A cream-colored ceiling, sparsely brightened by the moonlight filtering through a thick plastic window, greeted Artemis as he opened his eyes. The heavy, lingering scent of gutted fish and stale ale filled his nostrils. A rhythmic thrum and a wave of dry heat from a nearby steam-heater hit his neck as he raised his head, assuring him of where he was: Rox's house.
He tried to move his right arm, but a weight pinned it down. Rhea, slumped against the side of the mattress, resting her head on his arm. A little drool pooled at the corner of her mouth, indicating she had been in that uncomfortable position for hours.
Feeling the shift, Rhea woke with a start. She rubbed her eyes, blinking away the sleep.
"Arty," she gasped, lifting her head. "You've been out for a whole day. How are you feeling? Are you aching anywhere?"
"No… I don't think so." His mind was still thick with fog. He looked down at his right arm—the arm bitten by the Silverline Jaguar. It was wrapped tightly in thick, white linen bandages.
He looked around the cramped, shadow-filled room, then back at his mother. "Where is Arthur?"
"He is at the healing house in town. Rox is with him," Rhea said, rubbing his hand reassuringly. "Don't worry, he is fine. I went to see them this morning."
Yes, we were in Griff Forest, Artemis thought, letting his back hit the pillows as the memories rushed in. What the hell were we thinking, going in there? And then that beast...
"Are you hungry?" Rhea stood up, smoothing out her apron. "I cooked some hiem butly."
"Yes." Artemis rubbed his empty stomach. He tried to sit up further, noticing his face mask dangling on his chest, held loosely by the knot tied around his neck.
Rhea gently pushed him back down by the shoulder. "Don't push yourself. I will bring it here."
She walked out of the room, quietly closing the heavy grey door behind her.
Left alone, Artemis frowned. What happened at the end? He looked at his bandaged right arm again. The linen was bound firmly over the exact spot where the Jaguar's teeth had clamped down. He flexed his fingers, moving his wrist upward and downward in quick succession.
There was no pain.
Shouldn't that thing have ripped my arm off? How am I still alive? He closed his eyes, a fragmented image flashing in his mind. Wait... I remember something came out of my skin. He pressed his left fingers into the bandage, feeling for the jagged protrusions he thought he remembered, but the thick wrapping hid whatever lay beneath.
The grey door creaked open. Rhea walked back in carrying a wooden tray holding a deep bowl and a cup of water. The rich, savory aroma of the stew instantly filled the cramped room, cutting through the smell of the rust. She sat on the edge of the silk-sheeted bed, skillfully keeping the water from spilling.
"Be careful, it's still hot," she warned, frantically fanning the steam away from the bowl as she handed it to him.
"Glass, eat with me," Artemis whispered under his breath, putting his hands together for a brief moment of reverence.
He took the wooden spoon, scooped a morsel of the thick stew, and blew on it before putting it in his mouth. The broth was rich, coating his tongue with a sharp, spicy and pepperish heat that lingered pleasantly after every swallow.
"This pepper..." Artemis pointed at the bowl with his spoon.
"You noticed." Rhea's eyes lit up with a small, fragile smile. "Illun pepper. Rox had some in his pantry, so I was trying to be inventive. Do you like it?"
"Yes. The spiciness makes it better." Artemis stopped to take a sip of water, the cool liquid soothing the burn.
He ate in silence for a while, but a heavy weirdness settled between them—cold and still, like a room no one had entered in years.
"Arty..." Rhea broke the silence, her fingers curling tightly into her palms. "I need to tell you something."
Artemis looked up to meet her emerald-blue eyes—so much like his own. A sudden, sour knot formed in his throat. "What is it?"
Rhea opened her mouth, then closed it. It looked like a final, desperate attempt to preserve a lie she wished was true.
Artemis watched her. A bead of cold sweat fell from his brow onto the white linen of his shirt, creating a dark, damp smear just below his collar.
Finally, she exhaled, her shoulders sagging. "The disease... the sickness I always told you that you had." Her throat clicked as she swallowed hard. "It was a lie."
The room suddenly felt unbearably stuffy. The sweet aroma of the stew became sour as though mirroring the emotions that Rhea's face didn't show.
"When you were six months old, and your first tooth broke through your gums, fear gripped me," Rhea whispered, her voice trembling. "I didn't think it was even possible for a Fleshborn—someone not of royal blood—to give birth to..." She paused, unable to look him in the eye.
"Your teeth were Diamond," she finally breathed out. "I didn't believe it at first because they weren't transparent, like the ones you hear about in the stories. The dark color and the obsidian structure were odd... but unmistakable. I knew you were Adamanthe. A Lustream."
His mother's confession clung to him—Adamantite. The words felt foreign, dangerous. As he lay there, a memory surfaced like driftwood from dark waters: a story all of Ocela knew. The hopeful couple who'd birthed an Aurumtouched child. He remembered the mother's proud smile in the market, how she'd cradled the babe whose gold-flecked gums promised a better life. Then, the capital noble's lacquered carriage rolled into their dirt-poor street. The refusal. And the acrid stench of smoke that hung over Ocela the next morning, thicker than sea fog. No one spoke of the charred timbers or the silence where a family's laughter once lived. They all knew. Privilege wasn't gold teeth or noble titles—it was surviving the system that demanded them.
Her words hit Artemis's ears, but his body didn't react. The shock wasn't the revelation itself, but the mere fact that those words were actually true. He had always felt suspicious of his "disease." The way Rhea avoided eye contact whenever the conversation came up, the fact that they never went to see the local healer—it had always bothered him. He had just never let it show.
But Adamanthe? Diamond? The tier closest to the gods? That was the last thing he ever expected.
"Your Aunt Silvia found out when you were two years old, when she helped me care for you. I begged her to keep the secret." Rhea reached out, placing her trembling hand over his and squeezing tightly. "I never meant to lie to you, Arty. I just wanted to protect you. If the Nobles knew what you were... they would have taken you from me. I am so sorry."
Tears finally spilled over her lower lashes, rolling down her cheeks.
Artemis understood. It was the brutal unspoken law of Tamas: whenever a child of Silverstone tier or higher was born to a commoner family, the High Nobles would snatch the child through any means necessary to secure the bloodline for their own House.
He looked at Rhea, a chaotic storm of emotions swelling in his chest. But rising above the confusion and the shock was one distinct, undeniable feeling: Love. He understood her pain. He understood her terror.
He set the bowl aside and pulled her into a hug, holding her tight as her shoulders shook with silent sobs. There were no words, just a profound, quiet understanding. And that was enough.
After a minute, Rhea pulled back, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. "This was why I didn't want you to go to the military Academy."
"I understand," Artemis said softly. "But I don't think any Noble can take me now. I am too old for them too try and take me."
"I know." She stood up, picking up the wooden tray. She motioned toward the door, her chest looking a little lighter, though the burden was clearly still there.
Artemis watched the grey door click shut. His mind was spiraling, trying to process the impossible weight of what he had just learned. But amidst the chaos, one thought anchored him.
I need to be strong enough, he thought, looking down at his bandaged arm. Griff Forest had taught him a brutal lesson he would never forget: only strength survives. And he knew he needed to survive to protect everything he loved.
***
The next morning broke with a steady, drumming drizzle. Droplets of water lashed against the plastic window of Rox's spare room, pooling into muddy puddles in the dirt streets of Ocela.
Artemis sat on the edge of the bed, slowly unwrapping the thick linen bandage from his right arm. As the last layer fell away, he stared. There was no jagged tear, no puncture marks from the Silverline Jaguar. Just pale, unbroken skin.
The heavy grey door slid open. Artemis—out of habit—reached for his face mask, pulling it up over his nose and mouth as Rox walked in.
Arthur followed close behind, leaning heavily on a wooden walking stick. His chest was bound tight with fresh linen, and a crimson-spotted bandage wrapped around his head. Even with his Brazenmarked durability, every step looked like it cost him immense effort. Rhea trailed them, carrying a tray with four wooden cups. The earthy, sweet aroma of vitin tea and honey cut through the damp smell of the rain.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, his eyes squinting suspiciously at Artemis's perfectly healed arm.
"What?" Artemis asked, his voice muffled slightly by the mask.
With a groan, Arthur lowered himself onto a wooden stool, resting his cane against the frame. He looked Artemis dead in the eye. "You're Adamanthe?"
Artemis froze. He glanced at Rox, then at Rhea. His mouth opened in shock beneath the fabric. "How did… who told you?"
"I did," Rox said calmly, leaning his broad shoulder against the window frame. "Arthur was wondering how you guys survived."
Rox walked over to the tray, took a steaming cup, and nodded his thanks to Rhea before returning to the window. "I've suspected you were adamantite since I met you. Any experienced warrior would, even if you tried to hide them. Luckily for you, there aren't many veterans in Ocela."
"I begged him not to say anything," Rhea murmured, sitting gently on the edge of the bed beside Artemis, her hands wringing her apron.
"Oh." Artemis looked down, picking up his own cup of tea to hide his unease.
"Okay, wait. Some things still don't add up," Arthur said, wincing as he shifted his weight. "Adamanthe—the diamond tier—is the tier closest to that of a god, stories say they can quake the heavens and bring down the sky, How can you be at that level and be… well, this weak? Sure, you don't bleed much, but there should have been a tell years ago."
Artemis and Rhea looked puzzled, what Arthur said was true given the tier he should have been stronger although him not bleeding easily was an effect of being adamantite but that cannot be the only proof of someone on the level of a demigod.
"Actually, there is a reason," Rox said, his voice taking on the sharp, instructive tone of a military commander.
The other three turned to face him. The rain had slowed to a mist, allowing a weak, yellowish sunlight to filter into the cramped room.
"A few years ago, a scholar from the Academia named Nicol von Federich published a study," Rox explained, taking a slow sip of his tea. "He discovered that a person's mental state directly dictates their physiological structure. It's a psychosomatic lock. If you truly, subconsciously believe you are a fragile Fleshborn, your brain throttles the density of your bones to match that belief. Your mind made you weak, Artemis. But yesterday, the sheer terror of a near-death experience finally overrode your mental block."
The room fell into a heavy, contemplative silence. The only sound was the distant crashing of the Lunaterainian Sea against the docks.
Arthur broke the quiet first, gripping his cane. "I still have a hundred questions, but my mum will be worried sick if I don't get home soon. She already thinks I'm half-dead." He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand.
"Wait," Artemis said, reaching out to grab Arthur's uninjured arm. He turned his emerald-blue eyes toward the retired soldier. "Rox. We've decided to go to the military Academy."
"Yes, your mother informed me," Rox said, his expression unreadable.
"Can you train us?" Artemis asked, his voice hardening.
Rox raised an eyebrow. "Why should I do that? You'll be trained by the instructors at the Academy."
"Because we're weak. The forest showed me exactly what I am right now," Artemis said. He glanced at Arthur, who gave a firm, pain-laced nod of agreement, then looked back at Rox. "I hate being weak."
Rox let out a low huff that might have been a laugh. "I always planned on training you anyway. I can't have my deckhands dying on me before the season ends. It's bad for business." His gaze sharpened. "But I needed to see your resolve first. I won't waste my time on boys who just want to play soldier."
Rhea let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for a long time. "When is the entrance exam?"
"In two months," Artemis replied, his hand clenching into a fist over his pale, unbroken skin.
"I need to get going," Arthur muttered, giving Artemis a tired smirk before limping toward the door, his cane thudding rhythmically against the floorboards.
"We should go back home, too," Rhea said, standing up and gently helping Artemis to his feet. She looked at the towering Silverstone. "Rox… thank you. For everything. May the Glass be with you."
"You are welcome, Rhea," Rox said softly, watching them leave.
Later, in the small, dirt-packed yard behind their cottage, Artemis's thoughts churned. The axe felt clumsy in his hands tonight. Rox's words echoed: "I needed to understand your resolve first." A spark of defiance ignited in his chest—a hunger to know what lay dormant within him.
Moonlight silvered the rough bark of the old ironwood tree he'd split logs against for years. Its trunk was thick and gnarled. He dropped the axe. Its thud against the earth was unnaturally loud in the still night. He approached the tree, placing his palms flat against its weathered pale skin. It felt alive—a slow, deep pulse of sap and resilience humming beneath the bark.
He closed his eyes, reaching inward, past the lifetime of conditioned restraint. There was no grand wind-up, no roar of effort. Just a focused exhale, a coil of tension in his shoulders, and a single, devastating push.
A sound like thunder cracked the stillness.
Splinters exploded outward in a shower of pale wood. The ironwood groaned, a deep, mournful protest tearing from its roots. Then, with a shudder that vibrated through the ground and up Artemis's bones, it tilted. Slowly at first, then gathering terrible momentum, it crashed down. Branches shattered against neighboring fences; leaves rained like green confetti. Dust plumed, ghostly in the moonlight.
Artemis stood amidst the wreckage, breathing hard. Not from exertion—there'd been none—but from shock. His hands stung from the raw, unfiltered power that had surged through them. He stared at the ruin he'd created. No strain. No burn in his muscles. Just... will. The ironwood's fallen trunk lay like a slain giant, its splintered heart exposed.
He lifted his hands, turning them over in the moonlight. They looked the same—calloused, scarred from fishing lines and salt. But beneath the skin, something had changed and he knew it.
It terrified him. But he smiled.