.