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Book Three Chapter 30: The Wasp
🕑 Added 2025-08-16 04:07:18 +0000 UTCThey left after the testing was done, but they didn’t have a class with Instructor Sarn. The time for those two classes was instead absorbed into Anatomy, stretching the session far longer than usual and giving Dr. Lambert ample time to put them under her microscope. It didn’t feel like she was actually teaching them much in the traditional sense. Instead, it was as if she was dissecting them without ever lifting a scalpel, studying the way they moved, the twitch of a muscle, the subtle shift in posture under strain. Every movement, reaction, and response was quietly catalogued, as though she was assembling a complete profile of each cadet. Each question she asked wasn’t meant to share knowledge but to draw something out, to catch an unguarded truth about how their bodies worked, how they adapted, how they might break.
In truth, they hadn’t even seen a proper classroom yet, their first session had been an involuntary surgery, and the second had been nothing but limit testing on their new armors. Here, they were prodded with instruments, measured against precise standards, scanned in full detail, and run through small but deliberate physical challenges, sprints, balance tests, fine motor drills, each one clearly designed to reveal endurance limits, reflex sharpness, and recovery speed. There were no pep talks or words of encouragement, only curt observations and notes.
The entire schedule, when viewed from a distance, seemed to orbit this concept: shaping their health, sharpening their minds, and hardening their bodies until both mind and muscle became unshakable weapons. Anatomy wasn’t just another class; it was the heartbeat of their training program, the checkpoint where every change was logged and every weakness recorded. It was the baseline assessment, the silent foundation on which the rest of their brutal curriculum was built. At least so far, the emphasis seemed to be on observation and evaluation rather than active instruction. Maybe, eventually, they would actually learn something tangible, or perhaps the true lessons were already underway, happening quietly and invisibly beneath the surface, while they thought they were just being checked over.
Vaeliyan was just about to head home when Imujin stepped onto the pad beside him, his presence carrying that quiet certainty that made refusal feel unnatural. Earlier, they’d been told they could keep their Legion armor with them at all times, as it would be required in all their physical-based classes going forward until further notice. The idea was to make the armor part of their daily lives, worn until it became an extension of their own bodies. But Vaeliyan had forgotten he’d promised Imujin to train with him after classes, and instead of retreating to the comfort of the estate, he found himself here, sharing the pad with the Headmaster, moments away from being pulled into something else entirely.
When the shift ended, they were no longer in the Citadel. Imujin’s private slice of reality unfolded around them, and it felt like stepping into a place untouched by time. The stream beside them carried fresh debris from leaves newly fallen, tumbling gently through the current before swirling in lazy eddies along moss-covered banks. The air was a degree too cold to be called perfect, but that slight chill gave it an edge of authenticity that perfection never had. It smelled of muddy water, damp stone, and wet leaves, an earthy, grounding perfume that sank into the lungs and stayed there. Here, the artificial sterility of the Green was a distant memory.
Vaeliyan’s heightened senses told him they weren’t alone. Three distinct scents layered into the crisp air, subtle but unmistakable, each carrying its own texture. Whoever they were, they were farther along the path, likely waiting in the meadow ahead for Imujin.
“The other three apprentices?” Vaeliyan asked, voice low.
“Yes,” Imujin replied with a faint, knowing smile. “They’ll help you as much as you’ll help them. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
“Can I trust them with the truth?” Vaeliyan asked, no need to clarify which truth.
“Not right now,” Imujin answered without hesitation. “One day, maybe. That’s my hope. But for now, just learn who they are, and who they might become to you.”
“Should I take off my armor?” Vaeliyan asked.
“Yes,” Imujin said, already bending to unlace his boots and roll up his pants. “Head home, take it off, and come back. I want to speak to them before you meet.”
Vaeliyan watched him prepare to step into the stream, moving with the ease of someone who belonged here. Taking the cue, Vaeliyan stepped back onto the pad, leaving the wild quiet behind for the familiar hum of the estate.
House, the estate’s AI, pinged almost immediately: Bring your weapons. Leave your armor.
It brought a small smile to his face. As he moved through the estate, he greeted House aloud, then gave a quick scratch behind Bastard’s ears, offered Styll a nod, and paused just long enough for Jurpat to ask how training had gone.
“Haven’t started yet,” Vaeliyan replied with a half-smirk. “Just here to drop off my armor and pick up my weapons.”
In the forge, the air was warm and heavy with the scent of oil, metal, and faint citrus from the ventilation. He gathered his weapons, feeling the solid, familiar weight of his hand lance, a grounding reassurance amid the strange turns the day had already taken. Without lingering, he headed back to the pad, the rhythm of his steps quickening. The pull of curiosity, sharper than duty, urged him on.
A heartbeat later, the estate was gone, replaced once more by the stillness of Imujin’s sanctuary. The stream’s gentle music greeted him, the smell of wet leaves and moss curling into the air like a welcome he hadn’t earned but was being offered anyway.
Vaeliyan stepped into the stream, the cold water curling around his ankles, just as it had the first time he’d walked here with Imujin. Like before, he wanted to linger, to let the current’s cool embrace seep into him and drink in the quiet this place offered. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of moss, wet stone, and leaves decaying into the soil. The low murmur of water over rock wove through the moment, each sound settling into the spaces in his mind that had been restless for far too long. Starlight broke in scattered patches through the canopy above, dappling the surface of the stream in shifting silvers. It was the kind of peace that crept in slowly, filling every corner of him, quieting the noise inside his head until only the heartbeat of the stream remained.
His thoughts drifted, carried along by the gentle current. They found Wren, as they often did when the world slowed enough for him to think about her without distraction. He didn’t know for certain, but he guessed she might have given birth by now. If not, the time was close. The thought, that he might already be a father, pressed at him in ways he wasn’t ready to examine. It was a weight and a question all at once, heavy but intangible, the kind that settled in the chest and refused to leave. He tried to imagine her, holding their child, the life they had created together, and the image struck with unexpected force.
Then he saw it. A wasp caught in the drift, its tiny body crushed between silt and bits of debris, its wings torn and useless, helpless as the current swept it along. The sight caught him off guard. Something so small, so fragile, so helpless in a place that otherwise felt untouched and whole. And in that instant, something inside him broke.
A flash of the hunger tore through him, sharp and sudden, so intense it almost staggered him where he stood. It was followed by a wave of rage so raw it felt primal, a bone-deep fury at the world for casting him aside, for treating him as though he were less than nothing. The feeling didn’t creep in; it struck all at once, fierce and undeniable, stealing his breath and tightening his chest until every muscle felt like coiled steel. The water around his legs suddenly felt warmer, heavier, as if it carried the weight of that fury.
Vaeliyan had never felt that way before, not even as Warren. The thought felt strange, like it belonged to something else, some older, deeper part of him, but it did come from him. He knew it wasn’t truly foreign; at least, not as far as he could tell. Something deep within him saw the wasp and hated what the world had taken. It wasn’t just anger, it was grief sharpened into a physical pain, an instinct that had slept too long. The emotion was so sharp it cut through the stream’s tranquility, leaving him with the sense that the peace here had faltered, replaced by a tension that had always been waiting for its moment to surface.
Was he hallucinating? Why was he so angry? The questions echoed in his mind, unanswered, as a pressure began to build in his chest and gut, an old, buried instinct stirring awake, one he didn’t yet understand. It pressed at the edges of his thoughts like a storm swelling on the horizon, and for the first time in a long while, Vaeliyan wondered if he was ready for what would happen when it finally broke.
Vaeliyan called out, voice raw and urgent, snapping at his AI to get Imujin, now. His whole body felt hijacked, as if molten lead had replaced his blood, weighing down every muscle until even breathing was labor. He could barely move his head, but his eyes stayed fixed on the tiny form drifting in the starlit stream. A wasp. Its torn wings caught the light as it spun slowly in the current, each fragile rotation pulling something deep inside him tighter and tighter. His chest rose and fell in sharp, painful bursts, each breath scraping through his throat like the air itself fought to keep out.
The last time he’d felt like this had been in Mara, years ago, at the factory when they’d gone for Wren’s chip. That day was chaos, Broken swarming the streets, and right at the beginning of it, his seizure hit. The word Daemon had ripped out of him like instinct older than memory. But tonight, there were no Broken. No enemy. Just a storm in his chest, rage and panic tangled together so thick they clogged his thoughts, each heartbeat pounding like a drum too close to his ears.
What in the hells was wrong with him?
Branches cracked. Imujin emerged from the undergrowth, boots crunching against roots and stone, scanning the dark until his gaze locked on Vaeliyan. He saw the clenched fists, the trembling shoulders, the way the air around him seemed taut with something unseen.
“What happened, Vaeliyan?” Imujin’s voice carried steady calm, but the weight beneath it was unmistakable.
He stepped into the stream without hesitation, water curling around his ankles, reflecting shards of silver light. He followed Vaeliyan’s stare to the wasp, battered, broken, impossibly small, and yet its presence clung to the night like a living thing.
Imujin waded closer. His hand reached down toward the current, and Vaeliyan’s body moved before thought could catch up. He lunged, fists striking with all the coiled violence of a man defending something he didn’t understand. Imujin stood his ground, absorbing each blow without flinching until the storm in Vaeliyan’s limbs slowed, then stopped, leaving him breathing hard, shoulders heaving.
Kneeling at the stream’s edge, Imujin dug into the earth, carving a hollow in the damp soil. He lifted the wasp with a gentleness that seemed to belong to another time, cupping it like spun glass. He set it into the grave, covering it slowly, each motion deliberate, respectful. The stream murmured on beside them, as if it had seen this countless times before.
When Imujin rose, his eyes met Vaeliyan’s. The fury had ebbed, leaving behind something quieter, heavier. Vaeliyan realized then that Imujin hadn’t thrown the wasp away, he had given it rest.
But why did he think body? It was just a bug… wasn’t it?
IImujin’s voice came again, softer now, with the patience Mara once used when speaking to him about his hunger and rage. “What happened, Vaeliyan?”
Vaeliyan met Imujin’s eyes, his voice carrying a rough edge he couldn’t smooth out. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. Something just… took hold of me. It was like a switch flipped, and I needed to hurt whatever caused it. But that makes no sense. Why would I care so much about a bug? Why would it feel like the end of the world to see it like that?” His hands flexed involuntarily, fingers curling and uncurling as if the echo of that violent impulse still lingered in his muscles, unwilling to leave.
Imujin studied him for a long moment, gaze steady, the kind of look that peeled back layers whether you wanted it to or not. His expression softened, touched with a shadow of recognition. “Sometimes it’s the things we don’t fully understand about ourselves that cut the deepest,” he said slowly, voice low but carrying weight. “I’m not sure why, but that’s something I’ve wrestled with too. I was made to be an unfeeling killer, built to act without hesitation, to never let sentiment slow me down. You’re not the only one who’s been caught off guard by the weight of something that shouldn’t matter. Sometimes, the smallest things get past our armor, and we never see them coming.”
He tilted his head back, eyes finding the constellations above as if searching for an answer written in the stars. The starlight caught in the faint lines around his blood red eyes, traces of a life lived in the shadow of violence. “I’ve fought with my inner demons, and eventually, I learned to live with them. But it’s not the demons that keep me up at night, it’s the injustices I can’t unsee. The moments where I could act, but didn’t. The lives lost for no reason I could accept. Sometimes it’s the sheer unfairness of the world that claws at you more than the battles you’ve fought. Maybe it’s the same for you, or maybe it’s something else entirely. That’s not for me to decide, and no one else can tell you what it is.”
His gaze lowered back to Vaeliyan, voice firm but not unkind. “You’ll have to dig into it yourself, even if the answers aren’t pretty. It’s not easy work, and it won’t be fast, but it’s the only way to understand why something as small as that could set you off. But I will make sure of one thing, you won’t see another dead creature like that, not while you’re here. There’s enough pain in this world without adding to it. This place exists to bring you peace first, to give you room to steady yourself. And I’d rather you face your life without that kind of distraction gnawing at you.”
The stream murmured between them, carrying away the silence that followed. Vaeliyan let the words sink in, feeling the weight of them press against the confusion still churning in his chest. The cold air smelled of wet leaves, moss, and stone, each breath grounding him a little more. His heartbeat slowed, the pounding in his head easing, though the question of why still remained. For the first time since the wasp, the tension in his shoulders eased, like a knot loosening but refusing to let go.
Imujin finally looked back down at him, a faint smile curving his mouth, tempered by something warmer than amusement. “Come on. Let’s go introduce you to the rest. They’re waiting, and I think you might even like them. And… I’m glad you didn’t try to shoot me, at least. Would’ve made for a much worse first impression. Not that it would’ve worked, but still, it’s the thought that counts. And believe me, I’ve had far worse greetings.”
They walked together toward the meadow, the air cooling noticeably as they left the well-trodden path. The grass spread out before them in a gentle slope, shimmering silver beneath the open sprawl of stars. It was the kind of night sky that didn’t exist in the Green, no too bight stars, no phantasmal colors, just the honest depth of the world above, each point of light sharp and unwavering. The quiet was deep here, carrying the faint scent of moss and distant water.
Three figures lay scattered across the meadow, their bodies reclined in the grass as though they had been there for hours, drinking in the constellations without a word. The stillness made them look almost like part of the landscape. When the sound of footsteps reached them, one figure stirred. A young man propped himself on his elbows, then rose to sit fully upright, his eyes narrowing slightly as they fixed on Vaeliyan. “So, is this him?” The tone was casual but laced with appraisal, as though the answer mattered more than he let on.
Vaeliyan studied him, a flicker of familiarity nagging at the back of his mind. He was almost certain he’d seen the cadet before, probably in the upper balconies of the cadet lounge, watching the crowd from a place just far enough to remain unseen. Still, he couldn’t place the memory.
The first was a white-haired young man with a neatly kept beard. It wasn’t the beard that caught Vaeliyan’s attention but the hair itself. This wasn’t the fashionable, synthetic white worn in the Green. It lacked that perfect sheen and instead carried the irregularity of something natural. His face was striking, easily on par with the sculpted beauty of the Green’s elite, but a pale scar running across his lip disrupted that perfection. It suggested this might be his real face, unaltered and earned the hard way. The mark spoke of survival, not design.
The next figure to stand was one Vaeliyan recognized instantly, Yuri, from Merigold’s class. That alone made things interesting. Meri held the top rank in her year and served as Lisa’s apprentice, but Yuri was here as Imujin’s choice. The Headmaster had not chosen the most obvious or the most celebrated, and that decision carried weight. Yuri was almost as short as Vaeliyan and, in a place where everyone seemed carved from marble, could almost be called slight. Yet there was nothing weak in his stance. His frame was built for agility, his presence quiet but centered, like someone who could slip between shadows and reappear exactly where needed.
The third figure was a girl whose face was etched into his memory. He had seen her in the pit during his first days at the Citadel, Deic Welhiker. She had been relentless, fighting with a sharp, almost theatrical grace that blended speed with lethal precision. To see her here, relaxed in the grass with the calm patience of someone content to count stars, was a strange dissonance. The contrast between the predator in the pit and the quiet observer before him was almost unsettling.
Vaeliyan’s gaze drifted between them, weighing what he saw against the expectations he didn’t even realize he’d carried. This was not the group he might have imagined, had he tried. But then, he hadn’t come here with a picture in mind. Perhaps that was for the best. Each of them seemed chosen for reasons invisible to him now, threads of purpose woven by Imujin that would only become clear with time. The thought lingered as he took in the meadow again, the peace of it, the unfiltered stars above, and wondered just how much of what he saw tonight would matter in the days ahead.
Imujin stepped forward, his voice carrying that unshakable calm that always seemed to draw attention without ever needing to demand it. “Deic, Yuri, Thomas, meet my newest apprentice.”
Deic propped herself up on her elbows before rising into a sitting position, her gaze sweeping over Vaeliyan with open curiosity and a faint edge of disbelief. “Why is he so sweaty? Did he run all day? And… why is he carrying his case? I thought we were here to talk, not spar.”
“We are going to talk,” Imujin replied evenly, clasping his hands neatly behind his back. “But I asked him to bring his weapons because I wanted to see what he’s been working on. I assume most of you saw his match, like I told you to watch. If you didn’t…” His head turned toward Thomas, eyes narrowing with just enough weight to make the air between them tighten. “…so help me, Thomas, I will have Isol restart his midnight terror tests just for you, personally.”
Thomas stiffened, grimacing. “I watched,” he said quickly, then added under his breath, “the highlight reel.”
“I heard that,” Imujin said without missing a step, his voice cutting through the space like the edge of a blade. “And that’s good enough. The highlight reel should have shown his gauntlets, he apparently made those himself. That’s why I wanted you all to see them in person. It’s rare to find someone who isn’t just a weapon in the making, but someone who knows how to make weapons as well.”
He let the words hang there, the meadow’s stillness amplifying them. The night was cool and open, the faint rustle of the grass mixing with the distant sound of running water. A thin breeze moved through the clearing, carrying the clean scent of untouched earth. Imujin’s mouth curved into a small, almost private smile, the kind a father might wear after delivering a joke only he seemed to appreciate. It wasn’t mockery, it was quiet pride.
Vaeliyan stood silently, case in hand, feeling the weight of three pairs of eyes studying him. Their attention was different from a crowd’s; it was personal, evaluative. The grass whispered against his feet as he shifted slightly, but he didn’t speak. This place, with its unspoiled sky and the hush of its surroundings, made the moment feel almost ceremonial, as if introductions here carried more weight than they would anywhere else. Imujin’s gaze lingered on him, steady and deliberate, a reminder that none of his apprentices had been chosen at random. Every choice had a purpose, and tonight, the others were going to find out exactly what his was.
