Broodmother Myxara's silence was her only remaining shield.
Unlike Dirtclaw's explosive aggression, Gustalon was terrifyingly clinical. He was cold, detached, a surgeon with a gale for a scalpel.
Suddenly, the violent hurricane that had been battering the hive vanished. The air went still.
To Myxara, the sudden calm felt like a retreat. He's hit a limit, she thought desperately. Or perhaps Eryndor has broken through outside, forcing them to abandon the siege. It was a fleeting spark of hope.
But the Wormholes Realm didn't stay quiet for long. The wind didn't return as a wall; it returned as needles.
Thin, pressurized streams of air erupted from the cavern floor. They didn't clash with the defensive insect-vortex Myxara had built; they slipped inside it. They joined the flow.
Myxara's compound eyes widened, then contracted in horror as she realized the strategy.
She let out a high-pitched shriek, trying to countermand her previous orders, to break the formation.
