Sous Angelus could not sleep.
The reports piled on his desk, their seals broken, their words blurring together. Scouts, knights, villagers — each retelling the same horror in different tongues.
And now, a definitive sighting.
The Crawler Sire.
The message had arrived at dusk: a band of knights stationed at the ridge near Drene had seen it with their own eyes. A shadow vast enough to blot out the moon, its carapace scarred with centuries of battle, mandibles clashing with a sound like thunder. The ground had shuddered beneath its weight.
Most of the knights were dead. The few survivors staggered back, half-mad, muttering of "a black mountain that moved."
Sous had read their testimony thrice, and each time his hands clenched tighter.
So it was true. The Sire was not a myth, not a story for campfires. It was here, prowling the very lands where Logos' map had led them.
Coincidence was dead.
The boy had known.
Sous stood abruptly, knocking ink across the desk. His reflection glared back at him in the darkened window: sharp eyes, pale skin drawn taut by sleepless nights. He looked less like a commander, more like a hunted thing.
The thought struck him, unbidden: What if he has seen my path too?
Sous shook his head violently. No. That way lay madness. Yet even as he denied it, the seed of paranoia grew. Logos was sixteen, a boy in years but not in mind. If foresight truly burned behind those ink-black eyes, then every step Sous took, every decision he made, might already be written in that boy's hand.
Was he climbing toward glory—or walking willingly into a script not his own?
His quill snapped between his fingers again. He cursed, then froze, staring at the ink spreading across the parchment like veins of corruption.
He thought of Chancellor Frankfort. The old spider would pounce on this rumor if it reached him, weaving it into chains of patronage and whispers. A boy with foresight could topple kingdoms—or build one.
Sous' jaw set. If Logos was truly gifted, then the world would not permit him to remain a baron's son. He would be a weapon. A prize. Or a threat to be ended.
The Crawler Sire, the endless hordes—these no longer seemed the greatest peril. It was the boy in Laos, and the shadow of what he might become.
Sous leaned heavily on the desk, his breath slow, deliberate. "I must decide," he whispered to the silence. "Before others decide for me."
Far from that chamber of ink and paranoia, Laos Fortress lived on.
The night air was thick with the tang of coal smoke and the salt of boiling broth. Torches lined the walls, where sentries watched the plains, their shadows stretching long.
In a chamber near the fortress heart, a lamp flickered over another shared meal.
Lucy set down a second tray, this one simpler than before: flatbread with roasted beans, a pitcher of clean water, and dried fruits from the last supply run. Logos sat waiting, hands folded neatly, eyes black pools that reflected the flame.
"You've been working again," Lucy said, seating herself. "Your hands smell of flowers."
"Ephedra," Logos answered without hesitation. His voice carried that strange echo, deeper than his years.
Lucy arched a brow. "Medicine?"
"A weapon."
He rose, crossing to a small table lined with jars. Within one, a syrup glistened, thick and amber, its scent sharp, almost sweet. Next to it, a cage of mice rustled nervously.
Lucy's stomach tightened. "What is this?"
Logos did not answer at once. Instead, he dipped a dropper into the syrup, coating it lightly before dripping it onto a crumb of bread. He slid it into the cage. One mouse sniffed, then ate.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then it convulsed, eyes flaring red, its small body trembling. With a shriek far too sharp for its size, it hurled itself at the others. Teeth tore fur, claws raked. The cage erupted in squeals as the drugged mouse ripped its kin apart with mindless fury. Blood sprayed against the bars.
Lucy shot to her feet. "Enough!"
Logos watched calmly, his expression unreadable. Only when the last mouse lay still did he turn, eyes glinting. "It magnifies aggression. A few drops into a beast—or a man—and he will fight until nothing remains."
Her voice shook with fury. "That isn't a weapon, it's horror. It robs them of themselves."
"It ensures victory," Logos replied. His tone was cold, logical. "Imagine a captured Crawler injected with this syrup, unleashed into its own swarm. Or deserters returned to the field with fury in their veins. One vial could change a battle."
Lucy's hands clenched into fists. She had seen much since coming to this fortress: trenches lined with clever traps, cannons that roared louder than storms, gas that stripped flesh from bone. Each new creation had chilled her. But this… this was different.
"This is not war," she said, her voice breaking. "This is defilement. You would make monsters of men, worse than the Crawlers themselves."
For the first time, Logos blinked. Not in shame, nor doubt—but as if considering her words with the same dispassionate curiosity he gave to his chemicals.
Lucy stepped closer, her voice low, urgent. "Listen to me, Logos. Weapons may win battles. But what wins after the battle? What remains of us, if we use this? You think the Crawlers are inhuman? This—this syrup—is a path to becoming them."
The boy's gaze lingered on her, long enough for the silence to weigh.
Finally, Logos set the jar aside, sealing it tightly. His voice, when it came, was softer. "Perhaps. But survival demands tools."
Lucy placed a hand over his, forcing his black eyes to meet hers. "Survival also demands restraint. If you lose yourself, Logos, then no weapon, no foresight, no victory will matter. Promise me you will not unleash this."
For a moment, the fortress seemed to fade—the hammering, the shouting, the distant cries of sentries. Only the two of them remained: the boy who might reshape the future, and the woman who fought to keep him human.
Logos' lips parted, as if to answer.
But instead, he simply lowered his gaze to the shared meal between them, tearing the bread in silence.
Lucy exhaled, trembling, but sat back down. She would not win every battle against his mind. But she had held him, for tonight, against the pull of monstrosity.
As he ate, she watched him, the faintest ache tugging her heart. A boy or a weapon? A son or a scourge?
And far away, beneath the black moons, the Sire stirred.