Dust curled through the air as Rory planted his boots into the cracked ground, every muscle in his arms and back locked in tension. The boulder strapped to his shoulders felt heavier than anything he had ever carried, pressing down on him like the weight of a world. His mandibles—sharp and strapped at his sides—trembled from exhaustion.
He staggered another step forward.
His breathing came in short, shallow bursts, his vision swaying like a candle flame in the wind. His throat was raw, his hands ached from gripping the rough straps biting into his shoulders. Sweat clung to him like a second skin, stinging his eyes, leaving a salty burn in the cuts on his palms. But he didn't stop. He couldn't.
You left on your own, didn't you, Ari? You idiot. You brave, reckless idiot... I won't let you go alone. I'll become strong enough to help you.
Rory clenched his jaw, grinding his molars, and dragged the boulder another agonizing lap across the uneven terrain of the training grounds. The tunnels echoed with his ragged breaths and the dull thump of his feet. A coppery taste spread across his tongue as his lips cracked from the dry air.
He collapsed after the twelfth lap, face-first into the dirt. His arms dangled uselessly at his sides. The boulder slid off his back and came to rest with a soft thud beside him, kicking up a faint cloud of dust that settled on his sweat-soaked skin.
"Get up."
The voice was low and firm, but it held none of the harshness it had before. It was steady, grounded—like stone beneath running water.
Lieutenant Brooks stood nearby, arms crossed over his chest, his tall frame outlined by the dim glow of bioluminescent fungus clinging to the stone walls. His armor bore scars from wars long past, and his own mandibles—sleek and curved like twin scimitars—were strapped across his back.
"I didn't say you could stop," he said again, stepping closer, tone calm but unwavering. "If Ari's out there fighting for his life, you don't get to lie in the dirt."
Rory groaned, his ribs aching as he rolled onto his back, chest heaving.
"I know... I'm not done."
"Then prove it."
Slowly, painfully, Rory dragged himself back to his feet. His arms screamed. His knees quivered like twigs in a storm. The boulder went back on. Lap thirteen.
By lap seventeen, his arms burned with white-hot agony. By lap twenty, his shoulders felt like they had splintered from the inside. His vision blurred until he wasn't sure if the path ahead was real. Blisters split open on his palms, slicking the straps with blood, making his grip slide dangerously.
But he finished. He collapsed to his knees, gasping, dizziness rippling through him like waves.
"Push-ups," Brooks said, setting the boulder back onto Rory's shoulders without ceremony.
Rory muttered a curse, his voice hoarse, but obeyed. The dirt caked his hands as he slammed them into the ground, the boulder pressing him deeper with each motion. Every repetition was pain incarnate. His wrists trembled, his elbows wobbled under the crushing weight. But he pushed through—ten, twenty, fifty. His breath grew ragged, the taste of iron sharp in his mouth.
By the time he hit eighty, his arms gave out beneath him, and he sank into the earth like a dying ember.
Brooks didn't yell. He simply stepped beside him and said quietly, "You've got a strong will. But pain alone won't make you stronger. It has to be honed."
"I'm not quitting," Rory spat through clenched teeth, dragging himself up. "I'll do whatever it takes. For him. For all of us."
Brooks gave a slow nod, thoughtful. "Then it's time you learned how to fight with precision."
Rory looked up, confused. "What?"
"Sparring," Brooks said. "With me."
Before Rory could protest, the older ant stepped back and drew one of his mandibles. The curved blade hissed lightly against the scabbard, gleaming in the dim light.
"Draw your weapon," Brooks said, calm and focused. "We'll begin with basics. Footing. Control. You can't swing blindly and expect to win."
Rory stood shakily, wiped blood from his lip, and drew his own mandibles. His stance was tense, weight uneven.
"Too rigid," Brooks observed. "Fighting isn't about bracing for impact. It's about adapting to it. Bend your knees. Loosen your grip."
Rory adjusted, the burn in his thighs making him wince.
"Better. Now—strike."
Rory lunged, his blade singing through the air, but Brooks turned his body slightly and deflected the blow with the back of his weapon. There was no aggression in the motion—just fluid calculation.
"Don't rely on strength. Rely on timing. Read your opponent's body, not their blade."
Rory grunted and struck again, a wide slash that left him open. Brooks stepped inside his guard and tapped him lightly on the chest.
"Dead."
"I'm not done," Rory muttered, biting back frustration.
Brooks stepped away, allowing him to recover.
"Again."
They clashed once more. Rory swung high, then low, but his form lacked refinement. Brooks countered with gentle parries, guiding Rory's strikes away like redirecting a river. Rory stumbled from a sidestep and landed hard on his knees, dust gritting against his skin.
Brooks offered no mockery—just steady guidance.
"You telegraph your swings. Tighten your elbows. Let your core do the work. Swing with the whole body, not just your arms."
Rory stood again, panting, wiping sweat and dust from his brow.
Again, they fought.
Brooks corrected him even as they moved. "You're leaning forward—keep your center balanced. No wasted movement."
Another clash. Another fall.
Still, Rory got up.
Blood trickled from a shallow cut on his cheek. His legs trembled, his shoulders screamed. But he raised his mandibles.
Brooks tilted his head. "Why do you keep getting up?"
Rory looked at him, jaw set, eyes fierce. "Because I'm just getting started."
Brooks paused. His stance faltered—not from fatigue, but from something else. Recognition.
Those words. That tone.
A memory surfaced unbidden.
A younger ant stood on scorched training ground, sweat streaking his armor. Smaller, wiry, but burning with the same fire. Brooks had knocked him down six times in one afternoon.
And that ant had looked up at him, bleeding from the mouth, and said—
"I'm just getting started," with a smile on his face.
"...Toran," Brooks murmured, the name cracking faintly in his throat.
Rory blinked. "What?"
Brooks shook his head, hiding the tightness in his chest. "An old student. One of the best."
He sheathed his mandible and stepped back, the memory briefly softening his hardened eyes. "You have his spirit. Reckless, but resolute."
Rory remained still, processing the comment.
Brooks approached and placed a hand on his shoulder—not harsh, not commanding, but firm. "You've got the drive. That's half the battle. Now it's time you learn control."
He gestured to the dirt. "Sit. Rest. You've earned it for today."
Rory blinked in surprise. "No more?"
Brooks gave a faint, almost reluctant smile. "Strength isn't built in one night. Neither is skill. You'll be stronger tomorrow, and stronger still the day after that. But only if you learn."
Rory sat, panting, mandibles laid across his lap. The ache in his limbs had only grown heavier, but beneath the fatigue, there was something else taking root—a budding sense of capability. The flicker of control.
Brooks turned away, the light glinting off his scarred armor. As he walked toward the colony, he paused and glanced over his shoulder.
"Keep your mandibles sharp, Rory. And your mind sharper."
Rory's exhaustion hadn't left him—but something inside had shifted. His muscles still screamed, but his spirit felt steadier. More focused.
Ari was out there, risking everything.
And Rory would be ready.