The leaders gathered near Logos' chamber.
The lanterns hissed in their sconces, flames bending with each draft that slipped through the corridor cracks. Their light stretched the figures of Kleber, Bal, Masen, Desax, and Lucy across the stone floor, warped and long like the silhouettes of prisoners. Beyond the doors, the fortress had quieted—only the distant calls of sentries, the dull tread of guards along the battlements, and the low murmur of the commonfolk bedding down for the night.
Inside, the chamber was half-workshop, half-study, half-alchemy den. Maps layered the table like a stack of unearthed secrets. Copper wires trailed from half-built devices. Jars of chemicals glowed faintly in the dim, their glass throats corked and scribbled with Logos' tight script. And there he sat: dark-haired, eyes black as the cavern beyond light, a figure far too composed for his sixteen years.
When Desax spoke first, Logos' gaze lifted.
"Refugees bring word—"
"How many?" Logos' voice cut clean across his sentence.
The tone carried that uncanny resonance, echoing faintly from the walls as though another voice shadowed his own.
Kleber shuddered and rubbed his arms. "I can never get used to this," he muttered. "My lord, please—at least try to speak normally. If a sun-priest heard you, it would add fire to the rumors you've been possessed by a demon."
"I am not a jester," Logos replied flatly. His eyes flicked once toward Lucy before dropping back to the map. "Also, Lucy already told me Sous is marching. Now—get to the details."
Kleber opened his mouth, stung, but Masen's glare silenced him like a whipcrack.
Desax cleared his throat, steady as stone. "They say Sous leads ten thousand armored frames. The descriptions are consistent—machines built cathedral-tall, gilded plates etched with runes, moving as if in perfect choir. He himself marches in a crimson command harness, brighter than any. The men—knights, not conscripts. Trained, disciplined."
The silence hung, broken by Masen's long exhale. He crossed his arms, broad shoulders stiff with unease. "Ten thousand exo-frames… His personal force alone equals our entire defense."
"That's the difference between a Baron and a Duke," Desax said quietly.
"Really? Right in front of him?" Kleber gestured toward Logos, unable to stop himself.
"It's true," Logos said simply, without a hint of offense.
Lucy sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You know, most lords would take offense to that remark."
"You always say 'most,'" Logos countered, "but you do so in a way that gives the impression that most of the lords are fools."
Bal chuckled, a rough sound like gravel sliding down a cliff. "He's not wrong, lad. But Saints, you're not supposed to say it out loud."
Logos leaned back slightly, folding his hands together. "It is good that Sous brings ten thousand. If everything aligns with what I am thinking, we will only have to fire a single shot."
Masen's head snapped toward him. "And what is this plan of yours?" His voice carried the weight of months of unspoken frustration. "A year and a half we've built this fortress, bled to defend it, while you hide behind riddles. You still haven't told us why Desax carried that cursed list of Sire-locations to Sous. What game are you playing?"
"All will be revealed in due time." Logos' tone did not shift.
Masen's teeth ground audibly. His voice dropped into a low, dangerous snarl. "Due time? Damn it, boy, men die every week holding the lines! If you have knowledge—if you have foresight—and you keep it locked away while others bleed, what is that but arrogance?"
The chamber stiffened. Lantern light danced on Masen's clenched fists, on Bal's hand tightening near his sword hilt, on Kleber's shifting eyes.
Logos tilted his head slightly. "There have been casualties?"
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
"When?" Logos continued. "Why was I not informed?"
Bal lifted a heavy brow. "There have been none, Logos. Not since this Crawler disaster began. You just went with the flow."
"Well." Kleber let out a nervous laugh, scratching at his stubble. "A battle without casualties is a first for all of us. And not just a battle—an entire siege."
"My point still stands," Masen pressed. "You are hiding too much."
Logos exhaled sharply through his nose, annoyance breaking his calm veneer. "You speak as though I use some sort of magic to conjure solutions."
"Your foresight is a kind of magic," Desax said suddenly. His eyes narrowed, his tone caught between awe and suspicion.
Logos blinked. "My what?"
The sharp tone shocked the room into silence.
"You know," Kleber said hesitantly, "the mystical ability to see the future? All those predictions, all those traps sprung exactly where Crawlers crawled—"
"Last I checked, I have nothing like that." Logos' words were cool, edged with genuine confusion.
"What?!" Kleber staggered back a step.
Lucy arched a brow. "I am curious. What gave you the impression that he did?"
Masen rounded on her, voice rising. "You've seen it yourself, Lucy! You can't deny it. Every move anticipated, every strike countered before it fell. If that's not foresight, what is it?"
"Are you even listening to yourself?" Logos sighed, shaking his head. His black eyes glimmered with irritation. "If I had such an ability, why would I rule a barony? I could make a kingdom of my own. Entire dynasties would be clay in my hands."
The blunt logic froze them.
Desax's lips parted. "So… all of it… is just intellect?" He sounded as if the word itself was alien.
"Yes," Logos said.
The single word carried no pride, no boast—merely fact.
Bal shifted uncomfortably, his voice rough. "You sure no demon's bound itself to his soul?" He looked at Lucy as if half-expecting her to confirm.
Lucy rolled her eyes, hands on her hips. "Exaggeration. Do you know how many times I've had to drag him out of libraries at dawn? More than Crawlers have died here. Add in that Analysis spell of his—lets him process faster than most scribes can read. That's all it is. Knowledge, piled on knowledge."
"Sorry," Logos muttered, almost boyish in his admission.
Lucy softened, though only slightly. "Just… show restraint, Logos. Knowledge isn't going to run away. It'll still be there tomorrow."
The moment breathed. Kleber fidgeted, Masen's jaw clenched, Desax stared at the map as though it might confess something Logos would not.
Bal coughed into his fist, cutting the tension. "Ahem. I think we're straying from the topic."
The lanterns guttered as if agreeing.
The silence that followed was no less heavy than before—but different. No longer filled with awe, but with the unsettling realization that Logos was no prophet, no mystic vessel. He was something else entirely. A boy with nothing more than intellect, discipline, and relentless hunger for knowledge.
And somehow, that was more frightening than magic.