Guest Estate Garden — Late Afternoon
"Stop."
Logos's voice came out flat and immediate.
Kleber blinked. "But I didn't even say anything."
"You were going to ask when we are leaving."
Logos didn't look up from the row of glass vials arranged before him. The table was crowded with them—thin cylinders, squat bottles, round-bellied flasks—each holding liquids of varying colors. Some were cloudy, some crystalline, some faintly luminescent.
Each one was labeled in Logos's precise, meticulous handwriting.
Kleber stared at the arrangement like a man staring at a bomb.
"You know," he said slowly, "most people talk to their friends instead of predicting them like weather patterns."
Logos gently lifted one vial toward the sunlight filtering through the garden's hedges. The liquid inside shimmered with a faint metallic sheen.
"That would be inefficient."
Kleber sighed heavily.
"We've been here a week," he said. "The banquet's over. The King got his parade. Sous got his title. The nobles got their gossip."
He gestured toward the city walls beyond the estate.
"There's no reason for us to stay."
"As I told you," Logos replied, carefully tilting the vial so the light refracted through it, "I am expecting someone from the Church."
Kleber's shoulders sagged.
"Of course you are."
"And I will not spend anything to welcome them," Logos continued calmly. "Not that any of you would appreciate the gesture."
"Hey," Kleber muttered in a tired monotone, "we may not like them, but tolerance is kind of our thing."
"They think I am a demon," Logos said simply.
Kleber paused.
"Because I look different. Because I sound different. Because my work disturbs the pace they prefer the world to move at," Logos continued.
He placed the vial down gently.
"I see no reason to respect that."
"To be fair," Kleber said carefully, "you don't do much to deny it."
"People should only change if their traits are disadvantageous," Logos replied. "I do not believe appearance qualifies."
Kleber rubbed his temples again.
"The Church of the Sun does not send envoys politely."
"No."
Kleber felt his stomach drop.
"…Who exactly are we expecting?"
Logos finally straightened.
"Someone senior enough," he said calmly, "whose words can actually place the charge of heresy on the table."
Kleber stared.
"And you're not worried because…?"
Instead of answering, Logos picked up two vials.
He tossed them casually to the ground.
They shattered instantly.
Two liquids spilled across the stone patio—one clear, the other amber. The moment they touched, the mixture frothed violently, bubbling into a spreading cloud of pale powder.
Logos calmly flicked a candle wick into it.
WHOOF.
The powder ignited in a sharp burst of flame.
Kleber stumbled backward, nearly tripping over a chair.
"Whoa!"
The fire flared bright and quick before dying out just as suddenly, leaving only scorched stone and drifting smoke.
Kleber stared at Logos in disbelief.
"Are you planning to burn the Church envoy alive?"
"Tempting," Logos admitted.
"But no."
He watched the last ember fade.
"I know my worth."
The statement was not arrogant.
It was simple.
"If Gab wishes to secure a definitive victory against Faros," Logos continued calmly, "and the death of Talon Archous—"
He lifted another vial and turned it slowly between his fingers.
"—they will need me."
The garden fell silent.
Even the wind hesitated.
Because Talon Archous was not merely a name.
He was a nightmare whispered across battlefields.
The strongest knight in the land.
The butcher of the eastern plains.
The man whose hatred for Gab had turned entire valleys red.
A warrior who did not wage war.
He drowned kingdoms in blood.
Kleber swallowed slowly.
"…You talk like you already have a plan to kill him."
Logos examined the liquid inside the vial like a jeweler studying a gem.
"I am making several."
Kleber stared at him.
"Logos."
"Yes?"
"…you're sixteen."
Logos blinked once.
"And Talon Archous is fifty," he replied. "Age does not appear to have improved his strategic decisions. Otherwise he would have pursued peace instead of prolonging a vendetta."
Kleber sighed deeply.
"One day someone is going to hear you talk like this and decide the Church was right."
Logos hummed thoughtfully.
"They already have."
The Arrival
From beyond the estate gate came the sound of iron-shod boots.
Slow.
Measured.
Disciplined.
Not soldiers.
Something worse.
Then a voice rolled across the courtyard—deep and resonant, trained to command crowds and silence them.
"Baron Logos Laos."
The voice carried authority that did not need to shout.
"By authority of the Church of the Sun, you will receive us."
Kleber closed his eyes briefly.
"…And here comes the fun."
Logos calmly corked the vial in his hand.
"I suppose the detection circles require improvement," he said mildly.
He turned toward the gate.
"Let them in."
At the Gate
The estate guards hesitated.
Only briefly.
Even soldiers trained to obey nobles understood the weight of the Sun Church. To bar its envoys was to invite accusations of blasphemy.
The iron gates creaked open.
Four figures entered.
Three were Sun Knights.
Gold-trimmed armor gleamed under the late afternoon sun. Their cloaks were white and amber, embroidered with the radiant sigil of the Sunburst. Each carried a halberd polished to mirror brightness.
Their movements were precise.
Disciplined.
Unyielding.
Between them walked an older man.
His ceremonial robes were layered in white silk and gold thread, heavy with embroidered scripture. His head was shaved except for a narrow ring of silver hair. His face was sharp, severe, carved by decades of authority.
His eyes burned.
Not with anger.
With conviction.
Kleber felt his spine stiffen immediately.
"…Arch-Prelate," he whispered.
The man stopped several paces from Logos.
For a long moment, he simply observed.
Black clothes.
Pale skin.
Eyes that did not flinch.
Unsettling calm.
Finally he spoke.
"Baron Logos Laos," the Prelate said slowly.
"I expected someone… older."
Logos tilted his head slightly.
"And I expected someone less predictable."
The priest's lips tightened.
"You stand accused of unnatural advancement, technological arrogance, and defiance of divine order."
The Sun Knights shifted slightly.
Metal scraped softly.
Kleber sighed under his breath.
Here it comes.
Logos folded his hands behind his back.
"That is a remarkably vague accusation."
"It is called heresy," the Prelate replied.
The word hung in the air like a drawn blade.
The Sun Knights tightened their grips on their halberds.
Kleber looked from the priest… to Logos… then back again.
"This," he muttered quietly to himself, "is going to be a very long conversation."
Logos nodded once.
His voice was calm.
Unmoved.
"Yes."
He met the Arch-Prelate's burning gaze without hesitation.
"It will."