Beside him, Nyra lay quiet and still. Her chestnut hair, usually bound up beneath armor or tucked into her helmet, now fanned across the pillow in loose waves. He hadn’t realized how long it was until now.
One arm lay draped across his shoulder, fingers splayed against the sheets. The ever-present tension she carried, battle-ready even in sleep, was gone. She looked at peace. Unarmored in every sense.
He didn’t move. Not yet. He just lay there, eyes tracing the soft lines of her face, memorizing the rare stillness of her.
In the hush of dawn, bathed in soft gold and silence, something shifted in how he saw her. She wasn’t just the steadfast tank anymore. Not just the unshakable warrior who stood between him and the beasts with steel and shield in her hands.
She was here... Still here—after the truth, after the confession, after all the pieces he’d laid bare.
Not because she had to be.
Because she chose to be.
And something deep in his chest, something that had stayed clenched for too long, finally began to loosen.
She hadn’t just believed him. She’d seen him raw, broken, and terrified, and wrapped herself around that truth without pulling away.
It was the one relief he needed. Not just to have someone hear the truth so he wasn't alone, it was having someone stay when others choose not to. His mind slipped back into the life he had before. The rare moments of peace were never truly peaceful. There was always an undercut of more. He had drifted away from those closest to him and when everything got too much and he broke... the one he thought would be there and understand... didn't.
He was left broken.
He expected the same outcome here. When the truth was finally out, the backlash would hit and he would be forced to deal with it all alone.
But Nyra didn't.
She didn't follow the same patterns he was used to.
And that alone made his burdens easier to bear.
With quiet care, Jace slipped from the bed, rolling to the side and easing himself upright so as not to wake her. She murmured something soft, a sound without words, and shifted slightly in the sheets. Her hand found the bed instead of him and she pulled the sheet closer.
He exhaled slowly, gathering himself back into the world. The quiet, familiar ritual of dressing, tugging leather straps into place, fastening buckles, pulling on boots. He felt steady, his nerves settled, and his mind quiet.
He grabbed his dimensional storage bag and tied it to his belt. His bone armor was safely tucked away. He reached for his glaive and placed it in as well. He knew he could call on them in a moment's notice as long as his storage pouch was there.
He turned to leave, hand already reaching toward the wooden latch handle of the door, when a soft pulse rippled quietly through his chest and in the air behind him. Jace paused, fingers frozen just shy of touching the latch.
The egg.
It rested on the nightstand where he'd left it in the middle of the night, still cradled gently within its cloth nest. The soft glow emanating from beneath the shell was stronger now, pulsing rhythmically like a heartbeat, steady and insistent. Another pulse came, sharper this time, sending a clear sensation rippling through his fingertips and straight into his chest.
A gentle yet unmistakable tug of protest.
He blinked slowly, and a faint smile curled at the edge of his mouth. “Right,” he whispered, more amused than annoyed. “You don’t like being left behind.”
Jace crossed quietly back over to the nightstand, lifting the egg with care. As his fingers brushed against the rune-veined surface, it pulsed once more, this time brighter and more pointed.
Like a warning. Or perhaps a pout.
A clear, almost childlike insistence of 'Don’t forget me'.
He smiled, shaking his head as warmth bloomed in his chest. “You’re starting to get a real attitude, you know.”
Another pulse of light, fainter this time, echoed beneath his fingertips, as though the egg was pleased with itself.
Jace tucked it gently into its cloth-lined satchel, settling it securely against his back. He paused just long enough to glance back at Nyra, peaceful in sleep, her slow breathing undisturbed by his movement or sound. A quiet reassurance he carried forward.
Then, he stepped through the doorway, leaving behind the gentle stillness of the room and into a new day.
As he slipped quietly through the door, he immediately stumbled to a stop. He nearly collided face-first with a wall of carapace and stone. For a heartbeat, his mind flashed back to the first time he'd stumbled into Torak and landed face-first against Patch's chest like a startled child.
This time, he caught himself. Barely.
“Ah,” Torak said, voice dry and perfectly calm. “You are awake.”
Standing motionless in the hallway was Torak, four arms folded across his broad chest, his dark green chitin catching the morning sunlight in dull, emerald gleams. Beside him loomed Patch, silent and massive, his stone-forged body etched with runes that glowed gently like embers in the pale morning air.
Jace blinked twice. “Do you two just… haunt hallways for fun?”
Patch tilted his head slightly, the faint grind of stone adding punctuation to the thoughtful pause. “We were strategically positioned for optimal ambush. Minimal noise. Maximum efficiency.”
Jace’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Was that… a joke?”
Patch remained silent, impassive as ever.
Torak clicked his mandibles in mild amusement. “Patch’s humor is subtle. Often indistinguishable from genuine statements.”
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Patch’s runes flickered once, briefly, in what might’ve passed for agreement.
Jace shook his head with a faint grin. “And why, exactly, are you two lurking outside my door this early?”
Torak tilted his head fractionally. “We were on our way to the guild's training yard. I insist on morning drills. For skill refinement and repetition. Would you care to join? I feel you could use some proper training.”
Jace smiled. Torak wasn't wrong. He had just been doing what felt right in the moment. "Sure. Maybe you could teach my all about your battle philosophy. I'd love to hear it."
Patch’s deep voice rumbled out, somehow managing to sound mildly inconvenienced despite its monotone. “It would be nice to have another training partner. Torak claims my participation lacks... reciprocity.”
Torak turned his gaze slightly toward the golem. “Patch is exceptionally durable, but sparring with him provides insufficient challenge. He lacks unpredictability.”
“You want a target that moves,” Jace clarified dryly.
“I prefer an opponent who learns.” Torak’s mandibles twitched again, subtle amusement evident in his tone.
Jace arched a brow. “In other words, I’m squishier and more likely to get hit.”
“Yes,” Torak said simply. "And you would benefit most from training."
“Very reassuring.”
Another subtle click from Torak. “Also, I find hitting you may be satisfying.”
Jace laughed despite himself, stretching out his arms with an exaggerated groan. “Fine. let's go.”
JacePatch followed silently, his heavy footsteps thudding gently against the wooden floor. Jace sighed, shaking his head with a reluctant grin, already resigned to the bruises he knew were coming. He fell in step with them.
—
The training courtyard behind the Guild was empty this early, save for a sleepy stablehand yawning near the gate. A golden red sun began its slow ascent into the morning sky overhead, brightened into pale amber, clouds thin and feathered.
Jace stepped into the practice circle, gripping the wooden training sword in one hand, and faced off against Torak. Patch took his position at the edge of the circle, arms crossed, an unmoving sentinel carved from stone and runes.
Torak offered Jace a formal bow, precise and smooth. "We will not be using any spells or special abilities. We are only practising our technique. First to three clean strikes," he stated calmly.
“Right,” Jace muttered, sliding into a fighting stance and managing a faint smile. “Just try to hit you and stay up.”
Torak's mandibles clicked softly, a subtle sign of amusement. "It would be a delight for you to land a hit."
They began to circle slowly, measuring each other with cautious steps. Jace had seen him fight. He knew the insectoids' skill. This was his time to learn.
He watched Torak move with a practiced elegance, each motion deliberate, calculated, as though every swing and step had been choreographed a thousand times.
Jace countered with instinct and grit, the rough edges of his movements reflecting his piecemeal training. He struggled to recall the footwork Torak had drilled into him before, his steps occasionally faltering but still resilient.
Then, Torak leapt forward. His four arms were in perfect sync, waiting for the chance to kill. He blocked and deflected as best he could, and even managed to force Torak back once with an unexpected thrust.
This was not going to be easy. One hit struck Jace across the middle, another hit him in the shoulder, and the next in the thigh. The fourth stopped short of his arm in an instant.
Patch rumbled. "First round to Torak."
They went at it again and again. Each time, Torak won without any effort. Between each round, though, Torak went over Jace's moves and how he could better defend himself against an opponent's onslaught. A few rounds after that. Torak only used two of his blades and moved a lot slower while teaching Jace how to defend and attack.
Still, by the end of it, Jace was doubled over, panting heavily, one hand braced on his knee. Sweat already beaded at his brow, trailing slowly down his cheek and dripping onto the grass. He could feel the bruises begging to form. He realized just how much he relied on his abilities. Soulrending to debilitate, increase his own strength, and heal himself. His Bone magic to change his weapons on the fly and create what was needed in the moment. Soul infusion to increase his weapon and himself. Without any of them, he was utterly useless.
“You swing with considerable power,” Torak said, circling him slowly, his four arms resting calmly at his sides. “But without purpose.”
Jace straightened just enough to shoot a weary glare at him. “Thought that was the purpose hit hard, don’t die.”
Patch’s voice rumbled gently from the edge of the circle, its deep tone carrying easily. “Unacceptable reasoning. Survival without understanding is temporary.”
Jace groaned and flopped backward onto the dirt, arms spread wide in defeat. “God, you two would make excellent motivational speakers.”
Torak tilted his head. “I am unsure of your statement. To which god are you referring? Nyros, the God of Order holds the most sway in matters of structure and societal function.”
Patch blinked, if he could blink, and replied in his usual even tone. “Statistically, Nyros is the most prayed to during tax season and battlefield logistics.”
Jace groaned louder. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. I just meant a god. Any of them. Whichever one hands out less existential dread.”
Torak shifted, mandibles clicking slightly. “That would not be Maelstrom. The God of Chaos thrives on unpredictability. Nor Selis. Her domain of Death offers certainty, but not comfort.”
Patch turned slightly toward Jace. “You may consider Durnos. The God of Hearth. He provides warmth and shelter. Domestic stability. Though your current behavior suggests you may appeal more to Veynir—entropy incarnate.”
Jace propped himself up on one elbow, squinting. “Are you two doing this on purpose? Do you rehearse these theological one-two punches?”
Torak was unmoved. “No. I do not rehearse. I simply retain.”
Patch added, tone flat. "Maybe he is talking about Sylara, the Goddess of inspiration?”
There was a quick pause.
"No, his attacks lack any creative thought. More wild, like Keal'thas. Maybe the God of the Wilds is who he is referring?" Torak chittered insightfully.
"No, it is more dissonant. Like Izzoroth?"
"No." Torak crossed his upper arms and lower arms. "It must be Auron, the God of life. Maybe, he is saying his attacks are lifeless."
Jace stared at the two of them, lost in their own theological debate. It was amusing. Then, he realized the implications. There were nine total gods in this world? Replaying the conversation in his head, he managed to see a trend. Each of the Gods had an opposing God, save for one. Life and Death... Chaos and Order... Wilds and Hearth... Inspiration and Entropy... Dissonance and...
"Either way his skills need to be improved. There are hatchlings with more inept blade usage. Come Jace. Rise. You must be taught better technique." Torak paused, then approached him slowly, extending one segmented hand down to help Jace up. After a beat, Jace took it, and Torak pulled him smoothly to his feet with effortless strength.
He brushed the dirt off himself. “Great. I'm being regularly and spiritually roasted by a four-armed bug and a sentient statue.”
Patch’s voice was neutral. “That is accurate.”
“Your strikes must have intention,” Torak explained, his voice quieter, more reflective. “A blade is more than sharpened metal. It is an extension of your will. Every strike should have meaning—whether to disarm, disable, or defeat. Strike wildly, and you leave openings. Strike without thought, and your blade becomes a liability rather than an asset.”
Jace nodded slowly, absorbing the words, his breathing steadier now. “Nyra mentioned something similar. About control.”
Torak inclined his head slightly in approval. “She understands discipline. Learn to anticipate your opponent’s actions. Allow their momentum to guide your strikes, and turn their strengths into your advantage.”
Patch stepped forward, his runes flickering faintly as he spoke. “Torak believes combat is conversation. Each strike is a word, each parry a response. Listen and respond wisely.”
Jace eyed Patch, raising a brow. “You almost make fighting sound poetic.”
Patch gave a slow, grinding nod. “Combat is poetry. Rhythm and meaning lie within each clash.”
“Alright,” Jace said, determination hardening his voice. “Then let's try it again. Teach me this poetry of yours.”
Torak raised his swords, respect evident in his stance. “Very well. Begin again.”
This time, as they engaged, Jace watched closely, listening to the rhythm of Torak’s strikes, adjusting his stance and timing. The fight still wasn’t easy—far from it—but something shifted. Each strike, each parry felt clearer, cleaner, and gradually, Jace began to hold his own, turning defense smoothly into counterattack.
By the end of the round, he stood panting, but upright, a smile of genuine pride pulling at his lips.
“Better,” Torak acknowledged, his mandibles clicking in approval. “Much better.”
Patch nodded slowly, the runes on his chest flaring warmly. “Acceptable improvement.”
Jace grinned tiredly. “I’ll take ‘acceptable’ from you two as high praise.”
Torak allowed a rare, brief chuckle to escape. “Indeed.”
Together, they reset their stances once more, ready to continue. But now the silence wasn’t awkward or strained. It was companionable—a moment of trust and respect, forged through shared wisdom and the steady rhythm of blades.
[Post-Chapter Skit: Whelpling Broadcast – Episode 3: “Slashy Bug, Grumbly Rock, and Dad”]
Intro jingle plays in the egg’s head
?? “Welcome back to another episode of: DAD AND FRIENDS FIGHT FOR FUN! Yayyy!” ??
Scene opens on: One (1) sweaty Dad, swinging a wooden stick. One (1) tall bug-man, also with sticks—but, like, way too many. And one (1) rock-man, grumbly and glowing. Egg is watching from inside satchel window. Hype level: MAXIMUM.
Internal commentary begins:
discipline and insect pride.”
“He is number six on Patch’s Friend List. That means he’s cool.”
The egg wiggles once in the satchel. Nobody notices. Injustice.
Cue theme music again:
?? “He fights with heart, he swings with flair, he’s got bug-friends and rock healthcare! DAD AND FRIENDS!” ??
The egg quiets, pulsing softly in the aftermath, mentally awarding everyone a trophy:
?? Torak: Best Bug Blades
?? Patch: Best Healing Grumbles
?? Dad (Jace): MVP of Falling with Style
?? Me: Best Audience. Ever.
?? Poll Time! – From the Egg’s Satchel Seat!
Hi! It’s me. The egg. I watched this whole chapter from my cozy satchel nest. I saw EVERYTHING. I have thoughts. You have choices. Let’s vote like responsible adventurers (and/or barely contained magical anomalies).
What was your favorite part of today’s episode of “Jace Tries Not to Die?”