The pavilion was quieter than the rest of the camp. Where most of Sous's men drank, sang, and clattered dice on overturned shields, here the air was taut, stripped of indulgence. Two guards stood by the entrance—faces expressionless, armor polished, spears gleaming. They did not move, not even when Desax passed between them. They simply watched.
At the squire's gesture, Desax stepped inside. The flap closed behind him, muffling the sounds of revelry.
The chamber's warmth was immediate—braziers burned hotter here, the flames steady, contained. There was no incense to sweeten the air, only the smells of parchment, wax, and sharpened steel.
Lord Sous Angelus sat at a low table, alone. No courtiers, no advisors, no squires. Just him, the glow of firelight gilding his golden hair, his posture relaxed but sharpened by the weight of command.
"You came," Sous said. His voice was even, carrying the casual certainty of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
Desax bowed with deliberate precision, not too deep, not too shallow. "You summoned me."
Sous's gaze was direct, unreadable. He gestured to the table.
There it lay: the scroll Desax had carried across half-ruined lands, hidden beneath false bundles of rations, tucked among travel-worn maps. The seal had already been broken. The parchment's edges curled faintly where the wax had split.
"This," Sous said, tapping the parchment with one long finger, "is what I wanted to speak of."
Desax moved closer, though he did not sit until Sous inclined his head in permission. Only then did he lower himself onto the cushions opposite the young lord, his eyes flicking briefly to the map.
It was no grand tapestry of cartography, no lavish work of scholars. It was precise, functional, stripped of artistry. A dozen sites marked across the kingdom—ruined fortresses, forgotten monasteries, ancient forests, and nameless villages now swallowed by time. Each bore a symbol, small but deliberate.
"The possible resting places of the Sire," Sous said at last, his tone measured, as if each word weighed a blade. "So your master claims."
"If you are questioning the authenticity, Lord Sous," Desax said evenly, "rest assured—my lord does not gamble with empty rumor."
Sous studied him with eyes that glinted in the firelight. His lips curved faintly, though whether in amusement or disdain Desax could not tell. "So you would have me believe that Baron Laos knows better than the scholars of three duchies? That he has divined what wiser men could not?"
"With my experience as his aide," Desax replied without hesitation, "I can confirm—my lord has a habit of doing the unexpected."
A silence followed. Not hostile, not yet—but sharp enough to cut.
Sous's fingertips brushed the map's edge, lingering. "Your master claims these ruins hide the heart of our enemy. That somewhere, buried beneath forgotten stone, lies the Sire itself. Tell me, strategist—do you believe this?"
There it was. Not Logos's conviction, but Desax's. A test of loyalty—or of independence.
Desax leaned forward slightly. His hands folded before him, precise, controlled. "Belief is irrelevant, Lord Sous. The Crawlers spread in patterns, not chaos. Their conquests are uneven. One valley is scoured to bone while another, equally defensible, remains untouched. Fortresses fall in a chain, not a scatter. Villages are consumed along invisible lines. There is a logic beneath their hunger. This map is not prophecy—it is probability. And probability is enough to act."
Sous's eyes narrowed slightly, though not in anger. The firelight caught on them, making them gleam. "So you admit it. A gamble."
"A calculated risk," Desax corrected, his tone like a knife edge. "And better than what any other lord, scholar, or commander has offered so far—which is nothing."
Sous chuckled softly, though there was little mirth in it. "You speak as though war were a board game. As though men's lives are counters to be moved and discarded."
Desax did not flinch. "And do you not? Every command you give sends men to die. Every victory you win builds its foundation on graves. The only difference between you and my lord is this: he does not pretend the game is anything else."
The words lingered in the hot air, daring a response.
Sous's smile was faint, sharp. "So the rumors are true. Laos breeds wolves, not sheep." He leaned back, his fingers steepled. "But tell me this—if you were the one holding the sword, would you be content to fight for a chance? To bleed for a probability?"
Desax held his gaze, steady. "I would, if that chance were the only path forward."
For a heartbeat, their eyes locked—knight and strategist, firelight dancing between them. Sous, radiant with youthful certainty. Desax, cool with calculated resolve.
Sous finally looked down at the map again. "Suppose I accept this. Suppose I ride for one of these marks. If I fail, if the Sire is not there, my men will call me reckless. They will say I chased shadows."
Desax's voice was calm. "And if you succeed, they will call you savior. History does not remember the failures of the dead. Only the triumphs of the living."
Sous let out a slow breath through his nose, neither agreement nor rejection. He was weighing, measuring, just as surely as Desax had known he would.
"Tell me something, strategist," Sous said at last. "This map—does it come from your lord's genius? Or from… another source?"
Desax's lips twitched faintly, though he did not smile. "I cannot answer that, my lord. Not truthfully. Not without betraying more than my station allows."
Sous studied him for a long moment. Then, with deliberate care, he rolled the parchment closed and bound it with a strip of leather.
"Very well," he said. "You have given me much to think on. But remember this, strategist of Laos: valor is not a coin to be tallied. It is the fire by which men endure. Perhaps your master sees only pieces on a board. But I…" He rose, the brazier's glow catching in his hair like a halo. "…I intend to win not only by chance, but by faith."
Desax stood as well, bowing once more. His face was composed, but inside he felt the weight of the gulf between them. Two visions of war. Two roads forward.
Outside, the camp roared with laughter and song. But in the pavilion, only the firelight spoke—casting long, twisting shadows across the map of forgotten places.
The Map of Shadows.
And for the first time since leaving Laos, Desax wondered which of them would be right.