Vellithar the powerless

Vellithar stands alone in the stone hallway, her tentacles wrapped behind her back. The crustacine light, the brightest ore in the world, flickers along the curved walls, casting crawling shadows that never quite settle.

Her shift will start an hour later, but her head has already been filled with negative thoughts. This is the first and only job she can apply for, and that’s just because no other cephels can conceive themselves talking with such filthy species.

On her head is Drok, one of cropue race of lizards, they always want to trick cephels that they are the great dragons. Though they do nothing other than just talking and acting like dragons, such unholy acts often require divine punishment. But the dragons enjoy their ironic presence so cropues are actually protected and often used as pets until they are made tributes for the dragons.

She glances sideways at the heavy gate to the cell. Inside are the three outsiders: the self-proclaimed diplomats, whatever that word means.

Vellithar doesn’t like them. Those inferior beings dare to talk to each other happily in her presence. They completely ignore her as if they can’t even comprehend her greatness - which she knows is false as she is much much different from other cephels.

She scowls and walks past the bars without stopping. Even if she wants, there is no reason to interact with the “guests”. Yet, she still has to observe them.

The spider, Spidaract , seems asleep, curled in the corner of the cell with his back to the wall. The girl, Asa, has her head resting on her arms, staring at a pebble. And the boy, Arthur, is playing with stones in his cell.

None of them speak. Good.

She rounds the corner, returns to her desk, and opens the ledger. Her name is already there. The shift will last in the second sunfall.

Behind her, Drok stirs. The little lizard climbs up the stack of crates like a dragon ascending its hoard and lets out a slow, airy snort.

“Nothing to guard,” she mutters. “No glory for you today, dragon.”

He flattens himself across the room with a flick of his tail.

…

The second day begins with no difference. But this time, the spider is fully awake.

Vellithar watches through the bars as Spidaract places a perfect square in the corner of the cell. His movements are quiet, mechanical, almost ritualistic. The human girl hums softly, some tune foreign to Vellithar’s ears, while the grey-skin thing watches both of them, saying nothing.

She leans against the stone archway, wrapping her tentacles to each other like crossing arms.

“Do you do this every morning?” she asks before she can stop herself.

Asa looks up, startled.

Spidaract pauses but doesn’t turn around.

“Heroes are busy,” Arthur says while giving a small shrug. “So we shouldn’t be in cages like prisoners.”

Vellithar clicks her tongue. “So prideful, for the likes of you.”

She doesn’t stay in the cells in the night. But when she writes in the ledger, she adds a note: This should be more comfortable and simpler.

…

Day three.

She brings them food as always.

Not because she wants to, protocol demands her to treat these “guests” well, but she takes the time to place it properly, three trays neatly arranged with water and soft bread and one bowl of cooked lizard meat.

The spider seems to thank her by a nodding gesture. She knows it can talk, but what should she expect from a filthy insect?

The girl eats in silence. Still acting tough, but Vellithar knows the human is slowly being attracted to cephels’ natural charm.

The grey-skin thing doesn’t touch the food, saying it is too tough. Funny, he should be grateful that he is having something a thousand times better than whatever his race is having.

“You think I don’t know what you’re planning here,” she says finally. “But I do. You think you’ll charm someone, speak your pretty words then convince the emperor you’re worth a seat at the table.”

Asa finishes chewing before answering. “Well, you’re the first person to speak more than five words to us.”

“I’m not flattered.”

“Trust me, I would be more interested in the lizard,” Spidaract interrupts.

Vellithar crawls closer, narrowing her eyes. “You’re just an insect. You understand nothing of this land. If you know anything, you will be bowing now.”

“Trust me, if every cephels behaves like you, his kingdom will be much more functionable than yours,” Arthur replies.

“We are above functionable,” she hisses. “Our nation understands the world and nature. We are chosen to be the planet’s messenger, that is reflected through our magi…”

She suddenly stops.

“You wouldn’t understand anyways.”

She turns, biting her tongue, and walks away before the silence can press back.

…

Later that night, in her chamber, Vellithar sits on the edge of her cot, clutching the smooth stone necklace around her neck.

She remembers the ceremony: The Magic Receive Day.

The day every young Cephel touches the crystal in the emperor’s court and hears their first whisper from the world: some can understand animals, some can feel the plants, others will understand the language of non-living beings like air and rocks.

The moment still haunts her to this day.

The time came.

And she felt nothing.

Even Drok - sweet, stupid Drok - understood what was happening and tried to cuddle Vellithar by biting on her head.

Despite her effort to hide it, older cephels quickly realized the situation.

The fact that her ears never heard the trees cry and her skin would never pulse with the breath of the world.

She was born destined for greatness and suddenly scraped from it.

…

Day five.

Arthur stands near the bars, waiting as she walks by.

“I don’t know your name,” he says.

Vellithar stops. “Diplomats don’t need to know the name of jailers.”

“You took care of us,” Spidaract says. “Enough reason for me.”

She hesitates.

“Vellithar.”

He nods. “I’m Arthur.”

“I know.”

They stand in silence for a moment. Then Arthur glances at Drok.

“Your lizard is cute.”

“He…thinks he is a dragon,” she says without flinching.

“Really! Is he, like, in his newborn stage?” Arthur asks while making an amazed face.

Drok is happily using his tail to play with the female human. A new friend, really rare these days for its kind.

Something flickers in Vellithar’s chest - a tightness. She sits at her desk, further away than before.

…

On the seventh day, they speak again.

Asa hums while washing her face with a water bucket that Vellithar takes for her.

Spidaract threads a strand of web between his fingers, quietly folding it and sharing it with Drok.

Arthur is drawing something on the wall with a sharp rock.

Vellithar stands nearby, pretending to check the torch sconces.

“You’re quieter than I imagined,” she says.

Arthur glances up. “We don’t have much to say.”

“Most prisoners beg or rapidly demand.”

“We demand peace from your boss.”

“Clearly.”

Silence.

Then, looking straight at Vellithar, Arthur says:

“Do you actually think everyone is born inferior?”

Vellithar freezes.

She dodges his glance, but she knows this is just a question from care, not from hatred.

She answers after a while: “Yes…”

He nods once. “And do you think you are?”

She doesn’t answer. Her throat suddenly tightens.

“I used to think I was,” Arthur continues. “You know, the prophecy and heroic acts.”

She grips the stone edge of the wall.

“And why don’t you now,” she asks.

“Some insects teach me that roles don’t indicate value,” Arthur replies.

For the first time, Vellithar’s glance stops to feel like that of a god. The skin on her face smoothens slightly, a cephel trait that reveals calm.

…

That night, just before the shift ends, a sound rings through the hallway.

The bell chimes, making a sharp, deep note from the wall.

Vellithar moves toward the speaking tube and presses her hand to the seal.

The voice that answers is old, firm, and unmistakable.

“This is the emperor. The trap is ready.”

Vellithar’s fingers tremble. Drok scurries to her side.

She turns toward the cell.

And for one, she doesn’t see prisoners.

She sees people.

She takes a slow breath.

Then she unlocks the gate.