The Angelus camp was a city by torchlight.
From a distance, it looked like a sprawl of fireflies across the night plain. Rows of banners stirred faintly in the cool wind, the emblems of Angelus catching the glow of hundreds of braziers. Smoke from cookfires drifted above the camp, rich with the smell of roasted meat, spiced stews, and baked bread. Laughter echoed across the lanes, the sound of dice clattering against wooden bowls, the lilting notes of a bard's lute. It was a place of war—but it did not feel like war.
To Desax, it was a world apart.
He and his contingent had been given a guest's pavilion—no bare canvas lean-to like the ragged shelters the Laos refugees slept under, but a broad tent with carpets underfoot, braziers to drive away the chill, and blankets thick enough to feel sinful. For the first time in months, the stink of blood and rot was drowned beneath incense.
The food they were served was almost obscene in its richness: roast meat carved into steaming slices, loaves of dark bread hot from the oven, bowls of olives, watered wine glinting red in silvered cups.
Some of his men fell on it greedily, tearing at the meat like starved wolves. Others ate in silence, their eyes darting suspiciously around the pavilion, as though traps might be hidden under every platter.
Desax himself took only a mouthful. The flavor sat heavy on his tongue, sweet and oily, cloying after months of porridge and dried root. He pushed the plate away.
This was the trap, he realized. Not gold, not titles. Comfort. Warmth. The luxury of forgetting.
And comfort was the most dangerous trap of all.
"Sir," one of the Ferous pilots muttered. He crouched near Desax, his broad shoulders hunched like a man unused to tents with ceilings so high. His voice was low, meant for Desax alone. "These people… they don't live like we do. Look at them. Drinking. Laughing. Like the Crawlers aren't even real."
"Well, what can we do?" Desax replied, just as softly. "Lord Sous, by the virtue of his birth, is one of the richest men in the kingdom. He was raised in a hall where each meal was a feast, where music never ceased. We"—he gestured at the pilots, the armored guards, the weary refugees who guided them—"we only had enough that we could sleep with our stomachs full."
One of the pilots scowled, tearing off a hunk of bread. "It's wrong. It's—" He cut off sharply as bootsteps approached.
Two Angelus squires ducked inside. Both were young, their armor polished but clearly ceremonial, their faces still soft with adolescence. They bore fresh pitchers of wine, their eyes bright with curiosity as they glanced at the Laos men.
"You are welcome here," the taller one said, his voice carrying the smooth cadence of rehearsal. "Lord Sous wishes you to rest well. Should you desire anything—food, drink, or…" He hesitated, glancing toward the soldiers. "Company—there are always attendants ready."
One of Desax's men chuckled low. Another smirked, his gaze sharpening with interest.
Desax felt his stomach knot. This was no simple courtesy. This was a probe, a test wrapped in velvet. Temptation paraded as generosity. To see what sort of men Laos had sent. To see where they cracked.
"No," Desax said firmly, rising just enough to put steel in his voice. "We have eaten enough. We will rest."
The squires bowed, their smiles thin, and withdrew.
When they were gone, one of the younger soldiers muttered, "I could've used a bit of company…"
Desax rounded on him. "And wake to find half the camp whispering that the Laos men are gluttons? Fools? Or worse—traitors with their tongues loosened by wine and flesh?" His palm slammed down on the table, rattling plates and cups. "You forget where we are. This is not our home. This is not safety. This is a den of lions. One mistake, one word out of place, and you will be bled for sport."
The young soldier's face paled. He lowered his head, shame burning on his cheeks.
Beyond the canvas walls came the faint strains of music. A bard plucked a lute in a merry tune, his voice rising in a song that spoke of battles long past and lovers waiting at home. To the men of Laos—who had not heard music in months—it was more alien than the Crawlers themselves.
Desax let the silence stretch, his eyes sweeping his men, weighing them one by one. He needed them to feel it: the danger in every cup, every smile.
Only when he saw their shoulders settle, their smirks vanish, did he speak again, his voice low and deliberate.
"They want us to envy them," he said. "They want us to wonder why we serve a man who eats Crawlers while Sous Angelus eats venison. They want us to question. To doubt. To weaken." He leaned forward, fingers steepled like a knife's edge. "Do not. Do not give them the satisfaction."
The men shifted uncomfortably. One or two nodded. But Desax could feel the questions still gnawing behind their eyes.
The oldest Ferous pilot, his beard touched with gray, cleared his throat. "And what of you, strategist? You turn away food. You turn away drink. You warn us against their women. But can you turn away the thought? The thought that maybe they live better because their way is better?"
A dangerous question. The kind that spread if not cut at the root.
Desax's face hardened. "Do I have to explain this again? Living this way requires riches built through generations. Castles, coffers, libraries of scrolls, fleets of merchants fat with trade. We don't have that." He let the words hang, then jabbed a finger into the table. "What we have is a man willing to sit at our level. To eat the filth we eat, fight in the mud we fight, bleed as we bleed. Many have it worse than us. That is what binds us. That is why we live."
The grey-bearded pilot studied him a long moment, then gave a slow nod.
Desax leaned back, though his chest was tight. He could feel their eyes still weighing him, still yearning for the warmth outside these canvas walls. And in his own mind, a quiet whisper echoed: What if?
What if Sous's way was stronger? What if law and luxury could indeed shield men better than fear and fire?
He crushed the thought before it could bloom. To indulge it, even in silence, was to betray the pitiless truth he had seen with his own eyes: villages gone in a night, walls torn down by swarms, noble banners gnawed to shreds.
No banquet ever stopped a crawler.
And Logos, for all his strangeness, had.