Argus woke slowly.
Not because his body allowed anything faster, but because instinct warned him that waking too quickly was dangerous.
The air felt wrong.
Too clean. Too still.
His first breath came shallow, measured. His second hurt more. Pain settled into him in layers rather than spikes, a dull ache radiating from his ribs, shoulder, and thigh. He catalogued it automatically, the way he always had.
Nothing punctured. No paralysis. No internal bleeding severe enough to drown him.
Good.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. Smooth stone, etched with faintly glowing runes that pulsed in slow, steady intervals. Temperature regulation. Mana dampening. Healing stabilization.
A recovery chamber.
Not the kind reserved for branch members.
That realization pulled his awareness fully awake.
Argus turned his head slightly, testing the limits of his neck. The room was larger than he expected. One bed. One chair. A side table holding a shallow basin and folded cloth. No windows. One reinforced door marked with discreet sigils.
This wasn't kindness.
It was containment.
He exhaled slowly and forced himself not to tense. Anyone watching for panic would see nothing. He lay still, eyes half-lidded, listening.
Footsteps beyond the door. Light ones. Servants, not guards. But they moved carefully, as if instructed to treat the room as something fragile.
Or volatile.
The door opened.
A young servant entered first, eyes lowered, posture perfect. She crossed the room without a sound, checked the basin, adjusted the cloth, and stepped aside.
Then the second presence entered.
Argus didn't need to look to know who it was.
The pressure in the room changed. Not mana pressure. Authority.
One of the Patriarch's aides.
The man wore no crest, no ornamentation. That alone marked him as dangerous. His hair was bound simply, his expression neutral to the point of being unreadable.
"You are awake," the aide said.
Argus inclined his head slightly. Not a bow. Not defiance.
"I am."
The aide studied him for several seconds longer than courtesy required. Argus endured it without shifting.
"You have been moved to a restricted wing," the man said at last. "This is temporary."
"For my recovery?" Argus asked.
A pause.
"For the family's stability."
Argus absorbed that without comment.
The aide continued, "Your injuries were assessed. Another strike would have caused permanent damage."
"Yes," Argus said.
"You did not yield."
"No."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"You understand," the aide said carefully, "that what occurred today will not be dismissed as an accident."
"I understand," Argus replied.
The aide nodded once, as if confirming a hypothesis. "You will remain here for seven days. No training. No visitors without approval."
He turned to leave, then stopped at the door.
"Survival is not the same as permission," he said. "Do not confuse the two."
The door closed.
Argus stared at the ceiling again.
So the match had done exactly what he feared.
It had made him visible.
The next days passed quietly.
Too quietly.
Meals arrived at fixed intervals. The same servant, always silent. Always careful not to linger. No insults. No praise. No comfort.
Argus used the time to think.
He replayed the match again and again, not as memory but as analysis. Every movement. Every miscalculation. The moment Lucien had shifted stance. The hesitation of the instructor.
And the moment the world had… bent.
He focused inward.
The sensation returned immediately. Subtle. Cold. Like a presence standing just behind his thoughts.
Stability Check: OngoingAdaptive Response: LockedUser Condition: Compromised
Argus frowned.
"What does compromised mean?" he asked quietly.
No response.
He waited, breathing slow, controlling the tension in his chest. The system didn't feel malicious. It felt… detached. Like a ledger that recorded events without caring about the lives behind them.
Minutes passed.
Then:
Designation Identified:Aethric Archive (Fragment)Primary Function: Record, analyze, preserve anomalous survival patterns.
A fragment.
That word lodged uncomfortably in his mind.
"A fragment of what?" Argus asked.
The response came slower this time, as if the system itself were parsing a dangerous line.
Context unavailable.Core absent.
Argus's pulse quickened.
"You activated because I was dying," he said. "You adapted me. Why?"
Silence stretched.
Then:
You exceeded expected failure parameters.
That answer unsettled him more than any threat could have.
Not chosen. Not favored.
Evaluated.
"And the cost?" he pressed.
The text flickered.
Deferred.
Argus didn't relax.
"Deferred isn't free."
Correct.
That single word carried weight.
He opened his eyes, staring at the rune-lit ceiling. Whatever this system was, it wasn't designed for comfort. Or mercy.
It preserved what survived.
The implication settled heavily in his chest.
When he was finally released from the restricted wing, the estate felt different.
Not outwardly.
The courtyards still rang with training calls. Servants moved as they always had. Instructors barked orders. The House breathed on, unbothered.
But eyes followed him now.
Not openly. Not always.
Enough.
Lucien was still absent.
That absence was conspicuous.
Argus seated himself on a stone bench near the outer ring of the training grounds, leg still stiff but functional. He observed, as he always had, letting patterns form.
Which servants avoided him. Which lingered.
Which siblings pretended not to notice him at all.
And which did.
"Looks like you finally earned a bed with real runes."
Argus didn't turn.
The voice was smooth. Controlled.
A shadow fell across the stone.
Lyssara Aethra stood beside him, hands folded behind her back. Her gaze swept the training grounds, not him.
"You surprised Father," she continued. "That doesn't happen often."
Argus chose his words carefully. "I didn't intend to."
Lyssara smiled faintly. "Intent is rarely relevant."
She glanced at him now, eyes sharp, searching. "You moved differently at the end."
"Yes."
"How?"
"I survived."
That answer earned a soft laugh. "You're careful."
"I have to be."
She studied him another moment, then leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Be careful in a different way now."
Argus met her gaze.
"Survival attracts attention," she said. "And attention attracts correction."
She straightened and walked away without another word.
That evening, behind layers of wards and silence, the Patriarch listened.
Reports were delivered concisely. No speculation. Only observations.
"—movement inconsistent with any known branch technique—"
"—no bloodline resonance detected—"
"—brief distortion during final exchange—"
The Patriarch's expression did not change.
"Is it repeatable?" he asked.
"We don't know," an elder replied.
"Is it controllable?"
"Unclear."
The Patriarch considered this.
"Then it is not yet dangerous," he said. "Continue observation. Do not interfere unless necessary."
A pause.
"And ensure the other heirs understand this was an anomaly. Not precedent."
Argus felt the pressure behind his eye that night.
It came without warning. A dull ache, localized, persistent. He pressed two fingers against his temple, breathing through it.
Images flickered at the edge of his awareness. Not visions. Not memories.
Patterns.
As if something inside him were learning how to look.
He swallowed.
Not yet, he thought firmly.
The pressure receded slightly, as if acknowledging the restraint.
Argus lay back, staring into the darkness.
He had survived.
But survival, he was learning, was only the first cost.
Now the family was watching.
The system was watching.
And somewhere beyond the walls of House Aethra, other eyes were beginning to turn.
Eyes that would not look away so easily.