Chapter Text
The First Seed – Armor
Resol’nare Tenet: Wear Your Armor
From the collection The Six Seeds – Foundling Tales
Recommended reading during forge week, fitting ceremony, or the first steps into clan life.
The Tale of Riila –
The Plate That Didn’t Fit
There once was a child who walked through ash.
She had no plates. No helmet. No blaster.
Only a scarf — and the echo of her sister’s goodbye.
The world said:
“You are too small.”
“You are not protected.”
“You do not belong.”
But the child kept walking.
Her name was Riila, and she had just joined the Haat’ade.
She was barely past her seventh cycle, her voice still carrying the music of another world, her eyes searching the sky like it might crack open again.
Back where she came from, armor meant ownership — a symbol of control, not freedom. Those who wore it gave orders. Those who didn’t, obeyed.
So when the Armorer handed her a chestplate the size of a ration crate, Riila froze.
“It’s tradition,” the Armorer said softly. “But tradition doesn’t mean force. It means story.”
She tried it on anyway.
The chestplate sagged down to her knees. It slipped sideways. It made her look like a turtle trying to carry a blast shield.
Someone chuckled in the back — not unkindly, but Riila’s face burned.
She let the plate fall with a clank, turned, and walked out.
She didn’t come back to the forge the next day. Or the next.
She sat alone near the edge of the encampment, curling the scarf tighter around her wrist.
It had once been bright. Now it was gray and torn, the fabric worn thin. Her sister had tied it there the day they were separated.
Riila hadn’t taken it off since.
And every night, before she slept, she whispered in her heart:
If I put on their armor, do I stop being hers?
On the fourth day, the Armorer found her sitting beside a supply crate, drawing in the dust with a stick.
The Armorer didn’t speak. Just sat down cross-legged.
“You didn’t like the plate,” the Armorer said finally.
Riila shrugged. “Didn’t fit.”
“Armor isn’t made to fit right away,” the Armorer said. “It’s made to grow with you.”
“Why give me something I can’t use?”
“Because someday, you will. Until then… you carry what fits now.”
From her satchel, Jalii pulled something smaller — a single vambrace, scratched and worn. It was still too big, but not absurdly.
Riila held it in both hands. The inside was rough.
Then… an idea.
She untied her scarf — carefully, almost reverently. Folded it. Slipped it inside the vambrace. Not to hide it — to hold it. To soften the sharp edges.
Then she slid her arm in.
It didn’t fit perfectly.
But it stayed.
And more importantly — it felt like hers.
The next morning, she joined drills.
Still quiet. Still hesitant.
But when the instructor’s staff came down — she blocked it with her braced arm.
And didn’t flinch.
The others noticed. Not the scarf.
But the way she stood.
And when a new foundling arrived — younger, terrified — clutching a blanket like a shield, it was Riila who sat beside her by the fire.
“Aren’t you scared?” the younger one whispered.
Riila looked at her vambrace. The cloth inside had begun to fray.
She smiled.
“I was. Still am, sometimes.
But I carry something that helps me remember who I am.
You will too.”
Years Later…
When Riila finally was to complete her full armor, she brought the same vambrace with her to the forge.
It was resized. Reshaped. Reforged.
But she had one request:
“Leave the inside untouched.”
So they did.
Tucked beneath the new lining — hidden in layers of folded metal — the cloth remained.
Frayed. Faded. Soft.
Still warm with memory.
Still holding her up.