Life outside the egg was much more entertaining.

  No more long contemplation of uninteresting nothingness.

  So I declared that it was good, and that I liked it.

  As the genius I clearly was, I realized the dances the others performed weren’t just for my entertainment. They were speaking.

  Their movements mixed with different scents carried meaning—some kind of language.

  I had been trying to figure it out for two whole days without success.

  It must be because larvae simply didn’t speak the grown-up language. Otherwise I would obviously understand it.

  I had also learned that my sisters were rather nice, an involuntary squeak escaping at the thought.

  There were always three of them beside me, taking care of everything.

  Still, it was boring.

  It had been fun at the beginning, but now I was stuck in the same room, forbidden to leave.

  I had once thought the yellow room was big.

  Now it felt tiny, and I just crawled from one side to the other to have something to do.

  My mind flooded with information about how to crawl.

  It felt amazing—something new and exciting that chased the boredom away.

  I indulged in the feeling, eager for more.

  I didn’t care what it meant.

  I only knew I wanted to experience it again.

  As I reflected, the information felt like borrowed memories—scales sliding over rough ground, small limbs pulling across surfaces.

  Were those my own experiences from before the dark time?

  “Puff. Why think about that? It makes no difference.”

  I clicked and squeaked to myself, then opened my information screen.

  “Oh, I have two new things. Servants… that must be my caretakers. And skills—why can’t I see the skill?”

  When I thought about it, a new window opened.

  That probably meant the memories weren’t mine.

  Giving a mental shrug, I went to the next curiosity—my servants.

  Just focusing on it made another window appear. Nice, no need to open the whole status screen every time.

  So they didn’t have names?

  Did one need a name?

  Did I have a name?

  Why bother when you could just scent the difference of someone?

  Maybe it was because of my great intelligence, but I could differentiate everyone just by smell.

  Mentally shrugging again, I concentrated on the first entry.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  When I focused on Race:

  “Wow, we’re essential. I knew it. I’m super important.”

  And that explained the delicious stuff—honey.

  I almost got lost thinking about the greatness of honey. Shaking it off, I went to the next thing.

  “Hey, blue thingy, what do you mean unintelligent? I’m the smartest larva I know.”

  I squeaked indignantly, then noticed it also said I was blind.

  I wasn’t sure what blindness was, but I was fairly certain I could see.

  Not important. I’d figure it out later.

  I returned to my angry squeaking and clicks.

  The rest of the day was spent crawling, failing repeatedly as I tried going up the wall.

  After several tumbles and one unfortunate landing on a caretaker, I finally managed to stay on the wall for a full second.

  I felt triumphant.

  A few more tries—and two breaks for food—later, I decided to crawl in a full circle around the room.

  I kept going until I heard another familiar sound.

  Memories flooded me again, this time of insects and scaly creatures moving swiftly over obstacles.

  It felt weirder than the first time, but not in a bad way—just strange to have memories from someone with scales.

  Eagerly, I opened the skill window.

  I was thrilled.

  I could feel myself moving faster, climbing more easily.

  Maybe it was the skill, or maybe those strange memories, but either way it felt wonderful.

  Days passed like that, until one day, one of my caretakers disappeared.

  Rude.

  She hadn’t even told me why.

  I might not understand yet, but not even trying was just rude.

  My attempts to glean something about the food or the room didn’t work, and crawling no longer revealed anything new.

  Boredom crept in again.

  After two days she returned, radiant and smelling wonderful.

  Had she really become that healthy just from leaving me?

  I checked her status.

  Wow, a new subrace.

  Royal Caretaker Bee.

  Was that because of me?

  Of course it was.

  I was amazing, so my caretakers had to become amazing too.

  She had become incredible, yet most of her bonuses helped eggs, not larvae.

  I squeaked and clicked at her indignantly, even raising myself as if to scold her properly.

  She simply picked me up and fed me.

  The sweet taste calmed me immediately.

  Out of habit, I analyzed the food—and finally heard the sound I had been waiting for.

  A smaller white window appeared.

  “What? So this isn’t honey? Then what’s honey?”

  The softer white box felt more intrusive than the blue ones, demanding attention.

  Unlike the other screens, I couldn’t ignore it.

  I wished the window away, and it vanished.

  I kept eating the royal jelly, savoring it and wondering about the difference—and why it mattered.