"Huh. Anyway, where were we?"
Logos' words hung in the chamber like a spark tossed into ash—flat, dismissive, without weight. He didn't flinch from the suspicion that had just been hurled at him, nor the talk of demons and foresight. Instead, he simply turned back to the parchment map sprawled across the table, as if the storm of accusations had been a passing drizzle.
Kleber blinked, mouth half-open, incredulous. "That's it? You're just—just brushing it aside?"
Masen's glare could have cracked stone. His scarred fists stayed clenched at his sides, knuckles pale, veins throbbing like cords. For a heartbeat, it looked as though he would leap across the table and throttle the boy. Desax, ever steady, rested a calming hand on his arm before he could explode.
Lucy, by contrast, only exhaled softly. She had seen this before—Logos' strange ability to reduce tempests to silence, not through persuasion, but through sheer indifference. He waited until the storm spent itself. Then he went on, as though nothing had happened.
Bal scratched his chin, breaking the brittle quiet. "Where we were… right. Sous' march. Ten thousand shining armors." He cast Logos a sideways glance, as though daring him to ignore this too.
"Yes." Logos reached across the table, picking up a red lacquered token. He set it down on the map, tapping once. "According to the refugees, Sous moves exactly as the map predicted. Which means…"
Lucy tilted her head, wary. "Which means?"
"It means," Logos said, sliding black tokens toward the crimson one, "that his army is bait."
The silence was immediate and suffocating.
"Bait?!" Masen barked, his voice like a cannon shot. "Ten thousand men are not bait!"
"Now I understand why you didn't want to tell us," Kleber muttered. His grin was forced, brittle. "Lucy would have chewed you out."
"Oh, that will happen," Lucy replied sharply. "Don't worry."
Logos didn't flinch at their outrage. His pale fingers pushed the tokens again, black pieces swarming the crimson one like ants to sugar. "The Crawlers will converge. From what records suggest, the Sire is vast—too vast to ignore such a force. Sous' gleaming knights, his cathedral-armors—they are torches in the dark. Too bright for the Sire to resist. Ten thousand bodies in a clash so grand it will draw the beast's head like moths to flame."
Masen leaned forward, jaw clenched. "So you would let them be devoured?"
"No." Logos' voice was flat, but his inhuman eyes lifted and locked with Masen's. "I would let them be seen."
The words landed heavy.
Bal shifted uneasily, crossing his thick arms. "Seen, eh? Force the Sire to reveal itself."
Logos gave a single, curt nod.
Desax rubbed his temple, the strategist in him at war with the man. "That's madness. Calculated madness, but madness all the same. You're gambling thousands of lives just to confirm a location."
"Not a gamble," Logos corrected, tapping the black token against the crimson one. "A certainty. Crawlers cannot ignore such a feast. And when they move, we will know exactly where the Sire hides."
Kleber stared, incredulous. "You say that like it's just another line in your notes. Men are flesh, Logos, not carved wood."
"Flesh dies regardless," Logos replied. "Besides, why assume some of the finest knights of the realm—and Sous, the golden prodigy—will simply die like cattle?"
"Because." Lucy's voice cut across the chamber like a drawn blade. She stepped closer, eyes burning. "You speak of lives like numbers, and that I will not abide."
"Calm down," Logos said.
Lucy didn't move. "Do not tell me to calm down. These aren't tokens. They're men. They sweat, bleed, pray. Sons who write letters home, husbands with wives waiting, boys who shouldn't even be on fields of war. And you speak as though their screams are ink spilled in your equations."
Logos lowered his gaze back to the map. "I do not dismiss them. I use them."
Lucy slammed her palm on the table, rattling the tokens. "That is worse."
"We don't have another choice," Logos said, his tone even. "The supply lines choke under trade-house control. We've held for over a year; the crown hesitates. If this does not end, the border baronies will be abandoned first. You know this."
"I am in favor," Kleber said quietly, gazing around. "Cruel, yes. But I like my life more."
"Same," Bal rumbled. "This is the only way."
Desax's jaw tightened. He didn't speak, but his silence was agreement.
Masen, however, wasn't swayed. He leaned in, voice low and bitter. "Boy, if you've condemned those men to die without raising a sword yourself—"
Lucy's hand shot up, silencing him. Her eyes never left Logos. "And what happens after?" she demanded. "Suppose the Sire comes. Suppose Sous bleeds for it. What then? What weapon do you have, Logos? What answer beyond turning men into bait?"
For the first time, the boy hesitated. His eyes lingered on her, unreadable depths behind the black. Then he spoke.
"I have already commissioned the answer," he said quietly. "It will be ready by the time."
Masen threw up his hands with a growl that bordered on laughter. "Fine! We'll go with it. But damn it, boy—next time, consult us before you decide to play saint and executioner both."
Bal studied Logos, frowning. "Something on your mind?"
Logos' reply was sharp, almost childlike in its honesty. "Aren't older soldiers supposed to be more inclined to such decisions?"
"Where did you hear that?" Kleber asked.
"In history books."
Bal grunted. "This is concerning."
Lucy's gaze sharpened. "Logos. I need a list. Of everything else you believe is true—because of books."
The lantern light flickered as if caught in the tension. None of them laughed.