Grub woke slowly as his mind was being forced back together piece by piece against its will. The first thing he felt was the cold—a damp, suffocating chill that clung to his skin and seeped deep into his bones, followed immediately by the pain that sat heavy in his chest, his ribs, and his gut. It wasn't terrible at first, but it was constant, oppressive, and irritating enough to make him squirm. Then memory followed, disjointed at first but quickly aligning into order—the fight, Tre'yon, the crowd, the moment everything fell apart, and the realization that his disguise had been torn away in front of all of them.
His eyes opened to darkness. It was not completely black but close enough that it pressed in on him from all sides. The space around him was dimly lit by a faint, flickering light somewhere outside his immediate view, casting weak shadows along rough stone walls that were slick with moisture. The air was thick and stale, heavy with the scent of damp rock and rusted metal, and it clung to his lungs with every breath. Grub didn't move at first, choosing instead to lay still and let everything settle into place as he stared upward, his thoughts beginning to gather.
The question came naturally.
Should I have stayed at the Ridge with the others?
If he had never left, none of this would have happened. There would be no infiltration, no exposure, and no chains. He would still be hidden, still surviving, still safe in the only place that had offered even a semblance of stability since the fall.
But the thought didn't hold for long. After all, if he had stayed, he wouldn't know anything. He wouldn't know what Anima was, wouldn't understand what a Forte was, and wouldn't have learned how these soldiers fought or how their world actually worked. He would still be weak and ignorant, still stuck in the same fragile state he had been in before.
But what did that matter if I died here?
That thought pressed on him as if forcing its way through his reasoning. If this "Colonel" decided to execute him, then everything he gained would mean nothing. All the knowledge, all the experience, all the risk—it would end here, with nothing to show for it. He would have no answers, no progress, no understanding. Just death.
Another thought followed.
Maybe I shouldn't have infiltrated at all. I could have stuck to the original plan, observing from a distance and learned their language without ever stepping into danger.
That would have been safer, more controlled, less reckless. But even as the thought formed, it fell apart as well. He wouldn't have learned half of what he knew now. Not the depth of the language he now understood. Their combat would never have been able to be learned like he did from fighting them. He would not have been able to understand the structure as well as he did without living in it. Even their power would be only understood at a baseline level. None of it would have been possible from a distance.
Grub exhaled slowly, forcing the thoughts down as he shut his eyes briefly before opening them again. There was no point in regret. Regret didn't help him survive. It didn't change anything, so it didn't matter. What mattered was now.
He shifted, trying to push himself up, but immediately felt resistance as a sharp tug stopped him mid-motion. His eyes flicked downward, and the answer was obvious. Chains wrapped tightly around his wrist, thick iron binding him to the wall behind him. He tested it instinctively, pulling once, but there was no give. The metal held firm.
He forced himself to look around properly. He was surrounded by stone walls and narrow spacing with iron bars set into the front.
It seems like a cell. Just my luck, my first time meeting native intelligent life and I am immediately a criminal.
The realization settled in without surprise, only confirmation.
Grub let out a quiet breath as he slumped slightly back against the wall, the movement sending a spike of pain through his ribs that made him hiss under his breath. He raised his hand slowly, feeling along his torso, mapping the damage with careful precision. His ribs were still broken, not even set properly, just left as they were. His stomach was wrapped in bandages, but the wound beneath was still raw. It was as if the spear had just been simply pulled out and the wound quickly bandaged.
They had treated him just enough to keep him alive. Nothing more.
Grub leaned his head back against the cold stone, letting it rest there for a moment before his hand instinctively moved toward the inner lining of his cloak. He searched without thinking at first, fingers moving through the folds of fabric where he knew it should be, then slowed, then stopped entirely.
Nothing.
His hand moved again, faster this time, checking deeper, more urgently, searching every hidden pocket, every seam.
Still nothing.
His breathing picked up as the realization hit fully. His notebook was gone. Everything he had written, everything he had learned since the fall, every observation, every fragment of language, every theory—it was all gone.
"They took it…" he muttered under his breath, his voice tight as his jaw clenched hard.
Of course they did. They searched him. They took everything but the clothes on his back.
That was the real loss.
Not the fight. Not the injuries. His dear notebook. His research.
Grub forced himself to calm down, though it took effort as his thoughts raced, trying to hold onto everything he could remember before it slipped away. Then the sound of footsteps broke through the silence, pulling his attention back immediately.
Someone was coming closer.
Grub straightened slightly, forcing his body into a more stable position despite the pain as the footsteps grew louder and more distinct. Then the cell door rattled violently as a soldier slammed against it, the sound echoing sharply through the confined space.
"Get up. You're going to see the Colonel."
Grub's eyes narrowed slightly at the name, but he didn't respond. The door opened, and he was yanked forward without warning as the chains were removed from the wall and replaced with restraints around his wrists and ankles. He didn't resist, not yet, allowing himself to be pulled forward as he stepped out of the cell and into the open camp.
The moment he emerged, he felt it. Eyes stared at him from every direction. Soldiers turned, conversations slowed, then stopped entirely as their gazes locked onto him. Whispers began immediately, spreading through the crowd as he was led forward in chains.
Grub kept his head forward and walked.
He passed familiar faces. Yu stood still, watching him with a stern, unreadable expression. Cordylus was there too, of course, laughing as if none of this meant anything. Grub's eyes flicked toward him briefly before returning forward.
No sign of Tre'yon. Grub didn't care that much though.
He was led toward a large tent, one he had seen before during his observations but never entered. It stood larger than the rest, positioned centrally, clearly important. The soldier shoved him forward, and Grub stumbled slightly as he crossed inside before being thrown to the ground.
Pain shot through him again as he hit, but he didn't stay down. He pushed himself up slowly, keeping his head lowered as he looked forward.
And there he saw him.
The Colonel sat before looking down at him with confusion.
The difference between him and the others was noticeable. He stood taller than the other lacerts. His body and shoulders were broader and more defined. He had scales that were a dark grey, almost black in the dim light, and his yellow slit eyes seemed to cut through everything they landed on. His presence alone felt heavy like Grub was threatened to be crushed just by being near him.
He sat in a reinforced chair, his tail wrapped loosely around it, his posture relaxed but intentional. He wore armor that was unlike the others—a black chest plate lined with gold, sharp and polished, with golden shoulder guards and cuffs. His dark pants were trimmed with gold at the knees, and heavy boots rested firmly against the ground.
Power and authority oozed off this guy and Grub couldn't ignore it.
Power.
To his left sat Lelan, composed and watching. To his right sat a red-scaled Lacert cloaked in dark fabric, and Grub recognized him as the one who controlled fire during the festival. Tre'yon stood off to the side, his expression conflicted, something between anger and something else Grub couldn't quite place.
Outside the tent, recruits gathered, held back by guards. However, Grub noticed that Cordylus had either snuck in or was let in because he sat perched on a shelf, unnoticed by everyone but Grub. His face keeping that devilish grin.
Grub focused forward as the colonel spoke.
"I am Colonel Gavial."
His voice was deep and rough, similar to Gravel's but heavier and slower. The grey lizard's powerful voice carried across the room.
"Who are you?"
Grub didn't answer immediately. He thought carefully, weighing every outcome before finally speaking.
Hmmm. On one hand I could tell the truth. Or I could simply lie. Which one would give me the most favorable outcome?
"…Jug. My name is Jug."
The answer came calmly. It was a lie. But not entirely. Grub wasn't his real name either, but it was his now, and he wouldn't give it up here. After all, if this was too be his name he didn't want it sullied by being imprisoned. That could hurt future relations with future encounters. Grub didn't need to risk that. Although, it wouldn't matter if he dies here in the end. Grub pushed the thought away quickly.
Gavial's eyes shifted as he looked at Lelan, then the red Lacert, then Tre'yon before returning to Grub.
"…Jug," he repeated, then nodded as if accepting it for now.
"What nation sent you?"
Grub thought again, quickly and precisely. The Ridge was where he came from, but they didn't know that, and he had no reason to give them anything. Five had told him they would grow and get stronger.. Grub had no intention of selling out his former home with his former acquaintances before they could properly fight back. Plus, he wouldn't be lying by saying no one sent him. After all, he came here on his own accord.
"…no one," he said evenly. "I came alone."
Gavial watched him closely, then suddenly laughed.
"I don't think this thing is lying."
The laugh stopped instantly. His eyes sharpened.
"Then what are you?"
Grub exhaled slightly and shrugged, offering no answer. There was no point. Humans meant nothing here, and explaining the Rift would only make things worse. Plus, he barely knew himself. Explaining what he was would be difficult for him.
Gavial frowned, then nodded. A guard stepped forward and kicked Grub directly into his ribs. The pain exploded through him as he dropped, struggling to breathe before forcing himself back up.
"Answer."
Grub steadied himself and shrugged again.
Lelan burst out in a rage.
"This is pointless. Let us just execute him."
The red Lacert nodded in agreement. Then Lelan smiled and joked.
"See? If even Saander agrees then I must be right!"
Gavial shook his head.
"No."
His eyes returned to Grub.
"I think we can use him."
He gestured slightly, and Tre'yon stepped away. Tre'yon's expression was heard to read but it looked relieved in some way. Maybe, it was because Grub wasn't being executed. But Grub couldn't tell, so he paid it no mind.
Gavial leaned forward, his expression shifting into something almost amused.
"You're not loyal to any nation," he said slowly. A pause followed.
"So."
A small smile formed.
"You wouldn't mind helping us… would you?"
Grub swallowed, the weight of the moment settling in fully as he realized that this was no longer about survival alone. This was something else entirely.