The news spread faster than the winds off the coasts, faster than the couriers on their war-stained horses, faster even than the disbelief that struggled to keep pace.
Sous Angelus had slain the Crawler Sire.
The Red Tide—one year and nine months of unbroken nightmare—was over.
Across the realm, the news carried like fire leaping roof to roof in a dry city. It leapt borders, seas, and mountains, uncontainable, undeniable. The first words spoken in shock soon became songs of deliverance.
In the fishing hamlets along the western coast, nets were cast aside. Boats that had lain rotting in their moorings for months suddenly thrummed with life as fishermen ran to embrace their children. Families that had lived in silence—sitting with unlit lamps for fear of drawing the swarm—now set lanterns ablaze, letting their warm glow dance across the waves. The sea, once feared for what might crawl from its depths, reflected light again.
On the eastern plains, where villages had dwindled to hushed whispers and shuttered barns, farmers rolled out their last casks of barley wine. They cracked the lids and toasted beneath the wide sky, voices shaking not with fear but with laughter. Some wept openly, faces pressed against the rough earth that for months had yielded nothing but despair.
And in the cities of the dukes, where walls had been painted red with desperate banners of resistance, trumpets blared from tower-tops. Bells rang as if for weddings or coronations. Scribes rushed, scrolls in hand, through marbled corridors to present letters of proclamation. Lords and ladies sat struck dumb upon their thrones, scarcely daring to believe what was written there: peace.
Peace after one year and nine months of horror.
One year and nine months of the Red Tide—of blackened fields stripped bare by mandibles, of silent towers buckling under claw, of mothers clutching empty shawls.
And now… an end.
Not a slow dwindling, not a gradual thinning of the horde.
An end.
Sous Angelus, astride his crimson frame, had cut the head from the serpent.
In the Laos territory, where thousands of refugees had gathered, joy burst like spring floodwaters. Families packed what little they had, speaking of home with trembling voices. The promise of return was sweeter than any feast. Others sat quietly, already discussing stability, rebuilding, harvest, and trade. The future, once a void, now opened like a road before them.
But not all hearts were so light.
Logos sat apart, the youngest of them at sixteen. For once, his mask of calm calculation cracked. His unreadable expression—always the still surface of a deep sea—wavered. His hand trembled against the rim of his cup.
For the first time in his short life, Logos was surprised.
He had not foreseen this outcome.
His mind reeled, searching frantically for the thread he had missed. His eyes flicked across invisible diagrams, phantom projections only he could see.
If combat abilities can surpass the outlines of my plans…
What comes next?
His lips twisted into something between a grin and a snarl. It was not joy. It was not even anger. It was exhilaration, sharp as a blade.
"This," he murmured to himself, "is entertaining."
The thought coiled through him. What would follow? Would there be others like Sous? How many? When would they rise? From what soil, what fires?
A chuckle cut through his thoughts.
"I guess trusting your people makes you accomplish great things, huh," Masen said, smirking, his hand already clutching a fifth bottle.
Desax folded his arms. "It is a surprise to see him actually shocked."
"Surprised?" Bal barked a laugh, scratching his stubbled chin. "He looks like he wants to kill something! Cheer up, boy. Your rival's outpaced you this time, but that's no sin. Let the lad have his glory."
Kleber shook his head. "Can you blame him? For the longest time, we all thought he was damn near omniscient."
"That was just you," Lucy murmured.
She stepped closer, resting her hand on Logos' shoulder. Her touch was soft, her voice steady as stone. "Even you are allowed to be surprised. That doesn't make you weak, Logos. It makes you human."
Masen snorted into his mug. "Hell, if Sous killed it, that's fewer shells I need to waste. I'll drink to that."
"You've drunk four bottles already!" Desax snapped, grabbing at the mug.
"I'm not at the age to care," Masen shot back, pouring another.
Kleber, ignoring the quarrel, raised his voice earnestly. "Lord Logos, even if Sous swung the killing blow, it was your map that led him there! Without your foresight, none of us would've lived to see this day. Our people are safe because of you. The threat is gone. We can relax."
Logos turned his gaze on him, quiet but sharp as knives.
"The threat isn't over yet," he said.
The words fell like stones into a pond. The room stilled. Even Masen stopped his pour. Kleber blinked, his jaw tightening.
Logos' eyes glinted. "A Crawler Sire is larger than a castle wall. For a man—no, a boy scarcely older than myself—to kill it singlehanded… That is no triumph. It is a provocation. And Sous, in his arrogance, let the tale spread. Every power, every rival, every would-be king will see him now. Some as a prize. Others as a threat. Do you not see? This victory calls forth new conflicts."
Masen scowled, glaring into his cup. "Damn it all, my drink's gone sour."
Lucy's hand tightened on Logos' shoulder. Her face was calm, but her eyes betrayed unease. "You may not be wrong. But you are too quick to see only darkness. Victory is not always poison, Logos."
Bal shifted, his brow furrowed. "Aye. You're clever, lad. But cleverness isn't always comfort. You're right—Sous has put himself in the open. But not every blade will point at him. Some might bend knee. Some might follow."
Kleber gave a low chuckle, though unease lingered in his eyes. "Saints take me. Even when you sneer at me, I can't help but think you're right. You see deeper than the rest of us."
Desax leaned against the table. "That may be true, but Gab wasn't the only kingdom the Crawlers scourged. Nasak, Faros, Ulmera—they're all in ruins too. Their armies shattered. Their people scattered. No one will have the strength to invade for two, maybe three years."
"That is true, but—" Logos began.
"Logos, breathe." Lucy's voice cut him off, soft but firm.
"But—"
"We have time." She leaned closer, her hair brushing his arm. "Time to heal. Time to think. Your shoulders have been stiff for days. Rest, Logos. Whatever comes, we'll meet it. Not alone. Together."
The boy-genius, the one who never faltered, never doubted, never let his mask slip—he sat silent. Her words pressed against him like warmth after frost, and for once, he did not argue.
The tide had receded.
And though the sea might rise again, for this brief moment, there was light.