Angelus Dukedom stood golden beneath the late-summer sun—its banners proud, its walls unmarred, its people drunk on victory. For them, war had ended with cheers and parades. For Sous Angelus, war had merely changed shape.
The training arena shook with that truth.
He stood at its heart, steam rising in ghostly plumes from the crimson-gold plating of his combat harness. Every exhale burst like smoke from a dragon's maw. His sword—alive with residual heat—snapped one last ember into the air before he sheathed it cleanly, motion as smooth as a dancer's bow.
Around him, men older, stronger, and fully armored lay defeated.
And they cheered him for it.
"LORD SOUS! LORD SOUS! LORD SOUS!"
Sous wiped sweat from his brow—not from exhaustion, but courtesy—and smiled. Not boastful. Not smug. A smile that made grown knights feel proud to have been knocked flat.
"Good work today," he told the captain he'd just disarmed with embarrassing ease, offering a hand up. "You almost had me on the second exchange."
The captain barked a laugh despite the bruise blooming across his ribs. "Of course, my lord."
He most certainly did not almost have him.
Sous's squire—a thin lad always out of breath—burst through the circle of applauding soldiers.
"M-My lord! Duke Angelus requests you in the study. There's been word from the capital!"
Sous nodded, already turning. "Tell Father I'll be there shortly."
More cheers followed him. More praises. More eyes filled with near-worship.
Sous kept walking.
He did not let it sink in.
Not yet.
Duke Solar Angelus was a man carved of marble resolve—broad-shouldered, eyes sharp enough to cut parchment before the knife reached it. His study doubled as a war room, polished wood drowned beneath maps, letters, and silver-tipped pens.
When Sous entered, something like warmth flickered across Solar's stern veneer.
"Sous," he greeted, voice like tempered steel. "Close the door."
Sous obeyed. He approached the desk where a parchment stamped with the Royal Crest lay prominently displayed.
"You have become the face of victory," Solar stated. "The King intends to parade you as the savior of the realm."
Sous did not reach for the letter. He could practically recite its contents already.
"Father," Sous said, straightening unconsciously, "I did not slay the Red Tide alone. Countless knights—"
"—are footnotes," Solar interrupted. "And do not pretend otherwise. History favors symbols, not armies. You are a symbol now. A weapon. One to be wielded with precision."
Sous inhaled slowly.
"As you say."
Solar allowed a brief smirk—approval, perhaps—before turning to a map pinned to the wall.
"Now," he said. "Tell me of those serpents."
Sous's jaw twitched.
He remembered perfectly.
Several minutes earlier
Three nobles—distant Angelus kin in blood, but nowhere close in worth—lounged near the arena's terrace. Their robes were heavy with gold threading, their expressions light with jealousy.
"So young… already the King's golden hound."
"A hero? Hah. He just swung the sword. Luck defeated the monsters."
"The moment politics replace bugs and beasts, he'll learn where true terror lies."
Their voices carried. Intentionally so.
Sous did not even turn his head toward them.
But the fire curled low in his stomach.
He could have silenced them with a stare. Crushed them with a gesture.
Instead, he kept walking.
Present time
"So I ignored them," Sous finished with a shrug. "They're beneath concern."
Solar snorted faintly. "Don't lie. You wanted to kill them for speaking."
Sous allowed the mask of politeness to slip—just slightly.
"Can you blame me?" he muttered. "They are insufferable."
"Certainly not." Solar rested a heavy hand on his son's armored shoulder. "But remember—flame does not answer to dying embers. It simply burns brighter."
His grip tightened.
"In the capital, there will be countless smiling faces. Each one will want a piece of you—your fame, your loyalty, your weakness. You must show none."
Sous nodded, resolve cooling into steel.
"I am prepared."
"Good." Solar poured wine into two cups but only drank from one. "And one more matter. The boy. From Laos."
Sous's attention sharpened instantly.
Logos.
A mind like a scalpel. Cold. Calculating. Dangerous.
"He sent the map that led you to the Sire," Solar continued. "He does not take action without a reason."
Sous allowed himself a small smirk—equal parts admiration and rivalry.
"That's what makes it fun."
As if summoned by the topic of intrigue, the study doors slammed open. A herald stumbled in, breathless and wide-eyed.
"By Royal Order!" he gasped. "Lord Sous Angelus is summoned to lead the King's procession upon His Majesty's arrival! Preparations must begin immediately!"
In the courtyard below the study balcony, soldiers erupted into wild celebration once more.
Sous stepped to the window, raising a hand in acknowledgment. Cheers intensified.
Flags rippled. Trumpets blared. Faith and adoration swelled like flames catching wind.
He smiled, basking in their hope—because someone had to.
But beneath that triumph…
A single ember hissed, whispering of storms to come:
Logos Laos…
Let's see what look you make
when the world turns its gaze
on you.