The Angelus Estate was alive.
Not in the tranquil, noble way of courtyards blooming or fountains humming—but in the feverish, breathless rhythm of preparation. The heart of IrasVal throbbed with servants and sound: boots on marble, metal on metal, silk on skin. Banners were unfurled, gold thread catching the morning sun. Pages sprinted between halls, their arms laden with polished boots and ceremonial sashes. The air itself seemed charged, thick with perfume and anticipation.
Sous stood amid it all like the calm center of a storm—shirt half-fastened, collar crooked, one sleeve missing entirely as the tailor circled him with the desperation of a man working beside a lightning bolt.
"Stand still, my lord," the tailor begged, voice thin. "Another twitch and I may stab you—accidentally or otherwise."
Sous sighed, arms stiffening. "Then work faster."
The tailor did, muttering prayers to the Saints under his breath.
Then—footsteps. A courier rounded the corner and nearly slid across the polished floor, his uniform smeared with dust. He skidded to a halt and saluted so hard he almost knocked his hat off.
"My lord! Urgent dispatch from Exalish!"
Sous arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Exalish? What now?"
The courier gulped, presenting a rolled parchment sealed in black wax.
"Baron Logos Laos has arrived early," the courier said quickly. "Two hundred black-armored soldiers, two carriages, and… uh… he entered negotiations with four major caravan leaders within thirty minutes."
Sous blinked. "…Thirty minutes?"
"Yes, my lord."
Sous rubbed his temples, half in irritation, half in disbelief. "He never does anything halfway, does he?"
The tailor tried to cut in meekly, needle trembling. "My lord, if I could just—"
Sous waved him to continue. "Yes, yes, fine. But if he's already making alliances, I can't be late to my own parade."
At that moment, another figure appeared at the far end of the corridor—Duke Solar Angelus, Sous's father. His presence commanded silence, the noise of the hall dimming as he approached, letters tucked beneath one arm.
"You've finally accepted that this isn't a sparring match," Solar said dryly. His voice carried the quiet weight of authority—the kind that didn't need to shout to dominate a room.
He extended a parchment. "Additional report. Exalish's defense grid was deployed when Laos banners appeared. They mistook his procession for an invasion."
Sous pinched the bridge of his nose. "New banners?"
"The Laos insignia has been changed," Solar said. "The White-Horn is gone. They march under a Crow now."
Sous froze. "The Crow? The Regal Bovine was granted by royal decree when the Laos first pledged their fealty. Replacing it without sanction is—"
"—a statement," Solar interrupted. "And one that will not go unnoticed. The Church of the Sun condemns crow imagery as ill omen. But if Logos Laos dares to defy royal tradition and religious symbol both, then the boy has teeth sharper than anyone expected."
The tailor stepped back as Sous's posture straightened, eyes bright with a mix of surprise and curiosity.
Before either could speak again, another courier burst into the hall—breathless, flushed, voice cracking. "My lords! The merchants of Exalish are spreading word of Baron Laos's new invention—a mana-stabilizing lattice. They're calling it… revolutionary."
A third courier stumbled in behind him, clutching a smaller note. "And the royal court reports that he may be developing a new exo-harness line—"
Sous raised a hand. The hallway fell silent instantly.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, softly—almost a laugh.
"So," he murmured, "he arrives early… terrifies a city… summons every major merchant… and unveils a miracle of magic-tech—all before I've even left my estate."
He exhaled through his nose, that faint smile still tugging at his lips.
"Interesting."
Solar's gaze sharpened. "You admire him."
Sous met his father's eyes, grin widening slightly. "Wouldn't you? He's sixteen, Father. The same age as me. And yet the world trembles at the sound of his wheels."
"Admire him all you wish," Solar said, "but never forget—boys who grow too quickly tend to burn out fast."
Sous turned to the window, where the sunlight painted the distant towers of IrasVal gold. "Then let's see if I can burn brighter."
The tailor flinched as Sous's aura flared—raw, unrestrained power rippling through the hall. The runes on his half-fastened cuffs glowed faintly in response, alive under his pulse.
He smiled faintly. "Logos Laos… if this is your opening move…"
He drew a steady breath.
"…then I'll greet you with something better."
Meanwhile, in Exalish.
The Crow had landed.
The moment Logos entered the city, Exalish changed.
What had begun as suspicion swiftly curdled into dread. His black banners caught the sunlight like shadows come alive. The air shifted around him—heavier, denser—as though even the city's mana core adjusted to his presence.
By the time he reached the merchant quarter, the bustling noise had dulled to whispers. Stalls closed quietly. Peddlers pretended to adjust wares just to keep distance.
Everywhere he walked, people parted instinctively.
It was not the march of a conqueror. It was the procession of inevitability.
When he reached Red Silks, the most prestigious boutique in the district, the gilded doors opened without a single word.
Inside, the air was perfumed with lavender and oiled wood. Magic threads shimmered faintly in display racks. Seamstresses flitted about with elegant precision—until Logos stepped through the doorway.
The air froze.
Threads stilled mid-spool. A pin dropped somewhere near the back. One seamstress fainted outright.
"…Good afternoon," Logos said, voice soft and polite—yet somehow wrong, as though the room itself strained to hold the sound.
Someone whispered near the counter, barely audible: "Is it supposed to sound like a ghost is flirting with us?"
Kleber coughed into his fist. "Relax, he's just… naturally like this."
"Naturally?" a tailor whispered in disbelief.
A young man approached, his face breaking into a well-practiced merchant's smile. "Welcome, my lord, to Red Silks. Thomas of the Redvel Line. How may we serve you?"
"I require attire for a royal banquet," Logos said.
Thomas's eyes gleamed. "Ah, splendid! Something bold, regal, radiant?"
"Something black," Logos replied immediately.
Kleber leaned in, whispering, "Everything you own is black."
"Yes," Logos said simply. "And it will remain so."
Thomas chuckled awkwardly. "A strong preference, my lord."
"Black is his religion," Kleber muttered.
"Indeed," Logos agreed, completely serious.
"…That was a joke," Kleber sighed.
At that moment, the head tailor emerged—Marlin Redvel, the shop's master, dressed in deep burgundy robes embroidered with silver threads. He bowed deeply.
"My lord Laos," Marlin said carefully, "your reputation precedes you. This way, if you please."
He led them into a private fitting chamber draped with scarlet curtains and soft enchanted light. Assistants wheeled in racks of fabric that shimmered with mana—silk, obsidian-thread linen, shadow velvet.
Thomas clapped his hands, excited and nervous all at once. "For the Crow of Laos himself, only the finest work will do."
Kleber chuckled under his breath. "That name's already spreading…"
Logos said nothing. His eyes swept the fabrics like a tactician assessing terrain.
And outside, as word of his visit raced through the streets, Exalish fell into deeper silence.
Because now they all understood—
the Crow had arrived not merely to buy clothing.
He had come to be seen.