That surprised Heron, like rain after a dry season.

At first, she’d thought the Zerg Maiden would be a wildfire.

Yet the girl’s mind was white rice paper, and her sense for people flowed like a tide.

Her looks, too—sweet as a spring peach—changed.

Those feral chitin plates, once jagged like cliff rock, molted with the storm of psionics gone.

They thinned to a clear film hugging her skin, like dew over petals, near the same as human flesh.

Tests showed the chitin still kept its old use, a bark over sap.

Defense dipped a little, but conduction of psionic power didn’t fade; its new weave fit her gentler current like a riverbed.

The Insectoid queen within still existed, a moon behind clouds, only softened into today’s gentle maiden.

Mother, where did I come from, like a fledgling asking the sky?

In their second year after Heron “adopted” her, the question finally surfaced like a bubble in a clear spring.

Smart as she was, she should’ve asked sooner, but the first year’s chaos was a sandstorm.

Only after Heron’s steady guidance, like hands on a helm, did she ask.

With senses that brush minds like wind on wheat, how could she miss her difference?

By Heron’s design, most humans showed no strangeness toward the Zerg Maiden, like calm water around a stone.

In truth, humans are shallow and honest about faces, magpies for beauty.

If the essence shows no great rift, the open-minded accept fast, like spring rain soaking in.

At first Heron only let a small circle meet the Zerg Maiden, like a scout party into a forest.

Since she meant to teach the Zerg Maiden for human use, she had to build her a human sky and compass.

At least, a worldview and values the newborn civilization needed, so this question couldn’t be dodged or tossed away like a pebble.

This gets complicated, Heron said with a smile soft as lantern light.

Strictly, you’re a very special being of our kind, a bridge between Insectoids and humans.

She wrapped the truth in silk, not thorns.

She didn’t want the Zerg Maiden feeling like an outcast in cold rain.

Heron had worn that exile once, and the chill bit to the bone.

All the more since she hoped the Zerg Maiden would join the humans, a new oar on the star river.

Am I special then, Mother?

As she spoke, the Zerg Maiden glanced at her arms, where heavy chitin once lay like old armor.

Only a thin clear layer remained, merging into skin like ice in tea.

With her psionics, of course she sensed the ways her body diverged, like a branch growing against the grain.

Different, yes, but Heron would turn that difference into belonging, like a badge pinned over a heart.

Better to let her see herself as a chosen edge, the elite tip of a spear.

The raging Insectoid queen, Heron would never permit back into the light.

Of course you’re special, my child, Heron said, voice warm as a hearth.

You’re excellent, sharper than most folks by far—after all, you’re my child.

Heron ruffled the Zerg Maiden’s long hair, like stroking silk, then took her hand.

She led her into the newly revived city, where cranes were herons in steel.

Words can only paint mist; better to walk and let her breathe the change like mountain air.

After they shattered most of the Star Remnant, the newborn human civilization took this planet in hand, like gardeners reclaiming a field.

Fungal carpets once spread over most continents like winter moss; they were quickly swept away.

With Aether, cleansing beat any weapon, like sunlight beating mold.

They held back on brute fire, to spare this already scarred world another blaze.

That wasn’t what the newborn civilization wanted, and neither did Heron’s heart.

The Star Remnant homeworld’s old name was long lost, a shell on the beach.

On a whim with a smile, Heron named it Avalon, from an island nation’s old tale.

The version she knew had a blonde sword maiden, a lily in armor.

When she saw the vistas after the fungal carpet lifted, the name settled like a feather.

It was a whim, yet scholars under her banner cheered and piled on meanings like fallen leaves.

Heron never bothered to correct them; in turmoil, better to let scholars sing and soothe war-worn soldiers.

As for the planet’s capital, rebuilding had begun under newborn tech, a city sprouting from ash.

Some Star Remnant lines stayed, but Earth-born styles washed over them like a tide.

The Star Remnant were advanced, yet in this art they lacked, like smiths asked to weave.

Watching the city revive, the Zerg Maiden spoke, her voice a bell in mist.

Mother, why is the whole city rebuilding?

The Valkyrie sisters took me outside days ago; the land there isn’t like our fleet-city halls.

It’s rougher, but the wilds feel newborn, like green shoots after fire.

For one so psionically sensitive, the world under mind is truer than sight, like current under ice.

Different species see with different lanterns; most Insectoids observe through faint psionics.

Ordinary Insectoids have their selves pressed flat, like paper under a stone, ruled by a single queen.

If each drone held typical psionic weight, the queen’s load would be a mountain.

That never meant a queen’s psionics were small, though; her storm could drown fields.

Heron’s own research team once tested the peeled, berserk psionics, a thunder caught in glass.

With Aether as catalyst, they amplified it to the limit, waves big enough to wash a star system.

Of course, only if the wielder stood near Heron’s height, a cliff above sea.

How many in this world stand close to Heron?

She didn’t know; even she couldn’t weigh herself anymore, like a blade testing its own edge.

On the road of Aether, she’d walked farther than anyone, nearing her essence, the shore called Origin.

The newborn civilization rose because Heron stood like a lighthouse, closest to Origin.

History would call her a child of destiny, meant to lead the whole people forward like a tide.

She believed others like her must exist in this universe; whether they were as strong, she’d gladly test steel against steel.

Because the natives of this planet warred with the Insectoids, Heron said, sorrow like rain in her eyes.

They overworked the planet until the Origin sent Insectoids to erase them.

We caught their signal in the dark and came, but when we arrived, we were late.

Regret brushed her face like a shadow of wings.

She wasn’t lying; the newborn civilization had followed the Star Remnant’s call to this homeworld.

She just skipped the thorn—how the Star Remnant tripped them into war.

Some truths are better set aside, like knives sheathed, until the Zerg Maiden can read the ledger herself.

So far, the girl’s conduct pleased Heron like sun on stone.

I see… then the Star Remnant were the ones walking a crooked path.

Why wouldn’t they turn back, like a river bends?

The Valkyrie sisters always say to admit and amend, like mending a torn sleeve; is that wrong, Mother?

That isn’t wrong, Heron said, voice steady as a drum.

Most Star Remnant can’t see their error, or seeing it, still march the wrong road like moths to flame.

We can’t force their hearts; we can only raise the innocent children, like planting saplings after a storm.

She didn’t voice the other aim—to grow a new race for the newborn civilization; Aether veiled her thoughts like fog.

Then, Mother, will those children refuse our kindness, like turning from a fire in winter?

Heron smiled, a dawn glow, hearing how the girl already stood with the humans without thinking.

That start was good; it meant she recognized Heron’s hand and the human course, like a compass pointing north.

They’ll accept, of course, like hands reaching for bread.

So we’ll spend time across this star system, giving the children real, effective schooling, like watering fields in season.

It’s a long wintering, not a flash of summer lightning.

Our fleets were hurt in this war; they need rest and support, like ships in drydock.

Heron led the Zerg Maiden toward the city’s heart, steps echoing like rain on stone.

The city was still a skeleton in scaffolds; many blocks lay bare from teardown and carpet-clearing.

Rebuilding crawled, even with Aether; you can’t grow a city in a day like a gourd on a vine.

She chose the center for a reason, hoping the Zerg Maiden would “accidentally” catch certain sights, like birds catching seeds.

Let her see, and let her choose, like a young tree leaning toward the sun of humanity.