The Kingdom of Elphira, located on the northern continent of the planet Amani, is the world's foremost elven kingdom. A land immersed in ancient power, inhuman beauty, and profound mysteries. Its inhabitants, proud and ancient, claim that even if the world collapses and every living species is erased from existence, at least their capital will endure. Not as a miracle, but as a certainty — a promise etched by the living roots of the forest and the eternity of the gods.
However, while that may sound like good news, the same cannot be said for the kingdom's inhabitants. What protects them is also what imprisons them: the Forest of Souls. A living veil of mist and mana, surrounding the kingdom like an organic wall. A silent and relentless guardian. An entity that protects with claws and seals with thorns.
The mist that emanates from the forest grows denser as one ventures toward its heart. A thick fog that seeps into lungs and minds. Within it, magical creatures thrive — beings that breathe mana like air, hunt with senses beyond flesh, and survive through strange cycles of energy.
Among all these arcane inhabitants, the weakest in the food chain are, ironically, the most numerous: the Myrmagos Umbrae ants. Creatures that live in complex underground colonies, their lives governed by instinct, duty, and the will of their Queen. They feed on anything with vital energy — enchanted roots, small magical animals, corrupted flesh, and even bones. The more vitality and mana in what they consume, the better. For their Queen absorbs every beneficial trait and, in her blind generosity, passes these on to her offspring.
In one of the countless anthills hidden beneath the living forest, a new batch of eggs was hatching. Translucent larvae stirred in their pods, transforming into creatures with predetermined purposes. For the Myrmagos Umbrae, birth was not a special event — it was routine. A cyclical, eternal necessity.
But in this hatching... an anomaly was born.
From one of the eggs emerged a worker unlike any other. Her body, still damp and fragile, bore a vibrant, crimson hue. A red that should not exist in that castle of purples and blacks. The pigmentation was characteristic of the Royal Guards — warrior ants created to protect the Queen with their lives.
And yet, there she was. Born with a worker's body, but marked with a soldier's color.
And she wasn't alone. Other crimson ants had also emerged from the eggs, all destined for combat, sacrifice, and defense of the colony's heart. She, however, shared neither their size nor their aggression. She was smaller. More subtle. And despite her color, she was classified by the Queen's pheromones as a simple worker.
Point of View – The Ant
She emerged from the egg like all the others — enveloped in moist darkness, surrounded by the familiar scents of fertile earth, fermented nectar, and enchanted sap. The environment was stifling but comforting. The vibrations of the ground echoed through her sensors like a sacred drum that never ceased. Above all, she felt the invisible presence of the Queen: a complex and dense aroma, as omnipresent as air itself.
Light was nonexistent, but not needed. In the anthill, everything was where it belonged: the constant warmth of underground chambers, the paths carved precisely by previous generations, and the silent chorus of instinctual orders — not spoken, but chemical.
She had no name. She needed none.
She was a worker.
Her world was small. Her first memories came in sensory fragments: darkness, subtle touches, scents that conveyed all necessary information. Pheromone trails formed a living language, marking the way and the purpose. What she had to do was clear, simple, and absolute: carry food. Feed larvae. Follow orders.
Soon, she received her first call — a chemical trail left by more experienced foragers. The pheromone was fresh, recent, charged with urgency and purpose. Food had been found.
She slipped through a narrow tunnel, her body moving with natural precision. Her six legs moved in perfect synchrony, anchoring to the surfaces with the grace of a living automaton. Upon emerging from the underground, the forest greeted her with its diffuse, mystical light — a gentle glow filtered by leaves and magical mist. Above, ancient trees arched like living cathedrals. On the ground, veins of crystallized mana pulsed beneath her feet like enchanted arteries — the direct result of her sisters' tireless work.
The scent of dead flesh led her to a clearing. There, lying atop greenish moss, was the body of a small magical rodent. One of the weakest creatures in that enchanted ecosystem, yet even it shimmered with residual energy. The carcass still radiated warmth and traces of raw power.
Other workers were already at the site, slicing the corpse with enchanted, razor-sharp mandibles. Their bodies moved with absolute purpose, each one extracting bone, flesh, and fragments of mana with surgical efficiency.
She did not hesitate. She approached and bit into the flesh with her own mandibles. Energy rushed through her sensory fibers. The meat still pulsed faintly — not with life, but with echoes of power.
Once her cut was complete, a new order arrived. Carry. Return.
They marched in a single file. Distinct bodies, yet one collective organism. They touched antennae. Transmitted information in silence. They crossed a shallow stream, their feet gripping slick stones with almost supernatural precision, as if the ground itself welcomed their touch.
Then, the predator fell upon them.
An ethereal shape, made of shadow and claws, descended from the trees like a living nightmare. A spirit corrupted by the forest's dense mana. The creature struck the line with silent ferocity. Three workers were torn apart before the chemical alarm spread. She saw death up close — the tear, the blood, the mana dissipating.
And then, she reacted.
Her mandibles glowed with instinctive mana. A primitive yet powerful reflex. She lunged at the spirit. Others followed. The creature tried to retreat, but she bit directly into its essence — a bitter, hot flavor that burned inside her mouth.
The spirit howled — a silent scream — and dissolved into the magical mist that bathed the forest.
The fallen remained. Abandoned. Not out of cruelty, but necessity. The collected flesh was more important. The colony needed it.
Back in the anthill, she entered the storage chamber. There, the air was cooler. The walls were smooth, polished by the friction of thousands of feet. Other workers meticulously organized the pieces — separating meat, bones, organs, and fragments of pure mana. Everything was stored with ritualistic precision. She deposited her portion without expecting thanks. She knew it didn't exist among them. Obedience was the name of their existence.
She left in silence toward the larva chamber.
The heat there was comforting. The humidity, perfect. Mana crystals embedded in the walls emitted a soft light, pulsing at a frequency that seemed to calm even thoughts. Translucent larvae squirmed within shining pods, hungry.
She bent over one of them, regurgitating pre-digested food. A nutrient-rich paste, dense with mana. She fed five larvae with precision, her mandibles touching the fragile bodies with sacred care.
Then she left.
Her next path was sacred.
The Queen's chamber was immense. It breathed power. The air was denser there, heavy with pheromones and heat. The earth pulsed beneath her feet. The Queen occupied the center — colossal, immobile, resplendent. Her body was a throne of living flesh. An altar of command and fertility.
She approached reverently, bringing a fragment of mana crystal taken from the rodent. As she placed it, a wave of warm energy engulfed her. It was like being underwater — or inside a dream.
And then… something different happened.
During a pause in the larva chamber, she stopped.
Not from command. Not from exhaustion.
She stopped from within.
A tremor ran through her antennae. But there was no pheromone. No command. No pattern.
She simply… felt.
The Queen, sensing the hesitation, issued a direct command: continue the work. Do not stop. Do not think.
And she obeyed.
But from that moment on, a spark flickered in the darkness of her mind.
In the following cycles, she kept working. Faithful. Precise.
But she began to feel things.
Things that didn't come from the colony. That didn't come from the Queen.
Dreams.
She began to dream.
And no worker had ever dreamed.
With every dream, her mind began to shift — a subtle, yet irreversible change. Questions emerged, like tiny cracks in the concrete of her obedience. Why obey? Why accept? Why does the Queen decide everything? Why does she… feel?
These questions bloomed like forbidden roots.
Until, after another cycle, after feeding the larvae with her usual care, something changed.
Her body glowed.
Faintly, but enough to be noticed. Her eyes, once dull and devoid of autonomy, now shimmered with a different light. A glow that spoke of consciousness. Of identity. Of… wisdom.
But it did not elevate her.
It condemned her.
The Queen, omnipresent in every corner of the anthill, felt the change. A deviation in the pattern. A disturbance. A threat.
And then, with the same silence she used to command the colony's flow, she issued a new order — firm, unquestionable:
Eliminate.
Before she could become a danger. Before her spark could contaminate the others.
The only thing pulsing in the worker's mind, as the scent of the sentence spread through the chambers, was a simple, pure, anguished question:
"Why?"