Being locked in the tower gave Imite plenty of time to think and mull over what had happened. It wasn't much of a punishment - he had spent a lot of time, by choice, in the tower. It had become 'his' room, and there were a few of his meager belongings in it - scattered clothes, mostly, a few pillows, and old, oversized shoulder-bag that he used to cart books around in. He wished he had kept the book that had been hidden in his jacket, so he would have something to do, but it was across the palace now. Instead, he stared out the small window.

From this side of the tower, he could see Saturni House sprawling down the mountain side, with its sweeping, red-tiled roofs, winding stairways and decks, stone statues and garden ponds. It stood on stilts, as though the collection of structures were climbing up the mountain itself. Beyond the House lay the eastern port of Khrysalis - the glimmering sea was visible in the distance, with the small black shapes of ships roaming across the water. Everything between the House and the sea was a vast marketplace, a bazaar that attracted merchants from all corners of the known world.

The ships that left the port carried all the treasures Khrysalis had to offer within their depths - jade, spices, strange weapons and clothing, exotic instruments and scriptures, technological innovations such as gunpowder, and most of all, the silk that it was famous for, silk produced by the citizens themselves. In return, incoming ships gave to Khrysalis things like the printing press, strange new livestock, new forms of science and mysticism, and the mundane but necessary metals and alloys that were missing from the island nation.

It was from those Western ships Imite had gotten his spectacles. He removed them from his pocket, examining them - true, he himself had not purchased them, since he had never left the House grounds. He didn't know who had, and in all honesty, he wasn't even sure why. There were slaves with impairments of their own, who got no such assistance. They must have been expensive, with the glass coming from the Middle East and the frame carved from the shell of some Western beast. He silently thanked whatever mysterious benefactor had given him the glasses, since without them he couldn't read - couldn't escape from this life of half-slavery and secrecy.

But glasses were the mark of a scholar, something that had little place in the domain of a warlord. A mind was meant to be tuned for strategy, not filled with useless stories and histories. Such things had even less of a place in the life of a slave.

Guilt gnawed at him as he turned the glasses over in his midhands, his forearms leaning against the window sill. The other slaves were right. True, he wore the rags and endured the haughty stares of the higher-ups, but he didn't have to do much work at all - didn't have to live in the slave quarters or do any of the back-breaking labor. Instead of servicing the nobles, he was usually kept away from them. He spent a lot of time hidden in rooms, either by his own choice or after being corralled there by some adult, usually Kitter. He knew very well that he was the only slave who was privately tutored by the House's Master of Studies, a service otherwise provided only to the children of the nobles.

People often spoke in hushed tones around him or gave him odd looks when he was out and about. That, or they chose to harass him - it didn't matter whether they were slaves or nobles, he seemed generally unpopular throughout the House. And yet, they restrained themselves. He knew of the viscous fights the slaves got into amongst themselves, and a scuffle between a toughened, bitter slave with nothing to loose and a weak, sheltered young caterpillar was painfully one-sided. Not to mention the painful punishments laid upon the slaves for going so much as an inch out of line - he had never endured one whipping.

Whenever he asked Kitter about it, he would hush Imite and change the topic. If he asked his mother, she'd just look at him with a sad smile. He'd gotten use to being in the dark about his circumstances, or his past - but he had also gotten tired of it.

He felt like a secret - some dirty secret Saturni House didn't want anyone to know. It made the bristles on his back and domen bristle. He was a little angry, but mostly afraid. There was something wrong with him, something odd about him, he knew that much. And this something kept him from being a part of anything that went on in the House. He couldn't even befriend the other slaves - they hated him, envied him, and he really couldn't blame them. It's why he looked forward to kokuun far more than most children did - going into a coma for six months, while your body destroys and rebuilds itself is certainly an intimidating prospect, but he hoped it would get rid of this something that plagued him. That he would become a normal moth, a large moth, no longer a weakling and an outcast...

But until then, Imite had had no idea what this something could possibly be, nor any hope of finding out what it was - but he wasn't so sure about that now.

He held his glasses up to the sunlight. He could see his transparent reflection glimmering across the lenses.

A pair of violet eyes stared back at him.

***

Despite everything that had gone through his mind, Imite had fallen asleep in the tower. The wooden floor wasn't exactly comfortable, and he was easily roused from his sleep when a strange noise sounded somewhere outside.

He curled his anten slightly and tried to will himself back to sleep. Hunger stabbed at his gut, and a chilly night breeze drifted in through the open window. On it was carried a disturbing moaning wail. The sound chilled Imite more than the wind had alone.

He opened his eyes and sat up, stretching out his arms one pair at a time, feeling around on the floor for his glasses. They were soon set upon his face, and he sleepily squinted out the western window, looking for the source of the strange sound.

From this side of the tower, only the wilderness of the mountain was visible. In the dark, Imite could make out the shape of something shuffling down the path that wound over the mountain. It seemed to be having difficulty walking, and it soon moaned painfully again.

Imite scrunched his face up, puzzled. It didn't look like any kind of animal he knew, though it certainly sounded like one. With all the sound it was making, he thought some of the palace guards would have investigated by now - but the wind was carrying the sound away from the House.

Apprehension and curiosity swarmed Imite's thoughts. Whatever it was, it sounded like it was dying, so it couldn't be that dangerous. Unless it was some sort of wounded animal... but the wailing sounded more and more like a plea for help each time it rose into the night. If he didn't do something, who would?

Imite checked the window, and for once was glad for his small size - it was big enough for him to pass through easily. Scaling the wall of the tower wouldn't be a problem.

The caterpillar closed his eyes and concentrated on his fingertips, legs and arms. Tiny hooks and claws rose out of the thin surface of his karace, which would dig into all but the sheerest metal surface. Over the millennia, the claws that allowed sectkind's insect ancestors to cling to almost anything had become retractable, and became smaller and more numerous instead of proportionate to the insect that had them.

Imite squirmed out of the window, swallowing as he looked down. Clinging hooks or not, he was still subject to vertigo, something the limited minds and eyes of his ancestors had never had to deal with. Carefully, he laid his forehands and arms against the wall, feeling the small hooks dig into the fibrous wooden surface, and he started on his descent.

Gravity pulled at his body, offering a far quicker way to get to the ground - but he didn't have wings, and nature had wisely instilled young Lepidians with a fear of heights and falling that would only be shed after kokuun. He shut his eyes and concentrated on putting one hand in front of the other, his feet awkwardly bringing up the rear as he crawled down the wall.

The occasional haunting wail would jar his nerves, and nearly caused him to slip, but he willed himself onward. The fact that anyone could come outside and spot him making a daring escape from the punishment assigned to him by the warlord himself didn't help. But finally, he put one of his hands forward, and felt ground.

He opened his eyes and righted himself, not bothering to retract his clingers, just in case he needed to make a quick escape. The night seemed much more intimidating from the ground than it had from the watch tower. The dark forms of trees and rocks loomed above him, and the shuffling shape looked a lot bigger now that it was within his sight.

It also looked like some sort of sect, wrapped in a dragging cloak that hid its form. A pair of large, pained red eyes peered from the shadows of the cloak, staring at him pleadingly.

"Um, s-sir, is, is something wrong?" Imite asked nervously, trying to keep his distance from the stranger while also appearing helpful and polite.

"You mussst..." A low voice hissed from the confines of the cloak, creaking and whispering, "Take it... I am ssorry... there is no other way to be rid of it... I cannot destroy it..."

The stranger stumbled towards him, and Imite pressed himself back against the wall. It let out an anguished sound that almost sounded like a howl, and dropped to its knees before the caterpillar. Imite whimpered himself, wondering if this was such a good idea. He noticed for the first time that blood was trailing the stranger, and his stomach twisted.

A withered hand with bony karace emerged from the cloak, holding what looked like a book. "Take it..." it repeated, "I could not... use it... it only ruined me. But you... It brought me here. It would not allow me... to end my own life. To end what it has done to me... Take it, let me die..."

Imite stared at the stranger with uncertainty and fear, not daring to reach out and take the thick, hard bound book. "But I'm just a slave," he said quickly, even though he now doubted the truth of those words.

"It called you here... as it called me. It wants you!" The stranger's raspy voice suddenly raised, and those red eyes glowed brighter for a moment. Unwilling to anger the wounded sect, Imite took the tome from the withered hand. The book felt cold, strangely so - but even stranger was that it seemed to warm within Imite's grasp.

"I'll, I'll find a doctor, just-" He started, backing away as the sect fell to the ground fully and convulsed. There was a cracking, coughing sound and a spray of blood ushered from the cloak, and Imite had to jump to avoid it, his eyes wide and his hands shaking.

"I have found peace..." the stranger murmured in a quiet, dying tone. The blank red eyes looked up at Imite, and they were filled with the last emotion he thought he would see in them.

Pity.

"But I am afraid.. it has come at the cost.. of your own."

Imite stared down at the sect in confusion, but the red eyes disappeared as they closed, and there was no more movement from the cloaked figure. It was dead.

The caterpillar was unsettled, to say the least. This whole day had been full of strangeness, and now it had culminated in this. He wanted nothing more than to go back into his room and sleep to escape it all, even more so as a sudden weariness fell upon him. He started back up the wall, and all but fell through the window once he reached it.

As he lay on the floor, he noticed he had brought the stranger's book up with him. He stared at it, but he was too tired to make out many details, save for the fact it had a large metal locking mechanism wrapped around it and strange symbols on the cover - strange, twisting designs that were unlike any script he had ever seen before. If he were more awake, he might have been disturbed. He decided that he'd look at it tomorrow, and he shoved the book and his glasses underneath a rug.

Imite dragged himself over to the corner. He wondered why he felt so sleepy, and now, itchy too. His body seemed to be moving on its own accord, his conscious mind slowly slipping into a state somewhere between sleep and death, leaving only motor skills and instinct in its absence.

The days events slowly slipped his mind as he relaxed. He wondered what the stranger could have possibly meant - he felt more than at peace now. But the memory of the stranger and its book were soon gone, as were the thoughts of slavery and the implications of violet eyes as his comprehension was enveloped by numbing, peaceful darkness.

Huh... I wonder if I'm dying, he thought with the last bit of consciousness that remained. But it was only an idle musing, without a trace of fear. The meaning of the words themselves were soon lost on him, and his internal monologue went silent. Some voice answered him, speaking on a level deeper than words.

On the contrary, little one...

The last thread of his awareness slithered into some dark, comfortable corner of his brain, and Imite's mind fell asleep.

You're about to be born.