Argall woke the next morning feeling alive in ways he never had before. The sun's early rays slanted through the tall windows of his private quarters, catching dust motes that drifted lazily in the quiet air. He had tossed and turned throughout the night, half-dreaming of the changes in his body, his mind racing with possibilities. Now, with the city stirring below, he rose from his bed and stood near a mirror, exhaling slowly as he examined his reflection.
Within himself, he sensed something immense, like a banked furnace on the verge of roaring to life. Every motion felt effortless. His breath carried more oxygen than ever before, flooding his bloodstream with a quiet power that had been unimaginable only days prior. He tried a small experiment: tightening the muscles of his arm just enough to watch them flex beneath his tunic. The effect was startling. A subtle wave of force rippled along his bicep, as though it might burst through fabric and flesh at the slightest push.
He drew a measured breath, willing that energy back into dormancy.
A faint knock came at the door.
"Enter," Argall called, voice steady. The door slid open, revealing Syreen, her silver hair pinned back, her aged face calm yet watchful. She was walking again, because one of her grandchildren got sick of seeing her on a glorified life support system in the shape of a chair and injected her with a very mild rejuvenant that fixed her bones, sinews, and even renewed much of her musculature while she was asleep.
"I figured you'd be awake," she said, stepping inside. She wore a dark, embroidered shawl that draped over slender shoulders, and her sharp eyes swept the room, looking for any new signs of chaos. "Sleep well?"
Argall managed a faint smile. "I barely slept, if I'm honest."
Syreen nodded, lips curving in a hint of amusement.
"You never were one for rest when your mind was busy." She tilted her head, eyeing him. "Feeling better than yesterday?"
He flexed his fingers, testing each joint.
"I feel... powerful. It's unsettling." He let out a soft breath. "But also exhilarating."
Syreen raised a brow.
"Just keep that excitement in check," she said, her tone light. "I don't want you punching a hole through the wall because you sneezed."
Argall gave a soft chuckle. She was right, of course. The day before, in the medical suite, he had nearly crushed a mirror with a single, casual press of his hand. There was no telling how easily he could tear down walls—or cause unintentional damage. The mere thought of accidentally harming someone, especially a frail citizen or a child, twisted at his gut.
He turned away from the mirror.
"I need to practice controlling this," he said. "Better here than in the middle of the city."
Syreen offered a small shrug. "You can always build a special training arena."
"That might be necessary," he agreed, crossing the room in two easy strides. Even that small motion carried him farther than he expected—he nearly bumped into the wall. He caught himself, placing a palm gently against the smooth paneling. No dent, thankfully.
"See?" Syreen teased, following his motion with her eyes. "You're a menace already."
Argall sighed. "Better a menace than an easy target for the Imperium."
Syreen watched him, concern flickering beneath her playful exterior.
"Don't let war define you," she said quietly.
He gave her a long look, then nodded. "I won't."
To let war define him would be to stain the memory of those who came before, the original inhabitants of this world, his mother's people, who abhorred violence - at least, towards other humans.
They descended to a lower level of the tower, stepping out onto a broad, empty hall lined with reinforced columns. The corridor stretched long and wide, typically used for ceremonial processions, but it was early enough that none of the usual staff would be around. Perfect for a discreet test.
Syreen walked at his side, her posture regal despite her advanced years.
"Let's see what you can do," she said, her voice echoing off the polished walls.
Argall paused near a column. It soared upward, supporting a vaulted ceiling. He placed his hand against it, applying light pressure. A faint groan of stone reached his ears, so subtle that it might have gone unnoticed by an untrained ear. He drew his hand back, exhaling. The slightest push, and the column threatened to crumble.
He turned to Syreen.
"Even our best architects didn't design these walls for someone who can shatter them with a touch," he remarked, a touch of wry humor in his tone. The building material was incredibly strong, but that apparently didn't matter to a Viltrumite, because - thus far - everything he touched felt as though it had the consistency of wet paper.
Argall shuddered at the thought of an entire race of people like himself, like his father.
"Try something less permanent," she suggested, gesturing to a heavy steel door that led to a side storage area.
Argall nodded and moved toward it. The door was locked, but that hardly mattered. He pressed his palm flat against its surface. With minimal effort, he pushed. The metal bent inward, warping around the lock. He had to stop himself midway, arms trembling from the raw power surging through them. A single nudge, and the door peeled open like tin.
He stepped back, eyes widening at the ease of it.
"That's... intense," he breathed.
Syreen stood close, arms folded.
"I had no idea father was ever this powerful," she murmured. "Then again, how else could he have lifted all those big stones in mom's garden?"
He nodded, silent. If a locked door felt like paper, what of a person? He grimaced at the thought.
Later, they moved to an empty chamber on the building's upper levels, where glass walls overlooked the city. Argall wanted to test speed and mobility in a space that offered open air. The chamber's high ceiling soared, and from here, one could access the tower's balconies or even exit to the outside through retractable panels used for aerial craft.
Syreen keyed a control panel, letting fresh air swirl in. Sunlight streamed into the chamber, illuminating a wide, flat floor of composite plating. Argall stepped into the center, rolling his shoulders. She stood at the perimeter, leaning lightly on a console.
"All right," he began, swallowing. "If I can fly—like Father could—I should try here. Might break fewer things if I mess up."
Syreen smirked. "I've got medics on standby, just in case you get a booboo."
He shot her an amused glance. Then, turning his focus inward, he recalled how his father once described flight—an act of will as much as muscle. He breathed in, letting the new energy coil in his core. He pushed downward with an invisible force, the same intangible mechanism Viltrumites used to defy gravity.
Nothing happened at first. He frowned, adjusting the tension in his legs, the alignment of his spine. This would've been so much easier if he had some level of instruction, at least. But, in this case, he was gonna have to be creative with his approach. After all, he knew that he was capable of flight.
Syreen tapped the console, logging vital readings.
"Your heart rate's spiking," she called. "Slow down. Focus."
Argall closed his eyes. He pictured how birds launched themselves, how jets soared under thrust. But a Viltrumite's flight wasn't mechanical or magical. It couldn't have been. Otherwise, they would've needed wings or something. No, it had to be far more than physical.
He inhaled, then exhaled. His feet felt lighter. He hovered—barely a few centimeters above the floor. A rush of exhilaration burst through him. His eyes snapped open. A broad grin teased the corners of his mouth. He tried to rise higher, only to surge upward too fast. He yelped, smashing into the ceiling. A dull thud echoed. Panic flared. He twisted midair, flailing momentarily.
Syreen tensed, half-lifting a hand. "Argall!"
He bounced off the ceiling, arms scrambling for purchase. Pieces of plaster rained down. He willed himself back toward the floor, but the momentum swung him sideways. He flew across the chamber, nearly crashing into a wall. At the last second, he angled his body, brushing the surface with minimal contact. The inertia spun him around, leaving him disoriented. He shot toward another wall, cursing under his breath.
"Oy, bone head!" Syreen shouted. "You're gonna break the wall!"
Her words struck him like a lifeline. He forced himself to inhale, pulling the surge of power inward, anchoring it. Immediately, his flight path stabilized. The wild trajectory slowed. He hovered in the center of the chamber, arms splayed, breath coming fast.
He looked at Syreen, chest heaving. She offered a relieved half-smile. He tried to lower himself gently. His feet touched the floor. A swirl of dust settled, revealing chipped plaster on the ceiling.
He exhaled, closing his eyes.
"That was... intense," he muttered.
Syreen stepped forward, checking him for injuries. Aside from a streak of dust and a faint bruise on his forehead, he was fine. "You all right?"
He nodded, swallowing. "Just need practice."
A grin tugged at his lips despite the mishap. Even in that chaotic moment, flight felt incredible—like an extension of his will, free from physical constraints. But, like everything else about his new abilities, it demanded control.
"All right," Syreen said briskly, tapping notes into a data-slate. "We'll record the results. Let's see if you can do it again, but slower this time."
He obliged. With deliberate care, he bent his knees, pushing that intangible force downward, lifting himself inch by inch. The tension in his calves rippled, but this time, he maintained a balanced float. No wild leaps. No crashes. He rose half a meter off the floor, arms spread for balance.
His eyes sparkled with cautious excitement.
"It's working," he said softly.
Syreen nodded. "Watch the walls."
Argall inched around the chamber, drifting with slow, measured motions, akin to a child's first steps. He brushed the air currents with subtle shifts of muscle, turning corners in lazy arcs. Every nerve buzzed with heightened awareness. The primal joy of flight warred with the fear of losing control. He found a middle ground.
Eventually, he lowered himself, boots touching down. His smile broke through for a moment—genuine, bright.
"Better," he admitted.
Syreen nodded approvingly. "Much better."
They spent hours running tests. Argall lifted enormous weights, each one heavier than the last. He tried jumping short distances, bounding across the chamber with minimal leaps, measuring how far he could go before slamming into walls. He discovered that even a casual hop could clear entire meters in an instant. The day turned into a rigorous lesson in micro-control, every motion a potential hazard if he slipped.
By midday, Argall was drenched in sweat, though not from exhaustion—his stamina seemed boundless—but from tension, from the mental strain of calibrating each move. Syreen observed with keen interest, logging data on the portable console. She occasionally teased him when he fumbled.
He lapsed into a short break, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. Syreen passed him a canister of water. He drank, noticing how his body quickly absorbed the fluid, no sense of fatigue or thirst lingering. Another unexpected perk of Viltrumite physiology.
He frowned as a fleeting thought arose, unbidden.
"Syreen," he said slowly, eyeing the data readouts, "the modifications might have changed more than just my strength or gave me the ability to fly. They might have altered far more."
She paused, turning from the console. "What do you mean?"
Argall set the canister aside, swallowing.
"I was sterile. Completely. My father found me in a capsule, after all. The gene-augmentations that made me what I am, all my gifts and abilities, came with sterility." He paused, exhaling. "But the Viltrumite DNA might have undone that."
Syreen's brows drew together. She set down her slate. "You suspect you can... have children now?"
Argall's throat felt tight.
"Yes, or so the data suggests." He gestured to a small set of indicators on the console's screen. Hormonal shifts, fertility markers, general body chemistry. Subtle but telling signs.
He fell silent, mind spinning with implications. Did he want heirs? The notion had always been a moot point. Hyperborea was his to protect. He poured everything into forging a better society for others. But now, the possibility of fatherhood—of passing on not only his advanced genes but also the monstrous might of a Viltrumite—shook him.
A child of Argall could inherit a storm of power.
Syreen took a slow step closer. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, concern evident in her eyes.
"That's... big news," she said quietly. "Have you considered what it means?"
Argall shrugged, stiffly.
"No. Not until now. It's a lot to take in. And I have no partner." He paused, letting out a mirthless chuckle. He was also a giant, compared to just about every other person in Hyperborea - no matter how enhanced his people were. "Besides, with war looming, I can't see myself chasing something as alien as… romance."
It just never occurred to him as anything remotely natural. That he felt no attraction to anyone or anything never really caused him much concern.
Syreen chuckled. "No, I suppose not. But..."
"War doesn't last forever," she said, though her tone held the weight of doubt. "If you survive, if we all survive, maybe you'll change your mind. Our father might even return. Who knows?"
Argall grimaced, the image of Thragg's disapproval flashing in his mind. He pictured explaining to the old Viltrumite how he'd combined their DNA with Hyperborean modifications. Or the prospect of telling him about grandchildren with unstoppable genes. It was dizzying, and not entirely pleasant.
He forced a breath, letting the tension ebb.
"Let's not dwell on that now," he said, pulling away gently. He walked to the large windows that overlooked the city. Buildings gleamed under midday light, traffic weaving gracefully between spires. Life continued below, oblivious to the transformations within him.
Syreen followed, placing her hands behind her back. "We should resume your training soon. You'll need to demonstrate it, eventually. Better you master flight and strength here than cause havoc in the open."
He nodded, gaze distant.
"Yes," he said. "The Imperium won't wait forever."
AN: Chapter 61 is out on (Pat)reon!