Ant telemetry crackled softly in Mikhailis's ear, the tone sharper than usual and loaded with static urgency. Cold sweat prickled behind his neck the moment he recognized that pitch—the scouts only raised it when they found something brand-new or something hungry.
The words unfolded like a frost across his skull. His boot halted mid-step, heel hovering a finger-width above the spongy root floor. All at once the corridor's hush pressed in, thick as sap. Blight variants? In this deep? Tightness coiled in his chest.
Below him the living passage throbbed—a gentle dop-dop heart-pulse muffled by layers of moss and time. Luminescent veins inside the roots brightened at the beat, scattering pale gold against his coat. Every pulse made the air quiver, the way low bass notes make glass quiver on a table.
