Chapter 8: Memories’ weight

Thomas found him behind the forge.

He wasn’t working or practicing, just sitting on the stone wall and staring at his hands like they belonged to someone else.

“Son?”

Claude’s head snapped up, guilty and caught.

“Sorry. I was just…” What? Thinking about three dead men living in his skull? Wondering which thoughts were his anymore? “Resting.”

Thomas wiped soot from his hands with the rag that lived in his belt. The forge heat made the air shimmer while hammer sounds echoed from inside where one of the apprentices was finishing a commission.

“You moved differently.” Thomas sat beside him carefully, like approaching something that might bolt. “During the fight with Dorin. Before everything went sideways at the festival.”

Claude’s stomach dropped.

“I’ve been smithing thirty years,” Thomas continued. “I’ve watched every guard drill in this village and trained with Lord Satria back when he was still active military.” He paused. “You moved like someone who’d trained, really trained, not like village stick-fighting but something else.”

‘Lie,’ part of Claude’s mind supplied immediately. ‘Deflect and minimize. Use standard information control protocol.’

Claude cut the thought off. That was Albert’s paranoia talking or Franklin’s calculation or something else.

He didn’t know anymore.

“I don’t know where it came from,” Claude said quietly. Which was technically true. He knew it was Tariq’s knowledge, but he didn’t know HOW or WHY.

Thomas studied him with blacksmith eyes that caught details like impurities in metal, stress fractures waiting to break, and things hiding beneath surfaces.

“Your mother’s scared,” Thomas said finally. “The episodes and the screaming, the fact that you won’t eat and you won’t sleep properly. She thinks we’re losing you to something we can’t see.”

Arwen thought he was going mad or dying or being stolen by magic gone wrong.

She was right about the last part.

“I’m okay,” Claude tried.

“You bent a spoon this morning without meaning to.”

Fuck.

“And you knew about Waveguard principles without me teaching them.”

Double fuck.

Thomas’s voice stayed level, not angry but concerned. “You’re six years old, Claude, and in two months you’ll be seven. And you’re carrying something that’s making you old before you should be.”

The words hit like hammer blows. Because Thomas SAW. Maybe not the incarnations specifically, maybe not the cosmic surveillance, but he saw his son disappearing under weight that shouldn’t exist.

“I want to help,” Thomas said. “But I can’t help if you won’t talk.”

Claude opened his mouth and closed it.

What could he possibly say? That he carried three dead men’s lifetimes in his head? That if anyone found out what he really was, extraction teams would come? That every second he spent pretending to be normal was another second of lying to everyone he loved?

The wordless warmth stirred as that fourth presence remained protective and patient.

“I don’t know how to explain,” Claude managed, his voice small and childlike in a way he hadn’t sounded since the visions started. “It’s like… like I know things I shouldn’t know. And I can’t make it stop.”

It wasn’t the whole truth and wasn’t even close.

But it wasn’t entirely a lie either.

Thomas nodded slowly. “The mana shock. Sara said it can do strange things.”

“Yeah.” Claude latched onto the excuse. “That’s probably it.”

Incorrect, Tariq observed quietly. But strategically necessary deception. Your father can’t handle truth. Would try to help. Would expose you in the process.

The gray shimmer pulsed faintly across Claude’s left palm. He pressed his hand against his leg, willing it away.

Claude ignored the voice. Or tried to.

“I was thinking,” Thomas said. “Maybe if you had something to focus on. Something physical to work through whatever’s happening in your head.” He glanced toward the forge. “I could teach you properly. Swordwork. Basic forms. It might help.”

‘No,’ Albert’s paranoia immediately supplied Claude’s mind unknowingly. ‘Training reveals capabilities. Capabilities raise questions. Questions lead to investigation.’

Shadow-black flickered across his left palm while Claude’s headache spiked.

‘Yes,’ Claude’s OWN thought cut through. Because his body ached with Tariq’s muscle memory. Because part of him wanted to MOVE, to release the pressure building in his chest through physical expression.

“I’d like that,” Claude said.

Thomas’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Tomorrow morning. Before the heat gets bad. We’ll start simple.”

“How simple?”

A faint smile. “Simple enough that you can pretend not to know things you shouldn’t.”

Claude blinked. “What?”

“I’m not stupid, son.” Thomas stood, stretched. “Whatever happened to you during that mana shock, it gave you knowledge, instincts, whatever.” He met Claude’s eyes. “I won’t ask where it came from. But I can help you figure out what to do with it.”

Something in Claude’s chest cracked.

His father knew, not everything and not the details, but he KNEW something was wrong, something was different, and instead of demanding explanations or running for healers, he offered help.

“Thank you,” Claude whispered.

Thomas ruffled his hair. “That’s what fathers do. Now get inside. Mom made stew and she’ll murder us both if it goes cold.”

—

Morning came too fast.

Claude woke with his heart hammering while residual nightmare bled into consciousness, something about warehouses, about dragons, and about legislative councils where one wrong word meant death by assassin.

These weren’t his memories.

They were never his memories.

But they were tattooed on his brain anyway.

He dressed in practice clothes including an old shirt Mom had patched twice and pants that wouldn’t rip if he moved wrong. The pre-dawn air was cool when he slipped outside, carrying the wooden practice sword Dad had carved last summer.

Back then it had been a toy.

Now it felt like coming home.

His father waited by the training area behind the forge, a patch of packed earth where apprentices practiced tool swings, with two practice swords leaned against the wall, water bucket nearby, and towels ready.

It was a professional setup with military mindset.

Thomas had been more than village blacksmith once, and Claude caught glimpses in the way he moved, checked positions, and established sight lines, all retired soldier habits that never fully retired.

“First rule,” Thomas said without preamble. “In this space, I’m not your father. I’m your instructor. You do what I say, when I say it. Understood?”

“Yes sir.”

Thomas’s eyebrow raised slightly. “Good. Second rule, if something hurts, real hurt and not tired-muscle hurt, you tell me immediately. We’re building skill, not breaking bodies.”

Sound methodology, Tariq approved. He knows what he’s doing. This will help.

Gray steel pulsed across Claude’s left palm, warm beneath his skin.

‘Will it?’ Claude wondered. ‘Or will I just expose more of what I shouldn’t know?’

Only if you let me control you. If you work WITH me instead of against me, we can learn together. You contribute your current body’s capabilities. I provide technical knowledge. Synthesis.

The gray shimmer spread to his wrist and then faded.

The idea felt dangerous.

It also felt tempting.

“Show me basic guard,” Thomas instructed.

Claude moved into position, or tried to.

His body wanted to flow into perfect Waveguard stance with weight distributed exactly, blade angle optimal, and feet positioned for explosive movement in any direction.

He forced himself to stumble slightly and to make it look uncertain.

Thomas circled him, adjusted his foot, and raised his elbow. “Better. You’ve got good instincts. Now show me a basic forward strike.”

This time Claude didn’t hold back completely.

The sword moved in a clean arc with controlled power and the whisper of wood through air.

Thomas caught his wrist mid-swing, not hard but firm.

“Where did you learn that?”

“I… I don’t know. It just felt right?”

“That wasn’t instinct, Claude. That was technique. Specific technique.” Thomas released him. “That’s intermediate Waveguard form. Second year curriculum at military academy.”

Shit.

Adjust, Tariq suggested quickly. Tell partial truth. Blame the visions.

Gray steel flared across Claude’s palm. He clenched his fist, hiding it.

“During the visions,” Claude said haltingly. “After the waterball. I saw… I saw someone fighting. Multiple people. And I remember how they moved, like it’s my memory, but it’s not and it can’t be.” He swallowed.

It wasn’t quite truth and wasn’t quite lie.

It was the gray zone where Claude lived now.

Thomas was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “Show me again. The strike.”

Claude did, this time without holding back, and let his body follow Tariq’s ingrained knowledge with perfect extension, optimal angles, and the small wrist rotation at impact point that multiplied force without telegraphing intent.

Thomas watched. His face gave away nothing.

Then he picked up the second practice sword and moved into guard position.

“If you remember how they moved,” Thomas said slowly, “then you remember how to respond to attacks. Let’s test that.”

He struck.

Not hard but fast, a testing blow that let Claude choose between dodge, block, or freeze.

Claude’s body moved before his mind caught up.

He parried, redirected the force instead of stopping it, stepped left, and countered with horizontal slash that Thomas barely blocked.

They separated.

Thomas’s expression had gone from concerned to something else, to assessment and calculation, the look he got when examining metalwork to determine if it would hold under stress.

“Again,” Thomas said.

This time he struck harder and faster with a three-strike combination that would overwhelm beginner students.

Claude flowed through the defense.

He blocked high, ducked low, redirected third strike past his shoulder, and countered with thrust that stopped inches from Thomas’s chest.

Good, Tariq said with satisfaction. You’re not fighting me. You’re working WITH me. This is how it should be.

The gray shimmer pulsed warm approval across Claude’s left side.

They sparred for ten minutes with Thomas gradually increasing pressure and testing limits.

Claude kept up, not perfectly since his smaller body couldn’t match adult speed or power, but the technique was there, the knowledge that let small fighters survive against larger ones through precision instead of force.

Finally Thomas called halt.

Both of them were breathing hard with sweat running despite cool morning air.

“Sit,” Thomas said, not a request.

They sat against the wall. Thomas passed the water bucket, and Claude drank with hands shaking slightly from exertion and adrenaline.

“That wasn’t beginner level,” Thomas said quietly. “That wasn’t intermediate level. That was advanced academy work combined with battlefield adaptation.” He looked at Claude. “Whatever those visions gave you, it’s not just instinct but someone’s lifetime of experience, multiple lifetimes maybe.”

Claude’s mouth went dry.

“I don’t understand it,” Thomas continued. “I won’t pretend I do. But I recognize skill when I see it, and I recognize when someone’s body knows things their mind can’t explain.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes briefly.

“When I was nineteen, I served under Captain Marcus Vorn. We lost half our unit in a dungeon collapse. Some survivors came out different, knowing things they shouldn’t and moving like veterans despite being fresh recruits.” He opened his eyes. “The official explanation was ‘mana shock awakening latent abilities.’ The real explanation was that nobody knew. Some things can’t be explained, only managed.”

Claude stared. “What happened to them?”

“Most learned to hide it, blend in, and pretend the knowledge came gradually instead of all at once.” Thomas met his gaze. “Some didn’t hide well enough, got marked as ‘abnormal awakening cases,’ and sent to research facilities for ‘study.’ Never came back.”

The extraction threat existed, and Thomas understood WITHOUT understanding.

“So we hide it,” Claude said softly.

“We manage it,” Thomas corrected. “I’ll teach you the forms properly and slowly, like you’re learning from scratch. We’ll establish a progression that looks natural, talented but not impossible.” He paused. “And when you slip, when muscle memory does something you shouldn’t know yet, we’ll have an explanation. Mana shock sometimes creates déjà vu and makes people think they’ve trained when they haven’t.”

“You’ll cover for me.”

“I’ll teach you,” Thomas said firmly. “And yes, I’ll explain anything unusual as my instruction plus natural talent. But Claude, you need to control this.” His voice went hard. “Whatever knowledge is in your head, you can’t let it control you. You’re my son first and this ability second.”

The words hit like forgehammer to an anvil.

You’re my son first.

Not a weapon, not a resource, not a tactical asset.

His son.

Claude felt something in his throat tighten. “What if I can’t? Control it, I mean?”

“Then we figure it out together.” Thomas stood, offered his hand. “But I think you can. You held back during that first strike. That means you have MORE control than you’re admitting. Maybe more than you realize.”

He pulled Claude to his feet.

“Tomorrow, same time. We’ll work on basic footwork. And Claude, talk to your mother.” Thomas’s expression gentled slightly. “She thinks you’re slipping away. You don’t have to tell her everything, but tell her something true, even if it’s just that you’re scared.”

“I am scared,” Claude admitted.

“Good. Fear keeps you careful.” Thomas handed him a towel. “Now go eat breakfast before she sends search parties.”

—

But Claude didn’t go inside immediately.

Instead he sat on the wall again, watching the sun rise over Kirana with gold and red bleeding across the sky. The village woke up as merchants opened shops, farmers headed to fields, and children’s voices started their eternal background noise.

Everything looked so normal.

Your father is perceptive, Tariq said quietly. And protective. That’s valuable.

Gray steel pulsed on Claude’s left palm.

But also a vulnerability, Albert added. If investigation comes, they’ll question him. Extract what he knows.

Shadow-black spread across his right palm.

*Then we ensure investigation never comes,* Franklin concluded. *Controlled revelation to trusted parties. Plausible backstory. We’re managing this correctly.*

Amber-gold flared briefly and then faded.

‘Are we?’ Claude wondered. ‘Or are we just digging the lie deeper?’

The wordless warmth stirred with no answer since it never had answers, just presence and comfort without demanding anything in return.

Claude looked at his hands, small hands and child hands that moved with adult precision when he forgot to pretend otherwise.

Thomas said he was talented.

The truth was he was three people wearing one body and learning to move like a single consciousness instead of fractured committee of the dead.

But maybe Thomas was right about one thing.

He did have control, more than he’d thought, and the morning spar proved that.

He’d worked WITH Tariq instead of fighting him, contributed his own body’s capabilities while accessing Tariq’s knowledge, using synthesis instead of possession.

If he could do that with combat training, maybe he could do it with everything else.

‘Can I?’ he asked the voices. ‘Can we work together instead of fighting for control?’

That’s always been the option, Tariq replied. You just weren’t ready to accept it.

The gray shimmer traced across his left hand.

Cooperation requires trust, Albert noted. Are you ready to trust us?

Shadow-black joined the gray.

*And are you ready to accept what cooperation means?* Franklin finished. *That you’re not just Claude anymore. You’re Prime Claude, us and all of us together.*

Amber-gold completed the pattern with all three stains pulsing in rhythm.

Claude closed his eyes.

The sun was warm on his face, and the morning air smelled like bread baking, forge smoke, and growing things, all normal village smells and safe smells.

But he wasn’t a normal village boy anymore.

He hadn’t been since the waterball struck.

He might never be again.

‘Okay,’ he thought toward the voices. ‘Okay. We work together. But I stay me. I stay in control of my own choices. Deal?’

Deal, Tariq agreed immediately.

Acceptable parameters, Albert said after a pause.

*Agreed. You lead, we advise. Partnership model.* Franklin’s voice held something that might have been approval. *Welcome to consciousness synthesis, Prime Claude. Try not to die stupidly. We’ve already done that three times and it doesn’t improve with repetition.*

The three stains pulsed once more in gray, shadow-black, and amber-gold, then faded beneath his skin, not gone but just integrated.

Despite everything including the fear, the confusion, and the constant pressure, Claude almost laughed.

Three dead men in his head, making dark jokes about their own deaths.

What the hell was his life becoming?

The wordless warmth pulsed gently and acceptingly.

At least someone thought this was going to work out.

Claude hoped they were right.