Morthak's lesson began swiftly and without preamble. He laid out his materials with meticulous care, arranging them on the table as if each placement held some arcane significance. At its center was a magic circle, its intricate lines and symbols a mix of the familiar and the alien. The "ink" used to draw it glistened with a deep, dark crimson that could easily be mistaken for blood.

  “It’s not actual blood,” Morthak said, as if sensing my unspoken thoughts. “Just a product made of blood.”

  The room smelled faintly of iron, damp earth, and something acrid, almost singed. The dim light of the lanterns cast flickering shadows across the walls, amplifying the ominous atmosphere.

  "Now, let us begin. The first step in cursing someone is binding them to a medium," Morthak said, his deep, gravelly voice reverberating in the confined space. "A medium can be an object, a person, or even a spirit. It serves as the bridge between you and your target. But I know your kind—you’re going to ask, ‘What if you curse someone directly?’ Am I wrong?"

  I bit back a grin. He knew me too well.

  “The answer is simple: it’s out of your league.” His tone turned cold, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "Direct curses come with direct risks. A mistake, and you pay the price. Using a medium introduces layers of separation. Sure, it weakens the curse, slows it, even distorts it—but if something goes wrong, it’s the medium that suffers, not you."

  The weight of his words hung in the air, and I felt a shiver crawl up my spine.

  "I see," I said carefully. "So, there are advantages to casting a curse directly? Beyond just making it... cleaner?"

  Morthak nodded, his expression unreadable. "Of course. A direct curse is more powerful because it can carry more ‘fuel.’ But greater power comes with greater complexity. Every magical phenomenon—curse, spell, ritual—operates on three principles: intensity, stability, and form. They must exist in perfect balance, or the magic collapses under its own weight."

  "Harmony," I murmured, half to myself. The concept was starting to click. "So, it’s like balancing a stack of plates. Too much weight on one side, and the whole thing falls apart."

  Morthak gave a rare grunt of approval. "Exactly. A spell that’s too stable burns too little fuel to be effective. One that burns too much fuel becomes a ticking time bomb. And spells with highly specific effects often trade stability for precision. It’s all about balance."

  I nodded, trying to absorb his words. It reminded me of one of those character creation menus in games—buff one stat, and others had to take a hit. Every choice had consequences.

  "Enough theory," Morthak said abruptly. He reached for the [Burmmer], a small, wretched creature that squirmed and whimpered in his grasp. Its pitiful cries echoed faintly, like the squeal of rusted hinges. Without hesitation, he pricked it with a slender needle, drawing a single droplet of blood. The creature let out a choked squeak, its tiny frame trembling.

  "There are many ways to bind someone to a medium. Blood is the simplest and most effective—fresh is best. Hair, nails, saliva, even feces will work, but their potency decreases with time." Morthak said, then he pricked his own finger with the bloody needle, before sticking the needle into the straw doll.

  "You need some of your own blood to perform the ritual, just a drop is enough to create the bridge, although there are some idiots out there dedicated enough to slit their own wrists to create the connection. For the next step, you’ll need a sacrifice to activate the link. Don’t mistake that for meaning something alive—though living sacrifices create stronger, more stable bonds. In most cases, pure magical energy suffices." He picked up several small bones, their surfaces etched with faint runes. "Today, we’ll use [Bicorn] bones."

  As he placed the bones inside the straw doll, the atmosphere in the room grew heavier. It pressed against my chest, making it harder to breathe. My pulse quickened.

  "Now, activate the link," Morthak said, his voice low and commanding. He touched the circle with two fingers, and instantly, it began to glow with a sinister, blood-red light. The air filled with the acrid stench of burning flesh as the doll trembled and began to emit thin tendrils of black and silver smoke. The [Burmmer] let out a sharp, high-pitched wail, thrashing violently in the corner. My stomach churned at the sight.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the light faded. The room fell silent.

  “It’s done,” Morthak said flatly.

  "Are you sure? It looked like it... failed," I said hesitantly, the words barely leaving my lips before he moved.

  Without warning, Morthak slammed his fist into the straw doll, crushing it entirely. At that exact moment, the [Burmmer] let out an ear-splitting shriek before collapsing into a bloody pulp. Its broken body lay sprawled on the table, viscera and blood splattering everywhere.

  "Are you serious, Morthak?!" I snapped, brushing off the gore that had splattered onto me. "Why not just stab it or something? Look at this mess!"

  "You doubted me," he said simply. "I proved my point. Now it’s your turn to show me if you were paying attention."

  With a snap of his fingers, the scattered bits of flesh and blood began to writhe. My breath caught as they crept back toward the table, pooling together into a grotesque mound. It pulsed and gurgled, the sickly wet sound echoing in my ears. Slowly, the mass reformed into the shape of a [Burmmer], though this one was twisted and malformed—its eyes sunken, its limbs distorted. It let out a pitiful, broken cry that sent a chill through my soul.

  "Now," Morthak said, his tone as cold as the grave. "Your turn."

  "Problem solved. Now you don’t have to worry about the mess," Morthak said, his voice calm and detached as his hand gently stroked the grotesque creature he’d just resurrected. Its bulging eyes stared in opposite directions, its swollen, patchy skin glistening with some unidentifiable fluid.

  “Ugh… Thanks for the reminder that you’re a necromancer,” I muttered, recoiling as the abomination let out a wet, gurgling sound. The smell hit me next—a putrid mix of rot and sulfur, sharp enough to make my stomach churn. There was no sugarcoating it: this thing was an affront to nature, a hideous creation that both looked and smelled like death itself. At least Morthak’s skeletons were clean.

  “Stop whining. It’s your turn.” He reached into his worn leather satchel and pulled out another straw doll, a needle, shards of bone, and a set of tools so sharp and wickedly curved they looked like they belonged to a torturer. “Only thing missing now is your guinea pig,” Morthak added with a wry grin.

  I grimaced as the boys—silent as shadows—materialized from the gloom, carrying another caged [Burmmer]. The pitiful creature squirmed in its confines, letting out a series of shrill, desperate squeaks. The speed at which the boys worked didn’t go unnoticed by Morthak, who raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask any questions. For that, I was grateful.

  “Ah, the price of wisdom,” I muttered under my breath as I drew the magic circle where the previous one had been. Each stroke of the "ink" felt heavier than the last, and the air seemed to thicken with an unseen tension. After a few painstaking minutes, the circle was complete, its lines crisp and symmetrical. I held up the straw doll and needle, my hands trembling ever so slightly as I glanced at the caged [Burmmer]. Its small, quivering body seemed to sense its impending fate.

  "Let’s get this over with," I said quietly, steeling myself.

  The [Burmmer] flinched and let out a pained squeal as I pricked its leathery skin with the needle. Its blood oozed thick and dark, staining my fingers before I drove the needle my own finger, I poke it lightly while gritting my teeth, before taking the needle to the straw doll and sticking it into it. Following Morthak’s steps as precisely as I could recall, I began pressing the bone fragments into the doll’s fragile body. The sensation of the brittle pieces grinding against each other set my teeth on edge, but I forced myself to focus, stepping back to ensure everything was in place.

  I glanced at Morthak for reassurance, but his expression gave nothing away. He simply stood there, arms crossed, watching me with unsettling detachment. The unspoken message was clear: this was my trial.

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I placed my hands over the magic circle and began channeling my energy into it. The act felt alien, like trying to grasp something intangible. Warmth spread through my palms, followed by a faint, tingling vibration that traveled up my arms. It was both comforting and unnerving, like walking along the edge of a cliff blindfolded. I could feel the magic responding to me, but there was an ever-present sense of danger, as though the slightest misstep would send me plummeting into the unknown.

  The circle began to glow with a deep, ominous red, its light reflecting off the damp walls of the cave. For a moment, I felt a flicker of pride—it was working. But then, the glow faltered, flickering like a candle in the wind.

  "This is—" Morthak started, but his voice was cut off as the magic circle erupted with bursts of golden energy. The crimson light was swallowed by the gold, which crackled like a thunderstorm contained within the circle’s boundaries. The needle embedded in the doll began to emit a thick, purple smoke, its acrid stench filling the air. I stumbled back, my heart pounding as the straw doll started glowing from within, its seams straining against the energy surging inside it.

  The [Burmmer] let out a blood-curdling wail, its small body thrashing wildly against its cage. Bright purple burns appeared across its flesh, spreading like fire as its screams grew louder. The sound was unlike anything I’d ever heard—raw, primal, and deeply unnatural.

  Before I could react, the straw doll burst into vibrant purple flames. The fire consumed it slowly, each ember burning with an otherworldly intensity. The [Burmmer] ignited in tandem, its flesh charring as the same flames crawled across its body. Its guttural screams echoed through the cave, reverberating off the walls and clawing at my sanity. The stench of burning flesh and sulfur was overpowering, making my eyes water and my stomach churn.

  And then it was over. The flames died out, leaving behind only ash and the sickening remains of charred flesh. The cave fell silent, save for the faint dripping of water from somewhere in the shadows.

  I stared at the mess on the table, my hands shaking as I tried to process what I’d just done. The [Burmmer]—its pain, its death—it all felt disturbingly vivid, like a stain that wouldn’t wash away.

  Morthak, for the first time since I’d met him, looked genuinely surprised. His dark eyes narrowed, a spark of curiosity flickering within them. “What happened?” I finally managed to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “That,” Morthak said slowly, his tone equal parts awe and suspicion, “is a very good question.”

  Ken is emerging—it’s happening right now. I was in curses class with Morthak when the notification from my nurses came through. It was about Ken’s whereabouts, but more urgently, it was about what happened to [Bummer]. Morthak, never one to mince words, was quick to blame me. He claimed it was entirely my fault, saying I’d likely “contaminated” the spell with negative emotions—bad feelings, stray thoughts, or some subconscious malice I wasn’t even aware of. He went a step further, theorizing that my [Affinity] might have interfered with the result. Whatever the case, Morthak dismissed my guilt with a halfhearted compliment, calling the mishap “impressive for an amateur.”

  I still feel bad about [Bummer], reduced to ash and charcoal, his form consumed by that cursed flame as though he were some heretic burned at the stake. But… I can’t deny the thrill of it either. The power I felt—the raw, unrestrained potential—was intoxicating. If I could burn my enemies from a distance like that, with just a few drops of blood and some focus, it could be a game changer. That thought gnawed at me as I left the lesson early, driven not by ambition but by fear. Fear for Ken. Fear that my recklessness had caused some horrible consequence. But also… pride. Pride that the experiment, for all its flaws, had worked.

  Morthak stayed behind, muttering about the next class. I doubt he fully understood what I meant when I bolted out of the room, yelling, “One of my babies is emerging! I need to go now!” But there was no time to explain. I had to see this with my own eyes. Even if I wasn’t needed, even if I couldn’t do anything but watch, I needed to be there.

  Ken’s chrysalis loomed in the center of the chamber, half my size and pulsing like a living heart. Its strange, furred surface glistened under the dim light, the texture reminding me of some grotesque pi?ata made by an artist with no grasp of normality. I could feel the anticipation buzzing in the air, a hum that resonated through the hive. My children gathered in a tight circle, their eyes fixed on Ken’s cocoon, their tiny movements synchronized like an orchestra awaiting the first note.

  "So… what exactly am I looking at right now?" a familiar, gravelly voice interrupted from behind.

  “Morthak?!” I turned to see him striding into the chamber, his face a mask of both curiosity and thinly veiled judgment.

  “I got bored,” he admitted with a shrug, “and I saw several of your ‘children’ making their way here. I decided to follow them. But I wasn’t expecting… this.” His eyes flicked to Ken’s chrysalis, and for once, even Morthak seemed uncertain.

  “It’s an evolution,” I said simply, brushing past his confusion. “Ken started evolving a few days ago. When one of us evolves, we go through a process of metamorphosis.”

  “Ah, I see. Fascinating.” Morthak’s tone carried an air of reluctant respect. “I suspected as much, but I didn’t anticipate this. Your species’ method of evolution is… peculiar.”

  “Why?” I asked, turning back to Ken.

  “Beasts usually undergo metamorphosis, not humanoids. It’s… rare.”

  “I like metamorphosis,” I replied absentmindedly, my attention locked on Ken’s chrysalis. “The only downside is how vulnerable we are during it. Not that it’s a problem for the hive, but still…” My voice trailed off as the chrysalis began to tremble violently.

  A crack appeared on its surface, splitting open with a sound like dry bark snapping in a storm. From the fissure, a thick, pink goo began to ooze, glittering like molten gemstones. The hive collectively stepped back, their instincts telling them to maintain a safe distance. All except Morthak, who leaned in closer—an error he’d soon regret.

  A delicate black hand punched through the chrysalis, its smooth, chitinous surface catching the light like polished onyx. The rest of the shell began to crack and collapse, spilling the viscous pink substance everywhere. Morthak recoiled as a glob of it splattered onto his robes, the glitter sticking to him like stubborn sap.

  “What the hell!” he hissed, frantically trying to scrape it off.

  “Don’t get it in your mouth!” I shouted, barely sparing him a glance. My focus remained on Ken, whose form was now partially visible beneath the sticky layer of goo. Something about this emergence felt… different. The mucus was excessive, more than I’d ever seen before, and its texture was unsettlingly alien.

  The nurses moved in, responding to my unspoken command. They swarmed Ken, their tongues working quickly to remove the pink substance. It was an efficient, albeit grotesque process. The mucus wasn’t harmful—quite the opposite, it was packed with nutrients—but that didn’t make it any less disturbing to watch.

  As the goo was cleared away, Ken’s new form began to emerge. He looked… fragile. His body was smaller than mine, his frame delicate, almost childlike. His black and yellow chitin plates gleamed faintly, but they were thinner, less dense. Pink freckles dotted his segmented body, standing out like scattered stars. His face bore strange markings, like faint tattoos etched by some unseen hand.

  The most striking change, though, was his hair. Short, straight, and shockingly pink, it framed his face in soft strands. He even had eyebrows now, matching the vivid hue of his hair. If I didn’t know better, I might have mistaken him for a girl—his delicate features and petite frame made him look like something out of a dream. But his eyes… his eyes were the most arresting of all.

  As Ken slowly opened them, I felt a chill run down my spine. They weren’t like mine, insectoid and alien. They were human, with sclera, irises, and pupils. But his pupils were shaped like stark white crosses, and his irises glowed a deep, almost hypnotic pink, bordering on red.

  For a moment, the room was silent, the air heavy with awe and trepidation. Ken blinked, his eyes locking onto mine, and in that instant, I realized that whatever had emerged from that chrysalis was no longer the same Ken I once knew.

  "Ken? Are you alright, dear?" I asked, stepping closer to him, my voice laced with concern.

  "Ugh... Hungry..." was all Ken managed to croak, his voice raw, drained of its usual energy.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I nodded, though the urgency in my chest gnawed at me. "Of course, bring the rations we prepared for Ken," I called to the soldiers, trying to suppress the anxiety crawling under my skin. We didn’t have much food left, but I had prepared an obscene amount of ration bars for the immediate aftermath of Ken’s transformation. Both Ken and Hans would need to eat far more than usual after evolving; their appetites would be insatiable. The bars were made of meat, fat, and roots—hardly gourmet, but they’d suffice. The only thing that mattered was survival.

  The soldiers returned quickly, unloading the thick, brick-like food bars onto the ground before Ken. He didn’t hesitate, immediately tearing into them with a hunger that bordered on savagery. The sour, bitter taste seemed irrelevant to him as he devoured them, his movements almost frantic.

  After a few moments, only two or three bars remained, abandoned like empty shells beside Ken’s exhausted form.

  "Ugh… What a horrible taste..." Ken muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his face a mask of disgust as he tried to push himself up with the help of the beehive, his body trembling as if it wasn’t quite his own.

  "Ken, dear," I continued, my voice barely a whisper, "How are you feeling? Any pain? Any strange sensations? Do you remember everything? What’s happening inside you right now?" My mind raced with questions, my eyes scanning his delicate form, searching for any signs of distress. His eyes were still wide, too bright, and unsettlingly human. Was that a good sign? Was he truly alright?

  Ken looked at me for a long moment, his gaze unfocused, almost lost. It felt as though he wasn’t really here, not in the way he used to be. He was somewhere else, far away, his mind caught between worlds. "I... I don't know," Ken said quietly, his voice small, his hands trembling as he steadied himself against the hive. His lips parted as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. The transformation had altered him in ways I still didn’t fully understand.

  And then, just as quickly, he straightened up, shaking off my concerns with an air of quiet defiance. His body was still foreign, even to him. But there was something in his eyes—something unsettlingly distant, almost too aware.

  "Don’t worry," Ken said, his voice stronger now, but still tinged with something unsettling. "I’ll be fine. Just... need more food."

  "Wow. Ken’s definitely not the strongest, but these skills? They're... mind-blowing. I don’t think even I have anything this impressive."

  Defense, production, combat—and healing! That's my boy! I was terrified something would go wrong, but I guess the only price I paid was the nervous tension gnawing at me, which will probably turn into ulcers later on. Oh, and Ken—the new Ken, born from a pi?ata full of pink jelly. "Ken, how are you—?"

  "Huh?" Ken yawned, looking in my direction with sleepy eyes.

  Now that he was cleaned up, I noticed something odd about him. For starters, Ken's antennae had hair... Well, I don't know what to call it exactly. It looked like a moth’s antennae, delicate and wispy. His wings, too, had changed—still insect-like, but now more like butterfly wings. Soft pinks, with intricate, almost iridescent patterns, and golden highlights that shimmered when he moved. He had two small horns above his ears, giving him a look reminiscent of Penny from The Amazing World of Gumball. But it wasn't just that. His teeth were pristine white, not like mine, which are still a bit... jagged. And where my nails should have been, there were sharp, claw-like tips, but Ken? Barely anything that could be called nails.

  Honestly... Ken now looked like a more delicate version of me. It was as if he'd been "Embarbized," if such a thing was even possible. "Uhm... Ken? Are you okay, my dear? Do you feel any pain, anything strange? Is there anything... wrong with your body?" I asked, inspecting him closely.

  Despite everything, our connection as mother and offspring remained strong. He was physically different, yes, but mentally? He was still the same Ken, at least that’s what I hoped.

  Sometimes, I wonder if this mental link is more than just a lifeline. If I were an idiot beast, incapable of recognizing faces or distinguishing between allies and enemies, the link would be a gift. But Ken? He’s changed so much, we might not even belong to the same species anymore. It's like I’m the queen of the weird insects, and Ken is the butterfly princess of the glitter kingdom.

  "Uhm... I’m... fine, I guess?" Ken muttered, inspecting his new form. "But—WHY AM I PINK?" He yelped, suddenly alert, scanning his body in alarm.

  A male nurse standing nearby flinched as Ken—no, his body—took control, using the nurse as a vessel to see himself.

  "What the—what happened to my body?!" the nurse cried out as Ken pinched his own cheeks through the male nurse’s hands. "I look like a cupcake at a princess party—or worse, a pig in a tutu!"

  Ken jumped back into his own body, his face scrunching up in frustration. "Why pink? Why not, like... blue or something cool?" he grumbled.

  "Good to see that only your appearance has changed," I said with a sigh, gesturing to his body. "You've definitely... changed. A lot. But I guess that’s part of the deal, right? Our little 'experiment' worked, but the cost... well, it seems a bit exaggerated."

  "Oh? So it really worked!" Ken exclaimed, eyes wide as he seemed to inspect his new powers. "Wow! I got so many cool skills and even some new titles! Hell, I even got an affinity!" His voice hit a high pitch, his arms thrown up in excitement.

  "Yeah, looks like we hit the jackpot with that bet. And it's likely your affinity’s tied to mine—same branch of power, probably why you got something like [Heal]. Not sure if it’s good or bad yet, but I think it’s one of those cases Morthak warned us about..." I said, watching Ken struggle to adjust to his new body. He wobbled, trying to find his footing, his wings fluttering awkwardly behind him.

  "Wow... You mean that whole thing about specific [Affinities]?" Ken muttered, stumbling as he looked down at his feet. He wiggled his toes playfully, almost childlike, before attempting another step, nurses rushing around him in concern.

  "Exactly," I said, watching him curiously. "Specific affinities can be limiting. I’m pretty sure, about 99% sure, that [Heal] is a variation of the [Life] affinity, or at least closely related. Which means you probably can do most of what I can—just with a focus on healing, instead of... well, explosive seeds and curses."

  Ken's face lit up. "Meh, I’m cool with that. Healing's useful, but what really excites me are the other skills. {Bestow of Royalty}, {Lineage Empowerment}, {Stock Production}—they sound amazing! Especially {Bestow of Royalty}. What does it mean to create royal troops? Are they new types of troops, or just better versions of what we already have? I mean, royal troops? What can they do that normal ones can't? I’m practically vibrating with excitement!"

  Ken’s grin—more distinct now that he looked almost human—was... unsettling. Normally, his expressions were unreadable, but now? It sent a shiver down my spine.

  "Do you want to use skills? Great. Then start with [Porcelain Mask], because if I have to see you grinning like some kind of pervert every time you talk about creating new troops, I swear, I’ll have to make you wear a real mask—full time." I pinched Ken's cheek, my irritation growing.

  "Ouch! Oh—sorry! I still don’t know how to control this new body. It’s... weird. Now I only have two arms and two legs. My wings are still here, but I’m too big to glide through the cave, and the floor is too uneven for my bare feet," Ken complained, a note of frustration in his voice as I watched several nurses rush forward, offering him cloth shoes.

  "Why don't we focus on those ridiculously impressive skills of yours?" I continued, trying to steer the conversation away from his very unsettling smile. "Skills like {Controlled Hatred}, {Tit for Tat}, {Judgment of Many}, {Intertwined}, or {Unexpected Care}—those are something else. Seriously. Why don’t I get skills like that? Is it because of my class?"

  "Hehe! Jealous of me, huh?" Ken's grin widened, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Skills come from hard work and repetition. You heal, cast spells, and make gadgets all day, then sleep, and repeat. Your skills are... well, ingenious. Me? I’ve spent years cultivating my skills through hard work, sour looks, and—" He paused dramatically, "—poorly processed anger!"

  "Ugh..." I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Honestly, I’m not sure you can expect much from someone with a skill like {Controlled Hatred}. People with that kind of power usually have a few screws loose, Ken."

  "Hey! It’s a skill to stun enemies!" Ken puffed out his cheeks, clearly offended.

  "Your skill says 'target,' not 'enemy'." I scoffed, crossing my arms. "You could use it on anyone, friend or foe. And if we go by your philosophy of 'fake it until you make it,' you've definitely given your fair share of evil looks to allies."

  Ken huffed in annoyance. "Humph, I don’t need to listen to this crap. If I punish my underlings for their mistakes, it’s because I want them to improve. Unlike Levi’s engineers, who get away with mistakes every time, my crew? We’re known for discipline and competence!" His tone was snobbish as he grabbed a towel the nurses had brought and wrapped it around himself.

  I couldn’t help but smirk. "Look at this brat, trying to piss me off. Last time I checked, letting you and the rest of your inner circle run wild put us in a military tower surrounded by a camp that could have been in a period film about concentration camps."

  "OUCH! Ouch!" Ken protested, squirming under my grip as I pinched his cheek. "We were doing what was best for us, okay?! You can say whatever you want, but that tower was safe! The only way in was through the north and south gates, both well-guarded. The place wasn’t perfect, sure, but it worked!"

  I released his chubby cheek with a resigned sigh. "I get it. Sure, at some point, over a thousand [Feyweavers] would’ve fit inside that tower. But even if we expanded, we’d still be cramped. Eventually, it would’ve turned into a royal building right in the middle of a forest. Not exactly the most discreet setup, don’t you think?"

  Ken leaned back against the cave wall with a long sigh, looking somewhat defeated. "Ugh... as you used to say, 'Trouble for us in the future.' But... I get your point, Mom. I didn’t mean it was a bad idea to retreat, but... sometimes, I miss our old place. You know? Our house. I miss the living room, the nursery. I miss the cafeteria, the 'shops,' the perks like the massages and bubble baths... I even miss the drama club performances and all the time-wasting parties."

  His voice held a note of nostalgia, and for a moment, I could feel the weight of his longing. He sat there, his new form still strange to me, but his eyes—those were the same.

  I crouched down in front of him, my heart aching for the home we had lost. "I know, dear. I miss it too. But I promise, this is just temporary. We’ll be back there soon. Bubble baths, sweets whenever you want, party rooms, games—more games, more parties, more food, more people. We’ll get back to that, Ken. Just give me a little more time. First, we need to secure the hive and wait out this freezing hell. Then we can start rebuilding."

  Ken’s expression softened as he looked up at me, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah... I guess you’re right."

  I felt like a mother trying to comfort her son who’d just moved to a new city—except, in my case, imagine multiplying the number of children by a thousand, replacing the "new city" with a move from nowhere to I don’t know where, and then throw in the complication of losing all our cargo during the journey—and ending up in the middle of winter.

  "I know, Mom. I know it’s childish to worry about things that already happened, and we should focus more on what’s coming... But sometimes, I think things could’ve been different," Ken said, wrapping himself tighter in the silk blanket that clung to his now unfamiliar form.

  "Uhhm... Ken, you have no idea," I said, settling down beside him. My voice dropped to something softer, more resigned. "Thinking about 'doing things differently' or wondering how it could have been—those are constant thoughts in my head. Until not too long ago, I’d say that was about 90% of my day. But you know what I learned?" I looked at him, waiting for his gaze to meet mine.

  "What?" he asked, his curiosity genuine, pulling him further into the conversation.

  "I learned that the world doesn’t give a damn if I’m having an existential crisis," I said, my tone bitter but laced with experience. "It doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause. It just keeps throwing more and more bombs your way. I was lucky, Ken. I had you all to hold the fort for me until I 'got better.'"

  "So... Should I stop complaining?" Ken asked, doubt flickering in his voice.

  "Pff, no. You have me," I said, my voice firm, as I reached over to give him a comforting pat on the back. "All of us, to talk to whenever you need. I’m the mother here, Ken. I’m the one who holds the fort for you, not the other way around. What I’m trying to say is... it’s okay not to be okay. It’s okay to feel bad. Hell, it’s better if you feel bad, you know? I’d much rather you scream, curse, and throw all your anger at the world than watch you bottle it up until you explode from mental exhaustion one random day."

  Ken huffed, dismissing my words with a grunt. "This whole psychological problem thing is for weak-minded people."

  "Hey!" I snapped, my eyes narrowing. "I’ve got my own set of psychological issues, okay? I wouldn’t call them problems, exactly, but they've sure caused me problems. So... by extension..." I trailed off, thinking about the times my own pessimism had been fueled by the [Concerned Player].

  "Uh-huh..." Ken smirked. "You know, a lot of the hive worked under the theory that you were crazy. But I always defended you, said you were just eccentric."

  "Wha—ugh!" I groaned, half-laughing, half-exasperated. "You can’t really blame them, can you? I’ve managed to irritate Hans enough that he yells at me. I guess that does make me a little crazy sometimes."

  Ken chuckled lightly. "Well, in that case, I’ve had my fair share of Hans yelling at me too. I guess we’re on the same level," he said, trying to lighten the mood by sharing his own misfortune with the grumpy engineer.

  "Yeah, look at us," I said with a wry smile. "Two [Feyweavers]—the highest-ranking members of our species—and we have no idea what we’re doing." I threw my arm around him in a half-hearted side hug, feeling the weight of our shared confusion.

  "Speak for yourself," Ken replied, pulling away from the hug with an exaggerated stretch. "I’ve always known exactly what to do, how and why. I’m an example in my field of action. I’ve created generations and generations of new members for the hive." He puffed his chest out, clearly proud.

  "Sure, rub your competence in my face," I said, rolling my eyes but unable to hide my smile. "Just to make something clear, you’ve only got so much recognition because of my eggs. So, I deserve at least 50% of the credit for your so-called 'fame.'"

  "What?" Ken scoffed. "Did you by any chance clean, feed, trim, and repair the larvae or breeding units? Because I have! Hundreds of them. With these four—two—hands!" He held them up dramatically, showing me his hands with a mock frown.

  "I heard you just shouted commands and hatched a few larvae here and there," I teased, a grin tugging at my lips.

  "What—"

  "Am I interrupting something?" A deep voice interrupted, smooth and calm.

  We both turned to see Morthak leaning on his staff, approaching us slowly. He had cleaned his clothes and seemed... intrigued by Ken’s new form. "Who’s the little girl?" Morthak asked, eyeing Ken with mild curiosity.

  "How come?!" Ken screamed, his voice cracking with frustration.

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