"Too bright."
Logos's voice cut cleanly through the layered noise of the hall the moment he crossed the threshold.
The great hall of IrasVal blazed like a forged sun. Chandeliers of crystal and gold hung from vaulted ceilings, each holding alchemical flames calibrated to perfection—too much perfection. Marble floors reflected light upward, amplifying the brilliance until it pressed against the eyes like a physical weight. Silk banners rippled overhead, dyed in colors so rich they bordered on aggressive.
The room did not welcome people.
It consumed them.
"I suppose that answers every question about the talk of crows and demons surrounding him," Lucien remarked lightly, watching Logos with an amused tilt of his head. "Black hair. Black clothes. Pale skin. And utterly unperturbed by spectacle."
"He looks younger than I expected," Sous muttered beside him, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Isn't he supposed to be the same age as me?"
"It's because you're far too handsome," Lucien replied without hesitation.
"Your Highness," Sous warned.
"Am I wrong?" Lucien continued cheerfully. "If you mastered seduction tactics, we could've annexed Nasak through marriage alone."
"I am not doing that," Sous snapped. "No matter how many times you suggest it."
Lucien laughed softly. "A tragedy for diplomacy."
High above, on the elevated balcony that overlooked the hall like a throne above a chessboard, King Helvos watched.
No smile.
No frown.
Just assessment.
His gaze tracked Logos as one might track an unfamiliar weapon—carefully, without assumption.
Logos moved through the hall without hesitation, ignoring the subtle shifts around him. Conversations faltered. Laughter dipped. A few nobles instinctively stepped aside, creating a thin corridor of space without realizing they were doing it.
Not because of fear.
Because of pressure.
He stopped at the foot of the balcony and bowed, crisp and precise.
"The Baron of Laos pays respect to His Majesty."
Helvos absorbed the gesture in a heartbeat, noting everything at once.
No hunger.
No fear.
No pride.
Only control.
"You arrive early," the King said, his tone deliberately neutral. "And loudly."
Logos inclined his head a fraction. "Rest assured, Your Majesty, the only loudness was from the spectators."
A murmur rippled through the nobles nearest the balcony.
Lucien's smile sharpened. Sous straightened.
Helvos's gaze narrowed—not in offense, but interest.
"And do you find the capital… satisfactory?"
Logos glanced once around the hall. The indulgence. The waste. The density of power compressed into gold and glass.
"It is marvelous," he replied evenly. "If somewhat overstimulating."
Helvos nodded slowly. "Very well. Enjoy the feast, Baron. Tonight, Gab celebrates."
Logos turned to leave.
"So this is the demon Baron!"
The voice was loud—but not shouted. Precisely projected.
Logos stopped.
He turned.
The man before him was built like a siege engine given human shape. Broad shoulders. Thick neck. Golden hair cropped short. Brown eyes that held the confident weight of someone accustomed to being obeyed—and never corrected. His clothing was expensive but inelegant, designed to dominate rather than impress.
Several nobles nearby leaned closer, eyes gleaming.
This was deliberate.
Kleber stiffened half a step behind Logos.
Logos simply observed.
"Yes," Logos replied after a pause. "That appears to be the current rumor."
The man laughed—deep and assured.
"You don't deny it? Bold. Or foolish."
They stared at one another.
"It seems you truly don't know who you're speaking to," the man said, thumping a fist against his chest. "I am First Prince Adrean Gab. I was in the Eastern Marches during the Red Tide—where we lost two hundred and forty thousand soldiers."
His smile thinned.
"And yet you lost none."
The surrounding laughter thinned with it.
Adrean's words landed like a hammer meant to bruise rather than break. Nobles pretended to sip wine while leaning closer, hungry for spectacle.
Logos did not respond immediately.
He looked at Adrean—not impressed. Not provoked.
"Yes," Logos said at last. "I lost none."
The simplicity of it unsettled the room.
Adrean's jaw tightened. "Do you understand what that means, boy?"
Kleber's hand drifted closer to his weapon—not in fear, but reflex.
Logos tilted his head slightly. "It means the Eastern Marches employed a strategy optimized for valor rather than survival."
A sharp intake of breath swept the onlookers.
Adrean stepped closer, towering. "Careful. You speak of men who died holding the line."
"You fought a swarm without sealed fallback positions or hardened supply nodes," Logos continued evenly. "As if it were an enemy army rather than a natural disaster. Your command structure failed under sustained stress."
The hall went silent—not respectful.
Dangerous.
Sous's fingers curled unconsciously. Lucien's smile vanished entirely.
High above, Helvos leaned forward a fraction.
Adrean's voice dropped. "You hid behind walls. Let others bleed. Then strutted in wearing black like a corpse come to feast."
Logos blinked once.
"I built walls because walls work," he said. "If the goal is to stop death, you do not meet it halfway."
A noblewoman gasped. Someone laughed nervously. Another whispered monster.
Adrean's face flushed. "You dare lecture me on war?"
"Your analysis is blinded by grief," Logos replied.
That did it.
Adrean's hand moved—half instinct, half rage—before stopping, caught by court protocol like a chain snapping taut.
"You think numbers are everything," Adrean hissed. "You think people are pieces."
"No," Logos said quietly. "I think people are finite."
That word struck deeper than any insult.
"For that reason," Logos continued, "I do not spend them."
The hall felt colder.
Lucien exhaled slowly, eyes sharp with fascination. Oh… he really is like this.
Sous stepped forward. "Brother—"
"I am not finished," Adrean snapped.
"That is enough."
Helvos's voice cut through the hall like a blade sliding from its sheath.
Adrean froze.
The King rose slightly. "This hall celebrates survival. Not blame."
His gaze shifted to Logos. "Your analysis is… incisive, Baron. But remember where you stand."
Logos bowed again. "Of course, Your Majesty."
Adrean stepped back, breathing hard. The nobles erupted into whispering, excitement buzzing like a hive struck with a stick.
Kleber leaned in, hissing, "You just told the First Prince his army died because they were inefficient."
"Yes," Logos replied.
"You're going to get stabbed."
"Unlikely," Logos said calmly. "He is grieving. When he recovers, he will see the merit of my points."
"And if he doesn't?" Kleber pressed.
Logos's eyes flicked briefly toward Adrean—then to the throne above.
"Then," he said softly, "he will lose the throne."
Kleber stared.
The lights burned brighter than ever.
And for the first time that night, the capital understood:
The Crow had not come to bow.
He had come to measure the sun.