Morning arrived without ceremony.
Midarion woke before the bell, the way he had since the assignment. The dormitory was still dark, bodies breathing around him in uneven rhythm. Someone turned in their sleep. Someone muttered a dream-name. The ceiling above him was unchanged—stone ribs, faint salt stains from the tides—but something in him had settled into a quieter shape.
Fragments lingered.
Not words. Not lessons.
Just impressions.
A voice that had not demanded anything. A presence that had not recoiled from his exhaustion. The sense of being seen without being lifted.
That was all.
He rose without haste, folded the thin blanket with care, and dressed in the attendant's uniform. The cloth still felt wrong against his skin—too plain, too final—but he adjusted it anyway. He smoothed the sleeves. Straightened the collar. When he caught his reflection in the polished metal of a locker latch, he paused only long enough to ensure his expression was neutral.
Then he smiled.
It was small. Practiced. Unremarkable.
By the time the bell rang, he was already moving.
The day began as it always did.
He carried water first—heavy ceramic jugs from the lower cisterns, careful not to slosh, careful not to rush. Recruits passed him, boots striking stone in disciplined cadence. A pair of senior cadets slowed when they saw him, unsure.
One of them nodded, then stopped himself.
Midarion stepped aside and bowed his head.
"Attendant," one cadet said, as if testing the word.
Midarion smiled.
"Yes, sir."
They passed. Laughter followed, not cruel enough to be called mockery, not kind enough to be ignored. He did not react. He adjusted his grip and continued.
Breakfast service followed. He poured tea he did not drink. Set plates he did not eat from. Listened as conversations passed over him like weather.
"…heard the western patrol lost three—"
"…Aelyss won't tolerate that again—"
"…lawless lands breed recklessness—"
A bowl was pushed too far, nearly tipping. Midarion corrected it before it spilled. No one noticed.
When a junior recruit snorted and whispered, "He likes it, I think," Midarion smiled wider.
He scrubbed afterward. Tables. Floors. The long stone bench near the window where salt spray crept in through the cracks. His hands stung faintly, skin rubbed raw by brine and grit. He welcomed the sensation. It anchored him.
By midmorning, his name had not been spoken once.
That felt intentional.
He moved to the upper levels before noon.
Captain Aelyss's schedule left no gaps. Her quarters were cleaned daily, sometimes twice. Midarion entered without looking around, eyes down until the door sealed behind him. The room was as it always was: immaculate to the point of severity.
Maps lined one wall, pinned and weighted, edges perfectly aligned. Mission logs stacked by date, seals unbroken. A desk cleared of everything except what was immediately required. No personal items. No softness.
Power without ornament.
Midarion worked silently.
He dusted without disturbing paper. Adjusted the angle of a chair by a fraction. Replaced a pen that had rolled a finger-width from its mark. He did not read. He did not linger. Still, voices reached him through the stone.
"…southern reef is no longer viable."
"…acceptable losses, given the outcome."
"…reassign the unit. No memorial."
Names followed. Regions. Numbers spoken with calm efficiency. Decisions that altered lives without raising a voice.
Midarion's hand tightened briefly around the cloth.
Then he loosened it.
The door opened.
Captain Aelyss entered, boots striking once, precise. She did not look at him. She moved past, removed her gloves, placed them on the desk. Midarion stepped back and bowed.
She crossed the room, stopped, and turned—not toward him, but toward the window.
"The dusting," she said.
"Yes, Captain."
"Here." She gestured to a shelf. "That corner."
Midarion followed her indication. A single grain of salt clung to the stone, barely visible. He removed it.
She nodded once, already turning away.
"If you want to exist here," she said, voice level, "learn to be exact."
Then she dismissed him with a wave that did not acknowledge his presence.
Midarion smiled and left.
The assembly hall was crowded that afternoon.
Equipment preparation had drawn multiple divisions together, ranks layered in color and insignia. Midarion moved along the perimeter with a crate of fastenings, distributing them where indicated.
A murmur rose near the central racks.
A recruit—young, nervous—had misaligned a locking clasp on a tide-spear. The error was subtle but dangerous. Aelyss was not yet watching.
Midarion saw it instantly.
He hesitated.
Then stepped forward, adjusted the clasp with two quick motions, and stepped back into place.
The young recruit exhaled in relief.
Too late.
"Attendant."
Aelyss's voice cut cleanly through the space.
Midarion turned and approached, heart steady, smile in place.
"You interfered," she said, loud enough for all to hear.
"I corrected an error, Captain."
"You acted without authority again."
The hall stilled. Eyes turned. Whispers gathered.
Aelyss studied him as one might study a flawed tool.
"You are not here to think," she said. "I have already told you, you are here to obey."
Silence deepened.
She continued, voice even. "Additional duties. Night rotation. Reduced rest. And a reminder—" Her gaze flicked briefly to the watching recruits. "Attendants do not decide what is necessary."
"Yes, Captain," Midarion said.
The recruit he had helped stared at the floor.
When Midarion returned to his position, laughter followed him. Not loud. Worse—knowing.
The rest of the day passed in fragments.
Someone whispered, "Should've stayed quiet."
Another muttered, "He thinks he's special."
That night, while others rested, Midarion worked.
He cleaned training equipment until the metal gleamed. Refilled stores before they emptied. Adjusted schedules on a board no one noticed he touched. Small failures ceased occurring.
An officer commented on the improvement.
Credit went elsewhere.
Midarion smiled.
Another meeting that same night.
Senior officers gathered around the central table, voices low, tension contained. Midarion stood at the side with a tray of water, posture perfect.
His arms ached. His back burned. He did not shift.
A hand lifted, distracted.
"Water."
Midarion stepped forward.
His foot caught the edge of the rug.
The jug tilted.
Water spilled across the stone, splashing against a boot.
The sound was sharp in the quiet room.
Midarion froze.
"I—" The word caught in his throat. He dropped to one knee instantly, cloth in hand, wiping the spill with shaking fingers.
No one shouted.
The Intelligence Commander—older, eyes tired—stepped back without comment. "It's fine," he said absently, already turning back to the table.
Aelyss's gaze flicked to Midarion.
It held no anger.
That was worse.
Midarion finished cleaning, hands trembling now, breath shallow. Tears threatened, hot and sudden, but he swallowed them down. He stood, tray steady once more.
The meeting resumed.
Later, Aelyss spoke.
Not to him.
"To them.
"Leadership," she said, "is the willingness to carry weight without recognition. To act without applause. To accept invisibility as the price of function."
Midarion stood very still.
"Those who require acknowledgment," she continued, "will fail when it is denied."
No one argued.
The speech ended. Chairs scraped. Orders were given.
Midarion remained.
Night found him alone in the washroom.
He scrubbed his hands until the skin reddened, until the ache dulled into something manageable. When he looked up, his reflection stared back—attendant's uniform, no insignia, no rank.
He smiled at it.
The smile stayed.
He returned to his duties.
Serving. Enduring. Being ignored.
No reward came.
No acknowledgment followed.