"Huh, I could really get used to this," one of the younger knights murmured, stretching his arms as he lay back on the woven carpet. He looked far too comfortable on the borrowed blankets, his boots kicked carelessly aside.
The brazier in the tent guttered, throwing a faint orange glow across their faces. Outside, voices drifted from the larger camp—laughter, boots crunching on gravel, the distant clang of a smith hammering late into the night.
Desax ignored the remark. He had just returned from washing, the cold water doing little to clear his mind. He dried his face with a strip of cloth and began fastening his tunic.
"Strategist."
The voice came from the older knight—broad shouldered, with the weathered calm of a man who had seen battlefields long before the Crawlers arrived.
"What?" Desax replied, a touch sharper than he intended.
The knight leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Lord Sous doesn't see eye to eye with Lord Logos. That much is plain. So I wanted to ask…" His voice dipped lower, cautious. "What about our lord? How does he look at him?"
The question froze the air in the tent.
Desax glanced toward the entrance, his eyes narrowing. The canvas walls rustled faintly with the night wind. Outside, a patrol passed, their boots thudding in practiced rhythm.
He said nothing. Not yet. Instead, he rose and moved to the flap of the pavilion, lifting it slightly. His gaze swept the shadows beyond—torches set along the lanes, sentries pacing their rounds, and here and there Angelus soldiers laughing over dice.
No one lingered close enough to hear.
Still, Desax waited. A full fifteen minutes passed, his men shifting impatiently, before he returned to the circle of cushions.
"Keep an eye and ear out," Desax said at last, his voice low, hard. "If someone so much as breathes near this tent, I want to know."
The knights stiffened. The younger ones, sensing the gravity in his tone, straightened and listened like hounds catching a scent.
"You ask how Lord Logos looks at Lord Sous?" Desax continued, folding his hands in front of him. His eyes fixed on the brazier, watching smoke curl upward into the dark. "Then listen well. But understand: what I say here stays here. If a word leaves this tent, it won't only be your head—it will be mine."
The younger knights nodded, their boyish bravado stripped away by the weight in his voice. Even the grumbler—the same one who had been joking about feather beds only an hour ago—pressed his lips together, silent.
Desax drew in a slow breath. "Our lord does not hate Sous Angelus. That is the first thing to know. He does not waste himself on hate. He sees Sous as… a piece on the board. Powerful, yes. Wealthy, yes. Born to command, yes. But also—" he paused, choosing carefully, as though the wrong word might summon consequences from the very air—"as a glory-seeking idiot."
One of the younger knights frowned. "Idiot?"
Desax's gaze sharpened, cutting across the group. "He sees Sous as someone who would rather swing a sword than use his gifts for something greater. Someone who lives for the charge, the clash, the cry of victory. Not for what comes after."
The older knight's brows furrowed. "And his talents?"
"Wasted," Desax said. "A tri-elemental affinity, rare as diamonds, spent on the battlefield alone. Our lord says it is like using a master's chisel to pound nails. The tool works, yes—but the art is squandered."
The grumbler gave a short, uneasy laugh. "Sounds just like him. Cold. Calculating. Like the future was a ledger, and men were coin to be tallied."
The brazier popped, sparks spitting briefly.
Desax's jaw tightened, but he did not deny it. "Yes. Just like him."
The admission landed heavy in the tent. The younger knights shifted uneasily, glancing at one another. They all knew it—knew how Logos looked at the world, how he measured lives by survival rather than valor, how he chose necessity over nobility. Hearing it aloud, though, stripped away any illusions they still clung to.
For a moment no one spoke. The only sound was the soft hiss of coals and the distant cheer of men outside toasting their lord.
Then the younger knight—the one who had stretched so easily, talking of comfort—asked in a hushed voice, "But strategist… if he thinks Sous is a fool, why are we here? Why send you at all?"
Desax turned his head slowly, fixing him with a stare that silenced the room. "Because even fools can topple kingdoms. And our lord will not ignore a man whose sword draws men to his banner."
The knight swallowed hard and said nothing more.
"Someone is coming," the older knight murmured suddenly, his ears pricking. He had heard something—boots crunching, voices hushed.
The tent flap stirred, and a young squire ducked inside, bowing quickly. "Lord Sous wishes to meet you."
Desax and his men rose as one. The sudden shift of posture was almost relief—they had been sitting too long with thoughts heavier than steel.
"Only you," the squire added, his eyes flicking nervously across the group.
Desax adjusted his cloak, his face unreadable. "Stay here," he told his men. His tone left no room for debate.
They bowed their heads, though he could see unease flicker in their eyes.
As Desax followed the squire into the cool night air, he cast one last glance back at the tent. Inside, his men lingered in silence, their expressions grim. The brazier light painted their faces with flickering shadows, making them look older, harder.
He wondered how much of his words they truly believed—and how much of them they feared.
Then the flap fell shut behind him, cutting off the warmth and leaving only the crisp night air, the glow of a hundred torches, and the path that led straight toward Sous Angelus.