Nothing had changed.
That was the lie the days told.
Midarion stood where he was told to stand. Near the inner corridor, just before the polished doors that led to the upper command levels. Not close enough to hear strategy. Not far enough to disappear. He held a tray for so long his fingers numbed around the edges. When someone passed, he stepped aside. When someone needed something, he moved before they asked.
Hours passed like this.
Standing.Waiting.Serving.Being looked through rather than at.
Voices flowed around him without ever catching. Orders were spoken over his shoulder. Decisions were made while he was present and never acknowledged. At one point, someone nearly walked into him, startled as if furniture had shifted on its own.
"Watch it," the officer muttered, already moving on.
Midarion inclined his head and returned to stillness.
From the outside, it was the same punishment loop. The same erasure. The same slow grind meant to flatten a person into obedience.
Anyone watching would have thought he was enduring.
They would have been wrong.
The first hour was physical. Legs locked. Back straight. Breath measured so it wouldn't tremble. He let that part pass. He always did.
Then the noise fell away.
It didn't vanish—it receded, like the tide pulling back from shore. Footsteps dulled. Voices blurred into texture rather than meaning. Even the weight of the tray became abstract, its pressure distributed, catalogued, dismissed.
Midarion closed nothing. His eyes stayed open. His posture never changed.
Theomar had taught him this.
Not as enlightenment. Not as peace.
As survival.
Back then, he had hated it.
Stillness is a weapon, Theomar had said, voice calm in that infuriating way of his. But only if you can endure what it turns inward.
Young Midarion had scowled, restless, burning to move, to act, to prove something. Standing still had felt like punishment even then. Like being caged with his own thoughts.
Now, standing still was freedom.
He slid inward, careful, controlled. Not retreating—compressing. His Kosmo didn't flare or flow. It coiled. He didn't push it outward; he folded it back on itself, layer by layer, like tightening a band around a core that refused to break.
There was no sweat. No trembling exertion.
Instead, there was pressure.
Heat, contained.Compression, deliberate.Restraint so absolute it bordered on pain.
Stillness had become heavier than motion.
The weight pressed from the inside, a constant test of control. His muscles ached less than his focus did. Any slip—any indulgence in release—would have been obvious. Dangerous. So he held it. Every breath was an act of refusal.
He trained Kosmo control, not output.
No one noticed.
At some point, absurdity bubbled up—not laughter, not quite. The edge of it. The memory hit him sideways, sharp enough that his mouth twitched before he could stop it.
Theomar, sitting cross-legged on cold stone, eyes half-lidded.
Again, he'd said, after Midarion broke posture for the fifth time.This is useless, Midarion had snapped. I'm not a monk.Theomar had smiled faintly. No. You're prey. That's why you need it.
Standing there now, tray balanced, existence minimized, Midarion almost laughed.
Almost.
Theomar had known.
Not the details. Not this place, or these halls, or Captain Aelyss's precise brand of control. But the shape of it. The inevitability of cages that didn't look like cages. Punishments disguised as patience tests.
He'd prepared him anyway.
The amusement faded, leaving something quieter behind. Not gratitude. Not sadness. Just acknowledgment.
The tray was taken from his hands without ceremony.
"Hold position," someone said.
He did.
Captain Aelyss passed an hour later.
She slowed—not much, but enough. Her gaze cut sideways, sharp and assessing, catching on something she couldn't immediately name. Midarion met her eyes, expression neutral, breathing even.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then she spoke.
"Stop sleeping while on duty."
"I'm awake, Captain," he replied calmly.
Her eyes narrowed a fraction. She stepped closer, just enough that the air seemed to tighten.
"Then control your Kosmo," she said. "You are not training. Do not pretend otherwise."
The words were a warning, not an accusation.
He bowed his head. "Yes, Captain."
She searched him another second longer, clearly dissatisfied. Whatever she sensed didn't align with what she saw. No sweat. No instability. No visible breach of discipline.
She turned away.
But she remembered.
Midarion felt it—not as fear, but as confirmation. She was competent. That made this better. Harder, but cleaner.
By the time class came, his legs were stiff and his focus still humming under restraint. He walked to the lecture hall with measured steps, attendant uniform unmarked, presence unclaimed.
Inside, warmth returned.
Not from the room—but from the people.
He didn't hover at the back today.
He chose a seat.
Reikika looked up, surprised, then smiled. "You're early."
"Had time," Midarion said lightly, sitting beside her.
Lior arrived moments later, hesitating when he saw them. Midarion met his eyes and nodded toward the empty space.
"Sit," he said. "Before someone else takes it."
Lior blinked, then laughed under his breath and joined them.
For a few minutes, nothing mattered. Reikika complained about the instructor's handwriting. Lior joked about memorizing maps by accident instead of design. Midarion listened, added small comments, smiled without forcing it.
They both noticed.
Reikika leaned closer, voice low. "You're… weirdly happy."
Lior nodded. "Yeah. You should be miserable."
Midarion shrugged. "Give it time."
They exchanged a look when he wasn't watching.
"He's not pretending," Reikika murmured."No," Lior agreed. "I think this is just who he is."
She studied Midarion's profile—the ease in his posture, the quiet focus behind his eyes.
"No one can ever break him," she said softly.
The class began.
Weeks passed.
Not counted. Felt.
The routine remained the same, but its texture changed. Standing became easier—not physically, but mentally. His focus deepened, sharpened, no longer requiring effort to maintain. His Kosmo responded faster to restraint, folding inward with less resistance.
His smile changed too.
It stopped being armor.
By the end of the month, even Aelyss noticed that something about him no longer bent the way it should have.
She didn't know what it was.
Neither did anyone else.
That was the danger.