Desax had thought he was prepared.
He had walked through fire and ruin, seen villages gutted, families devoured, fields drowned in blood. He had seen Armors reduced to twisted hulks and men reduced to pale husks. He thought there was little left in the world that could surprise him.
But as he crested the final ridge and the Angelus encampment spread out beneath him, he realized he had been wrong.
The camp was not a fortress of stone like Laos, nor a shantytown of desperate survivors. It was something altogether different—a kingdom uprooted and planted in the wasteland.
Glinting banners caught the wind, each embroidered with the golden crest of the Angelus line. Hundreds of tents stood in neat formation, not ragged shelters of patched canvas but broad pavilion-houses, dyed crimson and white, marked with sigils of command and rank. Wooden walkways had been laid down to keep boots from the mud, and braziers burned bright even in daylight, casting warmth and smoke across the camp.
And everywhere—everywhere—there was steel.
Knights drilled in ordered squares, their armor polished until it shone like mirrors. Blacksmiths worked openly in forges, sparks flying as they hammered replacement parts. Columns of horses stamped the earth, barding clinking as squires tended them.
But none of it compared to the machines.
The Cardinals.
Desax froze when he saw them.
They stood in the heart of the camp like a cathedral choir, twenty of them at least. Where the Ferous of Laos were all raw iron and brutality—hulking machines built to smash and grind—the Cardinals were elegance incarnate. Their frames were sleek, balanced, almost knightly in silhouette. Every joint was covered in gilded plates etched with runes. Their helms bore crests like plumed visors, and their weapons were not brutal axes or ungainly cannons, but greatswords, spears, and lances forged as though for giants.
For a moment, he hated them.
Hated how polished, how perfect, how untouched they looked compared to the scarred hulks that defended Laos.
But beneath the hate, he could not deny the awe.
The column was halted at the outer perimeter. Angelus soldiers approached—knights in half-plate, plumes of crimson and gold bobbing as they walked. Their weapons gleamed; even their boots looked new.
"State your purpose," the captain barked.
"I come from Baron Laos's fortress," Desax said, holding up the sealed case. "With a message for Lord Sous Angelus himself."
The captain's eyes flicked to the Armors that flanked Desax—ten Ferous hulks, their plating scarred, soot- and blood-streaked like butchers who had just finished a grim slaughter. The captain's lips curled faintly. Disdain, or pity, Desax could not tell.
"You will wait," the knight said curtly. He gestured to his men. "Escort them in. Confiscate weapons, keep their machines outside."
One of the Ferous pilots bristled over the amplifier. "Like hell we'll—"
"Stand down," Desax snapped, cutting him short. "We are guests. Act like it."
The walk through the camp was almost painful.
Everywhere Desax looked, he saw order and abundance. Soldiers sat at long tables eating warm meals, with bread and meat, not thin soup. Armorers worked on spare parts as though they had infinite steel. Children ran between the tents—refugees perhaps, but dressed and fed, playing without fear.
For the first time in weeks, Desax saw smiles.
And for the first time in weeks, he felt something like resentment curdle in his gut.
They reached the central pavilion.
It was vast, more palace than tent, its entrance lined with crimson drapes embroidered with golden lions. Inside, the floor was carpeted, the air warm with incense. Guards lined the walls, their armor flawless, their eyes cold.
At the far end, seated not upon a throne but a simple chair beside a map-laden table, was Sous Angelus.
Desax had heard the stories. The prodigy of sixteen years. The son of the Duke. The Kingdom's golden youth.
But stories had not prepared him.
Sous, despite being the same age as Logos, radiated something altogether different. His features were sharp, his hair pale gold, his armor a masterwork of crimson steel polished to brilliance. Yet his eyes—when they lifted to Desax—were heavy, burning with an intensity far older than sixteen.
Desax stopped before him, bowed slightly, and held out the sealed case.
"From Baron Laos," he said.
Sous took it, broke the wax, and read. His expression did not change. When he finished, he folded the parchment carefully, set it aside, and regarded Desax again.
"So," Sous said softly, his voice clear and commanding despite its calmness. "You are the envoy."
"Yes, my lord."
"Before you begin, I would like to ask something about the man you call your master."
At that name, Desax felt the warmth of the fire ebb from his skin.
"What about him, my lord?" he asked, his voice calm but edged.
Sous leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"We've been hearing things. Stories. Whispers that spread faster than runners. About what he does in the Laos barony." His words carried no malice, only weight. "Some say he shoots deserters on the spot. Others say he works his people like slaves, putting even women and children to the shovel. They say…" He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "They say he eats the Crawlers he kills."
The words dropped like stones in a pond.
The pavilion went silent. Even the guards shifted faintly, watching Desax.
"Before I answer, my lord," Desax said slowly, "I want to ask—what do you believe?"
Sous's gaze did not waver.
"They say that, just like me, he's held against more than twenty hordes, without losing his walls—something no one else in the history of the fortress has done." He exhaled, steady but sharp. "But we have also heard these other things. Things that do not sound like he's saving his people, but rather that he's… changing them. Into something else." His hand rested lightly on the hilt of the sword at his side, not in threat, but in instinct. "Now, then. Your turn. Tell me how much of it is true."
Desax inhaled slowly through his nose.
Logos's methods weren't secrets to him—he'd seen them firsthand. The work crews, the rifles pressed against trembling backs, the brutal efficiency that tolerated no weakness. He knew the rumors weren't exaggerations.
And yet, standing in front of men who had never set foot in Laos, he felt a strange frustration building. They spoke of Logos as though he were a monster, despite seeing what the Crawlers did to villages.
"I'll tell you this much, my lord," Desax said at last, his tone flat. "Not everything you've heard is true."
A ripple went through the room. Several knights shifted, eyebrows rising.
Sous's eyes narrowed, but not with anger—with curiosity.
"Then tell me," he said, his voice as steady as a drawn bowstring, "which parts are."
Desax looked him in the eye.
And for the first time since leaving Laos, he realized he stood not just between two men, but between two visions of the future.