The wheels rumbled against the stone-laid road, steady and rhythmic like a heartbeat. The carriage interior swayed gently, curtains drawn aside to allow sunlight to stripe across the polished wood. Outside, rows of armored figures marched in perfect formation: two hundred Exo-Harness Knights, each a moving tower of metal and discipline. Their presence alone turned travelers aside and quieted birdsong.
Inside the carriage, however, peace was a rarer commodity.
"You sure have a knack for taking the flair out of things," Kleber sighed dramatically, waving a letter in front of Logos's face like it were a hand fan. The royal seal still shimmered under the morning light.
Logos didn't even bother looking up. "What do you mean?"
Kleber cleared his throat and reading aloud in exaggerated theatrical zeal:
"By decree of His Majesty, King Helvos Gab, a feast shall be held at the Royal Palace to honor the heroes of the Red Tide. Lords, knights, and scholars of renown shall attend, that the light of peace may shine upon the realm once more."
He dropped the letter onto Logos's lap. "It's practically begging to be shouted from a balcony. You could at least pretend to care."
"It's unnecessary," Logos replied, adjusting the brass clasp on his sleeve with clinical precision. "Now—did anything happen while I was sleeping?"
Kleber blinked. "You slept for forty-five minutes, my lord. Hardly a window for disaster."
"That wasn't an answer."
"The soldiers haven't encountered anything," Kleber relented.
"And the money?" Logos asked, gaze still fixed on the clasp.
"The second carriage is secured behind us," Kleber replied, leaning back. "If you wanted to check again, I'll gladly fetch you a shovel so you can dig up the coffers yourself."
"Good." Logos nodded, satisfied.
Kleber stared at him for a long moment.
"…You are the worst person to travel with."
"You say that as if it's surprising," Logos murmured.
Kleber dragged a hand down his face. "Fine. I'll bite. Why did we depart early? The banquet isn't for another week. We could have waited, prepared—"
"Some things need attention," Logos cut in.
"And that's it?" Kleber spread his arms. "That's the whole explanation? My lord, I am not Desax. You can't drop cryptic fragments and expect me to guess."
Logos shifted, clasping his hands behind his head in what could generously be interpreted as an attempt at relaxed posture. It looked like a statue rehearsing casualness.
"Exclusive merchant and information opportunities," he said.
"That's… vague," Kleber replied, unimpressed.
"It has always been so throughout history," Logos continued, tone drifting into lecture mode. "Commerce and knowledge are catalysts for stability. While others celebrate, the merchants and spies will move. The smart ones, at least."
"Ah yes, peace celebrations," Kleber muttered. "A time where normal people rejoice and the ambitious plot."
"I do not plot," Logos said flatly.
Kleber stared. Logos stared back.
Then Logos added, as if clarifying, "I plan."
"That's definitely worse," Kleber sighed.
The carriage hit a slight bump, jostling them. Logos steadied a stack of rolled papers at his side, each sealed with his personal mark.
"You should try relaxing for once," Kleber said, eyeing him. "We survived the Red Tide. We won. You did great. Now breathe."
"We are lagging behind other lords in structural and logistical matters," Logos replied without missing a beat. "I will rest after I am done."
Kleber snorted. "And that rest will include making more dangerous things?"
Logos looked at him this time—actually looked. "…Did she teach you this?"
"Lucy?" Kleber flashed a smirk. "No, but I picked up the habit from her." His tone softened. "After all, you do recognize her as your mother."
Logos's fingers paused mid-air.
"So it seems we did not hide it well," he said quietly.
Kleber leaned forward, elbows on knees. "A maid who raised the child of a noble because his parents couldn't bother to care? Who stayed when they abandoned you the moment things turned dangerous? We're not blind, Logos. When you two clash, it isn't just commander and subordinate. It's… family."
Silence took the carriage, broken only by the distant clank of armored boots outside.
Logos lowered his gaze to the floorboards. "I see."
"So," Kleber pressed gently, "when are you going to make it official? Let the world know, I mean."
"Not anytime soon."
"Too inconvenient?" Kleber asked with a grin.
"Too vulnerable," Logos corrected.
That shut Kleber up.
Not because he disagreed—but because it was honest.
Logos closed his eyes briefly, letting the rocking of the carriage carry his thoughts. Vulnerability. A word he rarely entertained. His entire life—short as it was—had been crafted around minimizing weakness. Emotional bonds were leverage. Affection was a liability. And yet… Lucy had been there when no one else was. She had protected him long before he ever protected a soul.
She cared.
And that terrified him more than any Crawler.
After a moment, Kleber chuckled again—but softer this time. "You know, she'd be happy if you said it."
"I am aware," Logos murmured. "That is the problem."
Kleber smiled at the ceiling. "You think like that now. One day you'll realize that being cared for doesn't make you weak."
Logos didn't respond. He didn't know how to.
Instead, he shifted the subject abruptly:
"Upon arrival, we will secure trade contracts with at least two major merchant guilds and—"
"And turn your brain back into a machine," Kleber cut in, shaking his head fondly. "Alright, alright. Let's talk business before you short-circuit on emotions."
A faint gleam of amusement flickered in Logos's eyes.
Progress.
Outside, the columns of Exo-Harness Knights kept perfect tempo with the carriage. Birds soared overhead, and the road ahead stretched toward the capital—toward nobility, recognition, danger… and the feast that would place Sous Angelus and Logos under every eye that mattered.
Some would greet them with praise.
Others with envy.
A few—like vultures—would come with offers disguised as favors.
And one boy with gray eyes and a brilliant, burdened mind would have to walk among them without reducing every person he met… into a number on a ledger.
Ahead lay a week of politics, masks, and maneuvering.
Behind them lay a war that ended in fire.
Between the two…
A sixteen-year-old struggling to understand what makes a person human.