The report spread like fire through the courts of the Kingdom.
What had once been tavern-talk, whispered speculation by soldiers and frightened refugees, was now confirmed by scholars, engineers, and even the royal naturalists: the Crawlers were being driven not merely by instinct, but by command.
A Crawler Sire.
Born once in centuries, the creature was said to be larger than a keep's tower, its body bloated with glands that excreted pheromones stronger than steel or spell. One secretion alone could enslave hundreds of hordes, weaving them into a single, coordinated host. Unlike the mindless tides of the past, this hive obeyed its master's will with unity. The Sire did not simply drive them toward prey—it orchestrated extinction.
In the halls of the nobility, men and women who once mocked the "Laos fortress folly" now bit their tongues. Rumors grew barbed: had the Laos boy known? Was he building his strange fortress to bait the Sire itself? And what of Sous Angelus, the golden child of war—could even his sword fell a monster so ancient?
For the first time in a hundred years, the Kingdom's lords felt something colder than disdain. They felt fear.
In Laos territory, Logos stood in his command chamber, pale candlelight licking across the maps. The messenger had ridden for three days, face haggard, voice trembling as he delivered the researchers' conformation.
"I see," Logos said simply, as if the discovery of a world-ending predator were no more than a market update. "You have come far. Please rest before leaving."
He dismissed the messenger, and Desax—ever silent, ever sharp—took the weary man by the shoulder and led him to quarters.
Lucy, who had been listening, frowned at Logos. "That's all you have to say?"
He didn't look up from the table. His hands worked a compass and quill, adjusting arcs across a map cluttered with red and black pins.
"Words," Logos said at last, "do not kill monsters. Numbers do."
Lucy pressed her lips together, but said nothing more.
Three weeks later, Laos was drenched in rain. Water streamed down the trenches, poured off the unfinished ramparts, turned the earth into sucking mud that dragged at boots and wheels alike. Still, the people labored. Refugees with blistered palms. Soldiers with rusted mail. The fortress rose one stone at a time, stubbornly, defiantly.
Inside the central hall, Logos prepared a sealed case.
"Have Desax deliver this to Sous Angelus," he said without looking up.
Kleber, looming nearby with arms folded, scowled. "My lord, our hands are full here. Every rider, every arm, every hour matters. Sending Desax away for some scrap of parchment—"
"I will sacrifice some sleep to cover for him," Logos interrupted. His tone was cool, absolute. "Besides, it's just a message. He doesn't have to keep company with that spoiled child of victory."
Kleber grunted. He hated the way Logos dismissed Sous so casually. Everyone had heard the rumors—Sous Angelus cutting through three hordes in a single day, Sous Angelus leading relief to starving cities, Sous Angelus the golden prodigy. To Kleber, the comparison between the Laos boy and the Duke's son was a knife constantly hanging above his lord's neck.
But Logos gave no sign of envy or worry. Only calculation.
Lucy, perched on the window ledge, spoke with narrowed eyes. "You are planning something, aren't you?"
"Many things, actually," Logos replied. He sealed the case with wax, then held it out to Desax. "But you will have to wait to see."
Desax took the message with a short bow. "I will depart at the earliest, my lord."
His words were simple, but his voice carried a soldier's iron. He would not fail.
Far from Laos, Sous Angelus drilled his knights upon a field still blackened with Crawler blood. The wind carried the scent of ash and ichor, but the men still trained, sweat steaming beneath their armor.
"My lord," one of his officers approached, carrying a scroll bound in red. "An assignment from the Crown has arrived."
Sous didn't even turn. "Reject it."
The officer blinked. "My lord?"
Sous drove White Tiger into the ground, wiping sweat from his brow. His crimson armor gleamed even in the dying light. "I said reject it. We have no time for petty errands. This plague must be cut at its root."
The officer cleared his throat. "The assignment is… exactly that."
Sous froze. Slowly, he turned, shame flickering across his face. "Oh. I see. Forgive me—I spoke in haste."
The knights around him chuckled softly, the tension easing. One, a broad-shouldered veteran, stepped forward with a smile. "My lord, you need not stress yourself. If you are here, we will win."
Sous exhaled heavily, forcing a smile. He knew they saw him as invincible, unbreakable. The prodigy of the age. But each night, when the campfires burned low and the moans of wounded men echoed in the dark, he felt the weight pressing harder.
Another knight strode in at that moment, helm tucked beneath his arm. His face was grim.
"My lord," he said, voice carrying the gravity of doom, "another horde is on the horizon."
There was silence.
Sous straightened, shoulders squaring, cloak whipping in the wind. His eyes burned.
"Armor up!" he commanded, his voice ringing across the camp.
And the knights cheered.
Two figures.
One in crimson steel, sword flashing, bearing the weight of hope like a crown.
The other in black leathers, face cold as stone, building walls of fire and steel with hands that never shook.
Both youths. Both prodigies. Both staring into the maw of extinction.
And somewhere in the dark, far from both fortress and battlefield, something stirred beneath the earth. A chitinous body bloated with power. Glands pulsing, releasing a mist that traveled unseen through soil and air.
The Sire.
And its children answered.