The uniform did not fit poorly.
That was the first insult.
It fit exactly—cut to function, neither tight nor loose, stitched from a dull gray fabric that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. No insignia. No division color. No crest of Hydros. Not even a name tab.
Just cloth.
The quartermaster handed it over without ceremony. No eye contact. No instruction beyond a flat gesture toward a changing screen.
Midarion folded his own recruit uniform carefully before setting it aside. Blue-and-silver trim. Tide-marked stitching. The faint scent of salt and oil from drills. It felt heavier than it should have when he placed it down, as if it resisted being left behind.
When he emerged, the corridor had not changed.
That, too, felt intentional.
Recruits passed in ordered lines, boots striking stone in practiced rhythm. Soldiers moved like currents. Voices were low, disciplined. Familiar.
One recruit slowed when he saw Midarion.
Hesitated.
His gaze flicked to the gray uniform, then to Midarion's face. Recognition tried to surface and failed. The recruit opened his mouth, closed it again, then moved on without a word.
Another stared openly. A third smirked.
An instructor's voice cut across the corridor. "Attendants don't speak unless asked."
The words were not directed at Midarion alone. They were broadcast, declarative. A rule, not a reprimand.
Midarion inclined his head and stepped aside to let the column pass.
No one acknowledged him after that.
He was still assigned the same sleeping quarters.
Same narrow bed. Same stone alcove. Same ceiling crack shaped like a branching river delta.
But when night came, he lay awake longer than usual, listening to the familiar sounds of recruits settling in—quiet murmurs, the rustle of fabric, the soft clink of insignia being set aside. He felt close to them and separate all at once, like standing behind glass.
He did not belong to the ranks.
Yet he slept among them.
The next morning began before the first horn.
Aelyss's quarters sat on the upper tier, removed from the recruit halls and insulated by layers of stone and silence. Midarion entered alone, carrying cleaning implements arranged with precise care. He had been given a single instruction: Leave nothing out of place.
The room was spare but not empty.
A long table dominated the center, its surface inlaid with tide-lines etched in silver. Maps were weighted at the corners with smooth stones, each marked in careful script. Mission logs lay stacked by date, bound in dark leather. Instruments rested in symmetrical alignment—compasses, crystal gauges, seal-keys.
Everything had intention.
Nothing invited touch.
Midarion moved carefully, steps measured. He cleaned without haste, cloth gliding over polished stone, careful not to disturb alignment. The room smelled faintly of cold water and metal. No personal effects. No softness.
Voices drifted through the far wall.
Muted. Fragmented.
"…southern estuary compromised—"
"…lost three before extraction—acceptable—"
"…authorize recalibration—"
Names surfaced. Regions he recognized only from lessons. Decisions made without pause, without weight given to the people implied by the words.
Aelyss entered without announcement.
Midarion felt her presence before he saw her, the air tightening subtly, like pressure deep underwater. He stepped back immediately, hands folding behind him.
She did not look at him.
She crossed the room, boots soundless against the stone, gaze sweeping the table. She stopped near the far edge, reached out, and adjusted a single map-weight—no more than a finger's breadth out of alignment.
She corrected it without comment.
Then, finally, she spoke.
"If you want to exist here," she said, voice even, "learn to be exact."
Midarion inclined his head. "Yes, Captain."
She left as she had entered.
The room felt colder after.
Later that day, the error happened in the open.
Equipment preparation took place in the lower assembly hall, where recruits checked gear under instructor supervision. Midarion moved among them silently, carrying trays, refilling water, adjusting straps when directed.
One recruit—newer, hands unsteady—fumbled with a seal-lock on a pressure harness. The locking ring sat misaligned, subtle enough to escape a quick inspection. Left unchecked, it would fail under strain.
The instructor's back was turned.
Midarion paused.
The correction took two seconds. A twist. A soft click.
He did not speak.
The recruit exhaled, relief flickering across his face before he schooled it away. The instructor moved on, unaware.
For half a heartbeat, it felt like nothing had happened.
Then Aelyss's voice cut through the hall.
"Attendant."
Every sound seemed to recede.
Midarion turned and stepped forward.
"Yes, Captain."
She regarded him with that same distant precision, eyes skimming over him as if cataloging an object.
"You adjusted equipment without instruction," she said.
"I corrected a misalignment," Midarion replied, careful, neutral. "It would have failed."
Silence pressed in. Recruits stilled. Instructors watched with measured interest.
Aelyss's expression did not change.
"You interfered," she said. "You acted without authority. You undermined the chain of observation."
She turned slightly, addressing the hall as much as him. "Discipline exists so that accountability is clear. When everyone acts on personal judgment, responsibility dissolves."
Her gaze returned to Midarion.
"You are not here to think," she said. "You are here to obey."
The words landed cleanly.
"Additional duties," she continued. "You will forfeit rest cycles until further notice. You will be present for all equipment checks. You will not act unless directly commanded."
"Yes, Captain," Midarion said.
She dismissed him with a gesture.
The recruit he had helped did not look at him again.
Whispers followed him as he moved through the corridors later.
"Should've stayed quiet."
"He thinks he's special."
"Lawless lands habits I'd say."
The words were not loud. They didn't need to be.
When Midarion passed, conversations bent around him like water around stone.
Lior found him near the service stairwell that evening.
"That was unfair," Lior said quietly.
Midarion adjusted the tray in his hands. "It was fair."
Lior hesitated. "You didn't do anything wrong."
Midarion met his eyes briefly, then looked away. "Don't."
The word ended it.
Reikika stood across the hall, arms folded, jaw tight. She said nothing. Her eyes tracked him until he disappeared around the corner.
As the days layered over one another, Midarion learned.
Not through instruction. Through observation.
He learned when officers arrived early and when they did not. He learned which instruments were touched most often and which were ceremonial. He adjusted schedules silently, moving tasks so that conflicts dissolved before they formed.
A briefing ran smoother because the room was prepared earlier than expected.
A mission launched without delay because a seal-key had been replaced the night before.
Equipment failures dropped.
No one mentioned him.
An officer accepted praise for improved efficiency. Another remarked on "better discipline among support staff."
Midarion listened. He kept his head down.
Aelyss never commented.
When she finally summoned him privately, it was without preamble.
He stood at attention in her quarters, hands raw, shoulders aching. She reviewed a report, expression faintly displeased.
"You are exactly what happens," she said, without looking up, "when raw strength isn't guided by discipline."
The sentence was delivered like a diagnosis.
Midarion said nothing.
"You endure," she continued. "But endurance without structure produces waste."
She closed the report and set it aside.
"That will be all."
He bowed and turned to leave.
The corridor beyond felt longer than before.
That night, he sat alone on his bed long after the lights dimmed. His hands trembled faintly as he unwrapped the bindings, skin red and cracked beneath. He flexed his fingers slowly, testing range, ignoring the pain.
In the small polished metal plate affixed to the wall, his reflection stared back.
Gray uniform.
No rank.
No name.
Midarion breathed out.
He did not feel stronger.
He felt narrowed.
Focused.
"I won't impress you," he murmured to the empty room. "I won't ask."
He rewrapped his hands with deliberate care.
"But I'll learn."
And he waited.