Ten Days Later — Angelus Territory, Grand Hall
The Grand Hall of House Angelus was not built for comfort.
It was built to remind people where they stood.
Tall crimson banners hung between marble pillars. Long tables stretched across the chamber, covered in silver dishes and untouched wine. Servants moved silently between groups of nobles. Guards stood motionless at the walls.
Above them all, the crest of House Angelus loomed over the hall—
A golden sun pierced by a crimson sword.
And gathered beneath it—
Were the young heirs of Gab.
Some carried themselves with confidence.
Some with arrogance.
Some with visible fear.
At the center of the room—
Sous stood in a crimson military coat rather than formal noblewear.
He preferred it.
At least it felt honest.
Around him, conversations spread in clusters.
Laughter.
Politics.
Boasting.
Sous's eyes drifted across the room.
Too many silk gloves.
Too many polished boots.
Too many young nobles who had spent the Red Tide behind walls while others bled for them.
"Too many decorations," Sous said flatly.
Near one of the windows stood a tall woman in dark green, her hands folded behind her back.
Lady Mirelle Varn.
Daughter of the Northern Marches.
Known for personally leading the defense against one of the largest crawler broods in the kingdom.
She glanced toward Sous.
"Your guest list is… mixed."
Sous followed her gaze.
Cowards.
Braggarts.
Useful people.
Dead weight.
"Yes," he said simply.
"That was intentional."
Mirelle's eyes moved across the room.
"There are at least five people here who should never command anything more dangerous than a carriage."
"Eight," Sous corrected.
She looked at him.
"You counted?"
"I invited them."
That earned the faintest smile from her.
"You are all overthinking this."
The voice came from across the hall.
A broad-shouldered young man in black and silver leaned against a pillar with a goblet in hand before walking toward them.
Darian Voss.
Second son of a border duke.
Popular among military families.
And loud enough to make certain everyone knew it.
"When the war starts," Darian said, "we just need to kill enough Faros dogs that the rest run home."
"An excellent strategy," Mirelle replied dryly, "assuming they politely line up and wait for you."
Darian grinned.
"They usually do."
Sous said nothing.
He was listening.
Watching.
That was the true purpose of this gathering.
To see who was useful.
And who was not.
Nearby, another young heir adjusted the embroidered cuffs of his coat.
"We are not even at war yet," he said dismissively. "Everyone is acting as though Talon Archous is already marching on the capital."
"He doesn't need to march on the capital," Mirelle said.
"He only needs to break the wrong border fort."
That quieted him.
Then—
The doors opened.
Every conversation died.
Black entered the room.
Not clothing.
Presence.
Logos stepped into the hall.
He wore black, as always.
No embroidery.
No noble flair.
Just black.
Behind him walked Kleber, dressed in a dark-purple military coat with enough silver trim to make him appear vaguely respectable.
Several heirs stiffened.
Some looked uncomfortable.
One of the more church-aligned nobles visibly paled.
Most of them had never met Logos before.
Only heard the stories.
The Red Tide.
The fortress.
The black-armored soldiers.
The Church.
The Crow.
And now—
The rumors had a face.
Darian frowned openly.
"…That's him?"
"He looks younger than Sous," another noble whispered.
"He is the same age," Mirelle replied quietly.
"That cannot be healthy."
One of the younger barons swallowed.
"…Why does he look like that?"
Kleber heard him.
"Poor diet. Lack of sunlight. Too much ambition," he muttered.
Logos continued forward alone.
Silent.
Still.
Watching the room with the same cold attention someone might use for inspecting machinery.
Sous stepped forward.
The room watched carefully.
Because everyone understood what this was.
Two names.
Two futures.
One room.
"Baron Logos Laos," Sous said.
"Thank you for accepting the invitation."
Logos looked at him.
Then around the room.
Then back.
"You implied it would be important."
"I did."
"Then I came."
Silence settled briefly.
Heavy.
Sous gestured toward the gathered heirs.
"These are the people who will inherit Gab."
Logos looked around the room again.
His eyes lingered briefly on the jeweled rings.
The ceremonial swords.
The polished boots that had never seen mud.
A long pause followed.
Then—
"This is going to be difficult."
Several heirs stiffened.
Darian straightened immediately.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Logos looked directly at him.
"Half of this room would not recognize a war until enemy harnesses were already inside their territory."
Silence.
Real silence.
Because no one in the room was used to hearing someone speak like that.
Not to them.
Not openly.
Darian took a step forward.
"You think you can just walk in here and insult everyone?"
"You invited me," Logos replied calmly.
A few nobles nearly choked trying not to laugh.
Kleber closed his eyes briefly.
Of course this was happening.
"You have five seconds," Darian said, voice hardening, "to explain why you think you're better than everyone here."
Logos tilted his head slightly.
"I survived the Red Tide without losing a single soldier."
A pause.
"I developed independent Exo-harness lines."
Another pause.
"I repaid eight hundred thousand gold marks in inherited debt."
Another.
"And I am not better than all of you."
His eyes swept across the room.
"Only most of you."
The silence that followed was almost painful.
Mirelle covered her mouth, but not quickly enough to hide the faint smile underneath.
One noble looked scandalized.
Another looked offended.
A third looked deeply uncomfortable because he suspected Logos was correct.
Then Logos looked around the hall again.
"Most of you are standing here waiting for someone else to decide what kind of future you will have."
His voice remained calm.
Clinical.
"I know from my own sources that most of you have not even begun rebuilding your military forces."
No one answered.
Because no one could.
A viscount's son frowned.
"We lost too much during the Red Tide."
"And Faros lost nothing?" Logos asked.
The young man faltered.
"That is not what I—"
"Your enemy does not care that you are grieving."
The room went still again.
"Your enemy does not care that your territory suffered losses."
"Your enemy does not care that rebuilding is difficult."
Logos's eyes moved from face to face.
"Talon Archous will not delay his preparations because you are emotionally overwhelmed."
A few of the older heirs lowered their eyes.
Because they knew.
He was right.
Sous smiled.
Just slightly.
This—
This was exactly why he had invited him.
To force them to wake up.
Darian's jaw tightened.
For a moment, it looked like he might actually swing at him.
"You arrogant little—"
"You are proving my point," Logos interrupted.
"We are months away from Talon Archous beginning active preparation for war."
A pause.
"And yet most of you are dressed for a wedding."
Several nobles shifted uncomfortably.
Mirelle spoke before Darian could.
"You speak as though war is guaranteed."
"It is," Logos replied.
"Peace is simply the period where people decide whether they are prepared for the next conflict."
That silenced even the room's louder voices.
Because no one could really disagree.
Sous stepped forward.
"That is why I called all of you here."
His voice cut cleanly through the tension.
"We are not children anymore."
"Within a few years, many of us will command armies, fortresses, trade routes, and thousands of lives."
He looked around the hall.
"And right now…"
His expression hardened.
"We are not ready."
That landed harder than Logos's insults.
Because it came from Sous.
The hero.
The one they admired.
The one they wanted to become.
And even he—
Thought they were lacking.
Darian looked around the room.
At the lowered eyes.
At the silence.
Then back at Sous.
"…So what?" he asked quietly.
"What do you want from us?"
Sous's gaze sharpened.
"I want you to stop pretending inheritance alone will make you worthy of command."
He gestured toward the tables.
"The world we inherited is gone."
A pause.
"The Red Tide ended it."
His eyes moved through the room.
"Faros is rebuilding."
"Laos is industrializing."
"The Church is tightening its grip."
"And Talon Archous is preparing for war."
The silence deepened.
Because suddenly—
It didn't feel like a gathering anymore.
It felt like a warning.
Sous looked toward Logos.
"Tell them," he said.
Logos looked mildly inconvenienced by the request.
Then he spoke.
"If Talon invades within one year," he said calmly, "roughly a third of your territories will collapse in the first six months."
Several heirs visibly stiffened.
One actually paled.
"You cannot know that," someone said weakly.
"I can," Logos replied.
"Your fortifications are outdated."
"Your military logistics are inadequate."
"Your roads are poorly maintained."
"Your supply chains rely on peacetime assumptions."
Another pause.
"And most of you still believe your family name will make soldiers die for you."
The room was dead silent now.
Because this time—
No one laughed.
No one argued.
Because for the first time—
They could almost see it.
Their castles burning.
Their people starving.
Their banners falling.
And standing above all of it—
Talon Archous.
Waiting.