"I'll address that later," Kleber muttered, rubbing at his temples. "We have another problem."
Sous approached from the edge of the dispersing crowd, his crimson hair catching the lanternlight like living flame. Even without armor, he carried the presence of a blade half-drawn—poised, lethal, elegant. His blue eyes shimmered with something between warmth and warning.
Kleber felt it immediately.
A sense of foreboding.
Sous Angelus was beautiful in the way storms were beautiful: breathtaking, inevitable, and utterly indifferent to who stood beneath them. Kleber knew, with the same certainty he knew gravity, that if it came to blows, there would be no contest.
"Kleber."
Logos's voice cut through the hum of departing nobles and murmuring servants.
Kleber turned—and flinched.
There was something wrong with it.
Not volume. Not clarity. But weight. Logos's voice carried a strained resonance, darker than before, as though the words themselves were being dragged through iron. The sound made the air feel tighter, colder. Nearby nobles slowed, some unconsciously leaning closer, intrigued by the shift.
"My throat hurts," Logos continued flatly. "I'm not going to pretend my voice is something it isn't."
Kleber blinked, caught off guard by the sheer oddity of the statement—here, now, of all places. "I'll… inform the others upon our return, my lord," he said, more out of reflex than understanding.
Logos stepped closer, lowering his voice until only Kleber could hear.
"He may want to talk," Logos whispered, eyes flicking briefly toward Sous. "But I'm not in the mood."
Then he moved.
Logos flowed through the hall like a shadow slipping between pillars. He stopped at clusters of merchants—never the same kind twice. Grain factors. Steel brokers. Information men disguised as wine traders. To each, he offered a small, sealed envelope. No explanation. No flourish.
Just an exchange.
Kleber followed, unease growing with every step. These weren't casual gestures. Logos was selective. And the merchants—saints above—they recognized it. Each took the envelope with the care one might reserve for a loaded weapon.
Behind them, Sous tried—politely, tactically—to intercept.
And failed.
Every time Sous adjusted his path, Logos had already shifted direction. Every time Sous closed the distance, someone bowed, thanked Logos loudly, or stepped between them with impeccable timing. Not obstruction. Deference.
By the time the banquet hall began to empty, it was largely merchants who departed first—each clutching an identical envelope, expressions tight with anticipation and fear.
Kleber swallowed.
Something was happening. Something large.
"That was bold," Sous said at last, appearing at Logos's side as if he'd simply decided the chase was over. His voice was low, even, devoid of accusation. "Logos. A moment of your time?"
Logos stopped. Slowly turned.
"Sous," he sighed, as though tired rather than threatened. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Flame of Gab?"
"Drop the formalities." Sous's smile tightened—not hostile, but no longer warm. He gestured toward a quieter alcove. "I merely wish to talk."
"About Prince Adrean?" Logos asked calmly.
Sous exhaled through his nose. "You reduced my brother's dead soldiers to a miscalculation. In front of the King. In front of half the court."
"He needed that," Logos replied without hesitation.
Sous studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Yes. Perhaps. But not like that. Not publicly."
"I take it you want the First Prince to ascend the throne," Logos said, tone clinical.
Sous stiffened. "That doesn't matter. What matters is that you challenged his position."
"If you think I'll take this lying down, you're wrong," Logos replied.
Sous's gaze sharpened. "The ability to face everything alone—most would call that arrogance."
"I don't think you're in a position to say that," Logos countered.
Sous almost laughed. "Why is that?"
"Don't you see?" Logos said quietly. "This victory invites new wars."
Sous frowned. "Explain."
"A Crawler Sire is larger than a castle wall," Logos continued. "For a sixteen-year-old to kill it single-handedly isn't a triumph. It's a provocation."
Sous's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt.
"You have announced to every power in this continent that impossibility can be overcome by force alone," Logos said. "They will test that claim. Repeatedly."
"If that's all," Sous replied, voice steady, "rest easy. I've faced impossible odds before. You, however, will struggle to shed your demonic image."
Logos's eyes flickered. "What makes you think it isn't the truth?"
Sous tilted his head slightly. "Your envoy made quite an impression."
Logos's brow creased a fraction. "Go on."
Sous recited it from memory, voice measured:
'We cannot afford to lose. Not once. In Laos, hesitation is death. Compassion without calculation is death. He has carved a place where even death itself hesitates to enter. If you call that fear, then so be it. But it is fear that keeps us alive.'
Logos exhaled slowly. "Desax."
"Indeed."
"And you take that as proof?" Logos asked. "Even after declaring you stand with 'law against my fear'?"
Sous met his gaze directly. "I take it as honesty."
Silence stretched between them.
Kleber felt like a man standing between two loaded ballistae, waiting to see which string snapped first.
Sous spoke again, quieter now. "You and I are similar, Logos. We see systems. Outcomes. Pressure points. But where you build walls to make death hesitate—"
"And where you charge forward to make it retreat," Logos finished.
"Yes," Sous said softly. "That difference matters."
Logos considered him. Truly considered him, for the first time.
"You believe law can temper fear," Logos said. "That symbols and heroes can stabilize chaos."
"And you believe fear is the most honest stabilizer," Sous replied. "Because it doesn't lie."
"No," Logos corrected. "Because it doesn't care."
Sous smiled faintly. "That's exactly why people rally behind me. And why they recoil from you."
Logos's voice dropped, rough with its unnatural resonance. "Rallying is temporary."
"And so is fear," Sous countered.
They stood there, two prodigies framed by dying lanternlight and whispered politics, neither yielding.
Finally, Sous extended a hand—not in challenge, not in friendship, but acknowledgment.
"We're not enemies," he said. "Not yet."
Logos looked at the hand. Then at Sous's face.
"No," Logos agreed. "But we are not allies either."
Sous nodded once. "Then we watch each other."
Logos turned away. "Do as you wish."
As he walked, Kleber hurried to keep up, heart still hammering.
"That," Kleber hissed once they were clear, "was the most polite near-disaster I've ever witnessed."
Logos didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he glanced toward the doors—where the merchants had vanished into the night, carrying seeds of something that would soon grow.
"Law against fear," Logos murmured. "An interesting slogan."
Kleber frowned. "You don't like it?"
Logos's lips curved faintly—not quite a smile.
"I don't oppose it," he said. "I simply intend to prove which one survives longer."