Exalish City had known fear before.
It had seen raiders along its borders, skirmishes between merchant guilds, even a brief siege two decades past. But this—
this was different.
This fear was quiet.
Thick.
Instinctive.
Not the fear of defeat.
The fear of offending the wrong person.
From the battlements, the city guard watched with grim faces as the black shapes approached—two hundred exo-harnesses moving in perfect lockstep, not a single line out of order. Matte black frames gleamed like obsidian under the afternoon sun, each bearing the sharp, unmistakable insignia:
The Crow of Laos.
Behind them, two carriages rolled as if part of a funeral procession—heavy, reinforced, uncomfortably quiet.
Those who had traveled the trade routes whispered about these armors.
Those who had fled to Laos during the Red Tide spoke of them with reverence and dread.
Those who had seen them fight… spoke little at all.
Now, Exalish saw them firsthand, and all pretense of courage evaporated.
Guards clutched rifles tight against trembling palms.
Mana lanterns flickered as exo-harness runes flared to life.
Even the warhardened captain felt a bead of sweat slide down the back of his neck.
The city had expected merchants, nobles traveling to the capital, perhaps dignitaries looking to celebrate the end of the Red Tide.
They had not expected the Butchers of Laos.
Not like this.
Not marching toward their gates.
The column advanced without sound—no drumbeat, no banner-song, no shouts. The only noise was the low hiss of pressure valves and the thrum of mana engines. The black banners fluttered like ravens' wings, each movement stirring a whisper of unease across the walls.
Then suddenly—
FWSSHH—
One of the black armors broke formation.
In a single, fluid slide across the earth that looked far too smooth for something weighing several tons, it shot ahead and stopped before the gate. Dust swirled around it. Steam vented from the joints like exhaled breath from a metal giant.
"H–Halt!!" the guard captain barked from the top of the wall, voice steadied by years of command and threatened by a flash of instinctive fear. "Identify yourself!"
The armor's chest plate disengaged with a sharp metallic clack—
then split open with a hiss of steam.
A young soldier stepped out.
Armored in black half-plate, face hidden behind a sleek mask that left only the eyes visible—calm, sharp, unreadable.
When he spoke, the amplifier gave his voice a steady, echoing resonance:
"I am the herald of Baron Logos Laos," he said. "We mean no harm to the city of Exalish."
The name alone made a few guards flinch.
Not because Logos was cruel.
Because he was real.
A lord who made impossible things reality. Who held a barony against horrors no one survived. Who turned starving peasants into a workforce that built a fortress in months. Who killed hordes and monsters without losing a single man.
A boy with black eyes who smiled rarely and unnerved everyone who met him.
"What… what is your purpose?" the captain demanded, forcing the tremor from his voice.
The herald raised an envelope marked with black wax.
The crow insignia caught the sunlight, almost gleaming.
"This contains Lord Logos's official notice," the herald said. "We wish to establish temporary camp on the eastern field for several days while en route to the capital."
The captain stared down at the envelope—
then at the column of black armors behind him, silent and waiting.
"…and your machines?" he asked. "These armors—do they intend to enter the city?"
The herald tilted his head slightly.
A smile touched his lips—
small, precise, unsettlingly cordial.
"They are for protection," he replied lightly.
"In the same way your men on the walls are for yours."
A beat of silence.
No one dared breathe.
The herald stepped back into his frame with easy grace. The cockpit sealed around him with a click, plates folding like the wings of an iron bird. The machine turned with eerie precision and glided back into formation.
When he reached the line, the entire column resumed marching—
silent
synchronized
unbroken.
Only when the last black armor disappeared behind the eastern hill did the captain let out a pent-up breath that came out more like a wheeze.
"Saints…" he muttered. "That was close."
One of the younger guards, still gripping his rifle too tightly, swallowed hard.
"Sir, I don't get it," he whispered. "We outnumber them. Why were you so—"
The captain rounded on him with a glare that could skin a bull.
"Are you an idiot?" he hissed. "That was Baron Logos's personal army. The same soldiers who weathered a year and nine months of the Tide. The same machines that slaughtered hordes by the tens of thousands."
"But… their numbers—"
"They. Lost. No. One."
The words hung heavy, impossible to refute.
"You want to test them?" the captain continued quietly. "You want to see what it looks like when warriors who lived through hell… decide you're their next problem?"
The guard's face drained of color.
Across the battlements, every man stood silent.
No more questions.
No bravado.
Only a shared, quiet understanding that the mere arrival of the Black Butchers was a warning in itself.
And far away, on the eastern fields—
the black banners of Laos unfurled in the wind, rippling like the wings of a watchful crow.
No one in Exalish slept easily that night.