Angelus Territory — Grand Hall
"What do you think our odds are?" Sous asked.
Logos did not answer immediately.
He looked around the room first.
At the silk.
The polished boots.
The untouched wine.
Then—
"Not ready is an understatement," he said calmly.
"If we fought Faros ten times…"
A pause.
"We would lose four."
Darian snorted.
"That isn't that bad."
Logos looked at him.
"A loss would mean all of you being decapitated."
Silence.
"Your banners burned."
"Your lands divided."
"Your bloodlines erased."
A pause.
"And the six victories would be so costly that the entire region would collapse into anarchy."
No one moved.
No one laughed.
Because there was no malice in his voice.
No attempt to frighten them.
He was simply stating it as fact.
Darian's expression hardened.
"You really know how to make everything sound miserable."
"No," Logos replied.
"I know how to stop people from romanticizing war."
Mirelle folded her arms.
"You said all of us."
A pause.
"Are you saying Talon would spare you?"
"He would probably keep me alive," Logos said.
"Not out of mercy."
"Utility."
Several heirs shifted uncomfortably.
"He would most likely make me a slave."
The room went quiet again.
"And even if he did not…"
Logos's gaze swept across them.
"There will be no glorious last stand."
"You will be dragged out of your estates."
"Your families will be executed."
"Your names erased."
A pause.
"And if you are lucky…"
His voice lowered slightly.
"You will die quickly."
Mirelle looked down briefly.
"He is not wrong."
Darian clicked his tongue.
"That doesn't mean we should stand around acting defeated."
"Correct," Logos said immediately.
"Panic is useless."
"But so is pretending everything will solve itself because Lord Sous kills things better than everyone else."
Sous glanced toward him.
A few heirs looked away awkwardly.
Because that was exactly what many of them had been thinking.
"You built a mountain of crawler corpses with whatever comes out of your workshops," Sous said.
"I assume you have something for Faros as well."
Logos looked at him for a moment.
Then—
"Yes."
The answer came too quickly.
Too simply.
A few heirs looked uneasy again.
Mirelle narrowed her eyes.
"What exactly does that mean?"
Logos placed a hand on the map table.
"Faros relies too heavily on Talon."
"He is their greatest strength."
A pause.
"And their greatest weakness."
Darian frowned.
"He is also a man who can kill an army by himself."
Sous looked thoughtful now.
Not amused.
Interested.
"Then what do we need?"
Logos answered immediately.
"Competent heirs."
The room stiffened again.
"Not heroes."
"Not banners."
"Not speeches."
His gaze moved across the gathered nobles.
"Competent people."
"Because if all of you expect to win by charging Talon until he finally dies…"
He tilted his head slightly.
"…then you deserve to lose."
A few of the younger nobles looked offended.
Others looked ashamed.
One or two looked thoughtful.
Sous stepped forward.
"Then we begin now."
His voice carried through the room.
"Starting tomorrow, this gathering changes."
"No more feasts."
"No more speeches."
"We will determine exactly who among you is useful."
Darian grinned faintly.
"Finally."
A viscount's daughter near the back frowned.
"And how exactly do you intend to do that?"
Sous looked toward her.
"War games."
"Logistics exercises."
"Supply planning."
"Fortification design."
"Command under pressure."
His expression sharpened.
"And if any of you think noble blood alone qualifies you to lead…"
A pause.
"You are going to have a difficult month."
That got their attention.
Even the more arrogant heirs seemed less certain now.
Mirelle looked toward Logos.
"We still need industrial support."
"Most of our production lines are still damaged."
"Your output is already crushing local industry."
"Research requires resources," Logos replied.
"You would be surprised how much material I use and discard daily."
Sous looked at him.
"We are in a state of emergency."
"I am asking you to put at least some of your research on hold."
"Eight percent," Logos said.
Darian blinked.
"Are you serious?"
Beside him, Kleber gave a small nod.
Unfortunately—
He was.
Sous frowned.
"Eight percent of what?"
"My industrial output."
"That is not enough," Mirelle said immediately.
"It is more than anyone else in this room is currently contributing," Logos replied.
That silenced several people instantly.
Darian crossed his arms.
"You could do more."
"I could," Logos said.
"But I will not."
"Laos will not weaken itself in order to compensate for everyone else's failures."
No one answered.
Because once again—
He was not entirely wrong.
One young heir finally spoke.
"You really do not trust anyone else, do you?"
Logos looked at him.
"No."
The honesty of it landed harder than expected.
"You all want Laos to carry your weaknesses."
A pause.
"I would prefer if you simply removed them yourselves."
Mirelle looked at him for a long moment.
"You really do treat everything like arithmetic."
"Yes."
"And people?"
Logos looked back at her.
"People are variables."
A pause.
"That is why they matter."
Darian exhaled slowly.
"That is the strangest thing I have heard all week."
Kleber rubbed his face.
"You get used to it."
"No," Mirelle said quietly.
"I do not think you do."
Sous remained silent for a moment.
Then—
"What if I ask personally?"
The room looked toward him.
Because that was different.
For the first time since entering the hall—
Logos paused.
A real pause.
Long enough for everyone to notice.
Kleber noticed too.
Interesting.
"If Talon is already preparing…"
Sous's gaze sharpened.
"And if you truly believe the kingdom is not ready…"
He stepped closer.
"Then I am asking you to help me change that."
Silence settled over the room.
Because for once—
That was not a command.
Not politics.
Not pressure.
Just an honest request.
Logos looked at him.
Then—
"Fifteen percent."
Darian nearly choked.
"That was it?!" he snapped.
"You should have asked emotionally first!"
Sous blinked once.
Kleber sighed deeply.
"…I cannot believe that worked."
Logos ignored him.
"Fifteen percent of industrial output," he said calmly.
"Additional steel."
"Artillery components."
"Rail materials."
"Harness production."
A pause.
"And only for territories that demonstrate actual reform."
Mirelle raised a brow.
"You are attaching conditions."
"Yes."
Logos looked around the room one final time.
"I do not reward passivity."
A noble frowned.
"And who decides whether our reforms are enough?"
"You do," Logos replied.
The noble looked confused.
Logos continued.
"If your soldiers improve, your roads improve, your supply lines improve, and your fortifications improve…"
A pause.
"Then I will notice."
"And if we fail?" Darian asked.
Logos looked at him.
"Then you die."
Silence.
Again.
Because he said it so casually.
Like rain.
Like winter.
Like something inevitable.
Sous stepped in before the room could collapse into discomfort again.
"Then that is our standard," he said.
"By the end of this gathering, every person here will leave with a plan."
"Military."
"Industrial."
"Political."
He looked around the room.
"And if any of you still believe the future will be kind enough to wait for you…"
His gaze hardened.
"You are free to leave now."
No one moved.
Not one.
Because for the first time—
They understood.
This was not a banquet.
Not politics.
Not noble theater.
This was the beginning of the next war.
And every person in the room had just been told—
They were not ready for it.