Spidaract at Tanerag

The outer walls of Tanerag rise like mountains carved by kings, pale stone streaked with veins of glowing ore that hum faintly with dormant magic. Arthur cranes his neck, trying to trace the height, but the sunlight catches on the upper ledges and blinds him before he can find the top.

Arthur steps through, lips parted, breath caught halfway between awe and disbelief.

To his left, a man places his palm on a barrel, and its outer surface darkens - cooling the wine inside without touching the liquid. One the right, a girl brushes her fingertips along a fabric stall, shifting swatches from forest green to gold, testing palettes with a practiced eye.

Everywhere around him, teens his age step off wagons and carriages, many holding the same envelope clutched in Arthur’s hand: some look proud, some are trying too hard to stay calm, some struggling to walk with swords taller than themselves while already drunk on the idea of being chosen.

Suddenly, a sharp high-pitched, metal-like screech splits the air behind him. Arthur spins around, instincts kicking in before thought.

He bolts toward the sound.

Past confused faces, through scattered murmurs, until the crowd parts just enough for him to see someone curled up beneath a heavy brown cloak, whose fabric is torn and dust-streaked. They clutch their head, trembling.

Surrounding them are three teenagers dressed in shimmering fabrics, faces smug with cruelty. One stomps down hard, another raises a glowing palm, sparks dancing at the fingertips.

Arthur doesn’t hesitate.

“Stop your wrongdoings right there!” he yells, voice loud and righteous. “Taste the fist of justice!”

And then he charges, arms pumping, eyes wild, fully believe that the chosen one must win all battles.

Because he has power now.

Because he has a title.

Because a hero doesn’t wait for permission to protect the weak.

Arthur swings with all the fury and righteousness he can muster.

And misses.

The boy in sparkling robes side steps easily, like dodging a leaf blown on the wind. Arthur stumbles forward, thrown off by his own momentum. A kick lands squarely on his lower back, and he crashes to the ground.

A puff of dust bursts up as he eats gravel - limbs twisted, gray skin streaked with dirt.

Silence holds for half a breath.

Then comes the laughter.

“Where did that thing crawl out from?” one of the elites sneers, brushing invisible filth off his sleeve.

Another snickers. “Did someone invite the academy janitor to orientation?”

“Don’t insult the janitors,” says the third, stepping forward and nudging Arthur with his foot. “Their skin doesn't look like monsters.”

Arthur groans.

He blinks dust out of his eyes, just enough to see their silhouettes standing over him.

The boy in the cloak stands up.

Not with the clumsy wobble of someone hurt, but with an unnerving stillness. There doesn’t seem to have a flinch from the beat down earlier. Instead, he rises like something unfolding, slow and deliberate, until he stands a full meter and a half tall.

From beneath the cloak, something glints faintly: curved, chitinous limbs, too many joints for a human skeleton. One of them can be seen clearly - hard and rough, ending in a sharp, clawed tip.

Arthur’s breath catches.

The figure takes a single step forward. The cloak sways slightly, revealing the lower half of his face, a jawline that splits at the chin, framed by faint ridges like mandibles.

Then he lifts one limb.

SLAP.

The nearest elite is knocked clean off his feet, crashing into the dirt like a dropped sack.

The other elites are caught off guard, so they can’t do much other than watching.

“You…” he starts, but no word can come out.

The cloaked figure steps forward once more, and those two bolts, scrambling away without dignity.

Arthur remembers what Mike told him: a large merciless spider - not an ordinary kid. He might have just unknowingly helped a monster, an arachna.

The figure turns.

He steadily approaches Arthur as he withdraws to inside the cloak, making himself look smaller and less intimidating.

Just one limb extends - long, chitinous, and oddly graceful. There are no signs of hospitality, just simply hovers, a gesture that looks unmistakably like…a hand being offered.

“Do you require assistance?”

It’s not harsh, but it isn’t easy to hear either, like metal bending under pressure. Every syllable is clear, pronounced like it came from someone who practiced human speech by studying a textbook. Still, the voice itself scrapes along Arthur’s spine like claws on stone.

Arthur’s eyes widen. He stares at the limb, then looks up.

“...You’re the one I tried to save,” he says.

“Yes,” the figure replies.

Arthur pushes himself up halfway, elbow shaking, teeth grit.

“But you…” He points weakly behind them. “You slapped that guy into next week.”

“I don’t have the ability time travel.”

Arthur narrows his eyes.

“You’re an arachna?”

“I am.”

The limb doesn’t move. It’s still there, offered like a hand. But Arthur’s muscles tense, his fingers twitching toward his belt, even though there’s no weapon there.

“You’re not going to, like, bite me or something?”

“If I do that, the guards will charge in,” the figure answers honestly.

Arthur pushes himself up to a crouch. His body aches like hell, but his pride is louder.

“You expect me to trust you?”

“No,” says the arachna. “But I would like to be trusted eventually.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches. His posture rises, tense, defensive, like a stray dog sizing up a stranger.

The cloak shifts slightly. Eight red eyes glint beneath the hood, but there is nothing that seems suspicious.

“You tried to help me,” the arachna says. “That is rare.”

Arthur stays still, ready to charge, but his face seems more at ease now.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Well…you didn’t need it.”

“No, I don’t have the right to defend myself, but you give me the opportunity to 'defend another’,” the arachna says with a small chuckle.

Arthur doesn’t know how to reply to that, so he just changes to the casual introduction that he learned from videos for kids.

“What’s your name?”

The Arachna tilts his head slightly, as if that’s a very human question.

“You may call me Spidaract, the only arachna to ever become a hero.”

“…Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Arthur squints. “That sounds like something a kid would name a pet tarantula.”

Spidaract giggles. “And a child-like adult would name a son arachna.”

Arthur stares. Spidaract continues to offer the limb.

“…Fine,” Arthur grunts, reaching out, grabbing it more like a challenge than a handshake.

Spidaract pulls him up with measured, careful strength.

Once Arthur is standing, they both let go at the same time. Neither says anything.

The silence stretches.

Arthur clears his throat. “If you try anything, I will show you the power of justice!”

Spidaract nods once. “If I try anything, I will deserve it.”

Arthur crosses his arms, trying to look taller. “…Well, good.”

Arthur brushes the dust off his pants, only to smear it deeper. His scarf hangs crooked around his neck, and one eye still stings from gravel, which he doesn’t bother fixing.

“I’ve got somewhere to be,” Arthur mutters

He turns on his heel and starts walking toward the academy.