Vrael Bastion, Stormguard Protectorate
The war chamber at the peak of Bastion Vrael was silent, lit only by torchlight flickering across stone walls. Maps lay unrolled across the blackened table, parchment inked with island terrain, troop movements, and grain records. Altan stood at its center, hands behind his back, gaze fixed on the Embergale Isles.
Kael waited to the side, armored in dull steel. Beside him stood Stormwake, the Silent Hand, hooded and still.
Altan spoke without turning.
"Choose your operatives. They scout landing routes, track movement, and observe defenses. I want full readouts on terrain, supply roads, watchtowers, and troop movement. No unnecessary contact."
Kael nodded once.
"They'll embed with the locals. Find factions or clans opposed to the Dazhum. Assess if they can be used."
Altan continued.
"Every island must be mapped. Enemy strength, number of legions, reserve forces, patrol rotation, command centers. I want details on gates, walls, and fleet position if any dockyards remain."
Stormwake added with calm precision, "They wait for further orders. No action until cleared. We will send word when the invasion will begin."
Altan's voice sharpened.
"When the intelligence is complete, they send full reports. No gaps. No guesses. If a soldier shifts his guard post, I want it recorded. This must be precise."
No one spoke for a moment.
Then Kael gave a short nod and turned to leave.
Stormwake followed, silent as shadow.
Altan stood alone in the chamber, his gaze locked on the five red-marked islands.
Zevekhan. Kaethar. Toluven. Narael. Orûn-Mal.
They would fall. One by one.
Seaborne Crown, Stormguard Protectorate
The safehouse had grown quiet the next morning. Nask sat hunched over the table, arm bound in cloth, the healing slow but steady. Drevi stood by the open shutter, watching the streets below. Rhak (Nivak) paced once, checking the daggers hidden in his boots, then stepped toward the door.
"Time to move," he said.
They left without further word, stepping into the sunlit roads of Seaborne Crown.
The Coliseum rose ahead, an open scar of stone and bronze, echoing with cheers that could be heard even from the outer streets. Today was the final event, the martial contest that would determine which faction's champions would win public favor.
Inside the arena, the crowd swelled. Crude banners were waved, and the stone seats filled with nobles, merchants, soldiers, and emissaries from every corner of the fractured realm.
Among the VIP section, seated on the central dais, were key figures: Altan of the Stormguard, Queen Velarath of the Virak'tai, Ghoran of the Skarnulf clans, Prime Minister Qui of the Free Cities League, and new envoys from the Freedmen Realm and Kassan of the desert-born Zhaqarin.
Nask, Drevi, and Rhak (Nivak) sat at the far end, near the columns, silent and watchful.
Then, Rhak (Nivak) stood.
"I need to check something by the southern post. Only a moment," he said flatly.
Drevi's gaze followed him, brows drawing together.
"You believe that?" Nask muttered.
Drevi stood, his voice low. "No. Stay here. Watch the crowd. If anything happens, blend in."
He stepped away, his movements controlled but tense, weaving through the press of onlookers as he tailed Rhak through the layered passageways of the arena.
Outside, Rhak had disappeared down an alley off the main coliseum wall. Drevi followed the curve, quiet and fast.
He reached a dead end.
Rhak (Nivak) stood there, arms folded, a half-smile playing on his lips.
"I expected two of you to come," Nivak said, taking one slow step forward. "But this will do."
Drevi's eyes narrowed. His pulse quickened. He took one cautious step back.
Without warning, Rhak's form began to change. Skin shimmered. Hair shortened. The muscles shifted subtly beneath his cloak. In place of the man Drevi knew, another stood. A stranger. The real face of the infiltrator. Nivak.
Drevi's expression cracked. His mouth opened, but no words came.
From the shadows behind Nivak, Veilguards emerged. Silent. Cloaked. Precise.
Drevi went for his blade, but the Veilguards were already on him. One struck his neck, another slammed a precise blow to the base of his spine. His limbs went limp. He dropped, paralyzed.
Nivak approached and knelt beside him. He placed a hand on Drevi's head.
A sickening wet buzz followed. From beneath Nivak's sleeve, a carrion beetle emerged. Its shell glistened with slime. It crawled forward with slow, deliberate legs, then slipped into Drevi's ear.
Drevi's body jolted once.
In that moment, time broke open. He could not speak, could not scream. He felt the beetle move inside, cold and slick. A creeping numbness began to spread through his skull.
Then came the horror.
Not just pain, but memory being peeled away. Drevi saw flashes of his first training. Secret exchanges with agents. The mountains where he bled for the cause. The warmth of his brother's voice. The final look his mentor gave him before dying. One by one, the images were swallowed. They crumbled into the dark.
It felt slow and wet. The insect crawled deeper, and with it came a vision: all that he was, being eaten. A lifetime consumed from the inside.
That was the last thing he saw.
Then, darkness.
Nivak stayed crouched, eyes closed, as the carrion beetle linked his mind with Drevi's memories. Training routines. Command codes. Agent identities. Movement patterns. Cultivation flow. Everything that made Drevi who he was unfolded within Nivak's mind like pages in a book.
When it was done, Nivak opened his eyes, now carrying Drevi's knowledge.
Without hesitation, he drew a blade from his belt. With care, he sliced a patch of skin from Drevi's upper arm. Blood trickled down, but Nivak lifted the small piece of flesh to his mouth and bit into it.
He chewed slowly. Then swallowed.
Minutes passed in silence.
His body began to shift. Muscles restructured. Bones reshaped. Skin stretched, then snapped into a new form. The process was quiet but exact. Hair darkened. Scars reappeared in precise locations. Even the angle of his shoulders and gait adjusted to mirror Drevi's combat stance.
In his place now stood Drevi. Not just in appearance, but in voice, aura, and presence. The mimicry was perfect.
Two techniques had merged into one result. The carrion beetle consumed the mind. The martial art consumed the body.
Nivak adjusted Drevi's cloak and armor.
"Wrap the body," he ordered.
The Veilguards moved swiftly, cloaking the real Drevi's corpse in black cloth. Nivak stored it inside his dimensional ring, sealed and hidden.
Then he turned toward the arena, ready to rejoin the others as Drevi.
Back in the arena, Nivak in Drevi's form returned and sat beside Nask. His cloak had a rip along the shoulder, blood staining the seam.
"You're bleeding," Nask said, leaning closer.
"I found him speaking to a Stormguard. Confirmed he was a spy. Killed them both. This is a trap. We must leave and warn the others before the net closes around us."
Before Nask could reply, a booming voice rang through the Coliseum.
A jester in a cap with copper bells twirled onto the high wall, his voice loud and theatrical.
"Ladies and lords! Blood-dealers and betrayal-lovers! You've seen champions fall! You've seen beasts roar! But now, the true test!"
He pointed with his crimson cane.
"Here are your finalists!"
From the western gate emerged the winners of each martial bracket. Kastor, broad-shouldered and cold-eyed. Serron, the scarred veteran. Five more followed, all silent and measured.
Dazhum agents. Warriors in disguise.
"And here are their opponents!"
The opposite gate opened.
Gasps echoed from every corner of the arena.
Sixty Dazhum prisoners marched into view. Zhong loyalist hoplites. Captured soldiers from the last war. Their weapons had been returned. Their armor restored. No chains. They stood ready.
Dazhum against Dazhum.
Nask froze.
The same faces they had seen bleed days ago.
Now they would bleed again.
Drevi's (Nivak) hand clamped on his forearm.
"Nask, we must leave and find the others. Now."
Nask didn't argue.
They slipped through the lower gate tunnels, avoiding guards. Vaeyra and Veilrix had been seated two tiers above the dais. They found them near the southern stairwell.
Drevi (Nivak) stepped in fast.
"We have to leave now; Rhak was a spy, and this entire event is a setup."
Vaeyra looked down at the arena, her jaw clenched.
Veilrix did not hesitate. She was first to turn and move. The rest followed quickly, pushing through the crowd and vanishing into the city.
The fight behind them had begun.
Steel clashed with steel. Blood hit sand.
From a darkened stairwell, Drevi (Nivak) glanced back only once.
Inside, behind that face, Nivak watched his own trap spring.
They reached the new safehouse by dusk. The old tunnels beneath a broken glassmaker's guild gave enough cover for one night.
Drevi (Nivak) faced Veilrix across the table. His tone was quiet, but edged with authority.
"You trained with him. Did you know Rhak was compromised?"
Veilrix met his gaze evenly. "No. If I had, he would be dead already."
He studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "For now, I believe you."
He turned to the others, voice cold but controlled.
"I assume they already know everything about us. Our faces. Our roles. Our plans. This was not random. Altan set this in motion."
He looked at Veilrix again.
"Warn the others. All hidden cells must scatter. They cannot be captured. Tell them to burn everything and vanish."
She gave a brief nod and moved.
The others in the room began checking their gear.
Drevi (Nivak) stood at the center, his voice firm and final.
"We cannot stay. The eastern realm is closing around us. We move west. The Emperor must know of this betrayal. I will lead the escape. Gather your things. We leave before first light."
No one questioned him.
Not yet.
Author's Note – On "Ecdysis"
The word Ecdysis comes from the Ancient Greek ἐκδύειν (ekdýein), meaning "to strip off" or "to shed." In nature, it refers to the process by which snakes, insects, and other creatures shed their outer skin to grow or transform. It is a vulnerable moment, a necessary but dangerous act of change, exposure, and renewal.
In this chapter, ecdysis is both literal and symbolic.
Nivak's transformation, his consumption of Drevi's flesh and memories followed by the slow restructuring of his body, is a dark inversion of natural metamorphosis. He sheds his old form and becomes another, not out of growth but out of deception and control. The mimicry is total. Voice, aura, mind, and skin all become replicas, and the result is monstrous.
But ecdysis also speaks to the shedding of trust within the Dazhum agents. A layer of protection is lost. Illusions fall away. What seemed secure is now exposed. The trap laid by Altan forces the surviving agents to abandon their positions, flee the east, and rethink everything they knew. In a way, the entire mission is shedding its false skin, revealing the bones beneath.
Ecdysis in this chapter is the shedding of lies and a new layer of lies. It is not a cleansing. It is camouflage.
As the story moves forward, remember this. Ecdysis is not just about changing form. It is about what you leave behind.