Ten thousand Armors moved as one.
Their footsteps rolled across the plain like thunder, not chaotic but measured, as though the earth itself had been bound to rhythm. The rising sun caught their forms: sleek, balanced, knightly silhouettes polished to gleam with ceremonial splendor.
Each frame was no crude machine of iron but a statement of doctrine. The Cardinals — creations of the Holy See's forges, tempered by faith and steel. Their gilded plates bore inscriptions etched in spirals of old runes, whispers of prayer bound in metal. Their helms rose in plumed crests, visors shaped like serene faces. Their weapons were titanic: lances that gleamed like pillars of dawn, greatswords wide enough to cleave a carriage in two, spears honed to needle-points that shimmered with enchantments.
To witness them march was not to see an army, but a cathedral given flesh and steel. The common footmen along the ridges, peasants and levies alike, bowed their heads, for the Cardinals were not merely protectors. They were symbols.
And at their fore, one stood brighter still.
A crimson figure among the gold and silver.
Penelope.
Her plating gleamed with a sheen that seemed almost liquid in the morning light, crimson so deep it bordered on scarlet flame, traced with veins of gold. Every line of her construction was sharp, elegant, dangerous. Not a war machine, but a duelist's promise. A predator dressed in finery.
Her pilot's hatch stood open, and within, Sous Angelus leaned half-out, one gauntlet braced on the lip of the frame as his other hand studied a folded map. His expression was sharp, his jaw set, eyes unblinking as he traced the contours of valleys, rivers, and forests inked in careful detail.
"My lord," one of the captains called, riding up on horseback beside the titanic frame. "You should let another read that map. Exposing yourself like this…" His voice faltered, glancing at the expanse of wilderness before them. "…is dangerous."
Sous did not lift his gaze. "We have twenty scout units ahead, spread in a net. If danger were so near, we would already hear the horns. I say it will be alright."
Still, the captain shifted uneasily. He dared not press further.
Sous smoothed the map against his knee, eyes darting across it again. His mind hummed with the rhythm of calculation. Where would the Crawlers move? How would they split? Which ridges would funnel them, which rivers slow them, which ruins conceal their nests?
And always — always — another thought whispered in the back of his mind.
The boy in Laos.
Logos.
The name seemed to stain the map itself, hovering over the rivers and forests like a shadow that refused to be erased. The Cardinals were mighty, yes. Penelope herself was a match for a hundred Crawlers. But none of that mattered if Logos' foresight proved true again.
He remembered the parchment he had read by candlelight: Logos' careful hand marking villages long before reports arrived. Drene, Brevay, Tarsin — each one foreseen, as though the boy had walked there in advance.
Sous gripped the map tighter, his gauntlet crinkling the parchment. Ten thousand men at his command, divine forges at his back, a machine that kings would envy — and yet, was it enough to stand against foresight?
He shook his head, refusing the thought. He was no pawn, no piece to be moved by another. I carve my own path.
Penelope's frame hummed beneath him, the faint thrum of power resonating through the steel as though answering his resolve.
The captain cleared his throat. "If I may, my lord. The men say these plains feel cursed. The soil is too black, too brittle. Even the horses shy from it."
Sous glanced down briefly. Indeed, the earth here bore scars: cracks as though scorched, trees twisted as if gnawed from within. The Crawlers had passed, their presence written into the landscape itself.
"It is not curse," Sous said flatly. "It is trail. Where they walk, life bends."
The captain paled, bowing his head, and fell back.
Sous turned once more to the map. Every mark upon it felt alive now, no longer mere ink but prophecy. He forced his mind to stay on strategy: the scouts' reports, the optimal marching formation, the placement of artillery and supply lines. But the thought of Logos lingered, irritating, invasive.
What if he knows my path too?
He exhaled sharply, a sound between a laugh and a snarl. No. He would not be haunted by a boy. He was Sous Angelus, commander of the Cardinals, heir to the Angelus name, chosen blade of the Holy See. He had carved his reputation not with tricks of foresight, but with sweat, blood, and fire.
And yet…
Foresight.
The word cut him like a blade each time it returned.
He glanced at the horizon. The plains stretched endless, the sun climbing higher, glinting off the gilded army in a sea of light. To any onlooker, it was a sight of hope, of certainty. Ten thousand Armors, marching as if the gods themselves willed them forward.
Sous alone knew how fragile certainty was.
A shadow passed overhead — a hawk circling. The scouts' horns did not sound. The march continued, steady, thunderous.
Sous folded the map slowly, tucking it into Penelope's interior compartment. He settled back inside the harness, the hatch beginning to seal over him.
As the view dimmed to the narrow visor, he whispered into the stillness, not to his men, not to the Crawlers, but to himself.
"Foresight or not, Logos. You and I will meet. And when we do…" His lips curved into a thin smile. "…we will see who walks the path, and who follows it."
The Cardinals marched on.
And somewhere beyond the ridges, beyond the rivers, the earth trembled as the Crawlers stirred.