The atmosphere shimmered in silence.
Deep beneath the layers of loam and bedrock, far beyond the skirmishes of warriors and the echo of collapsing tunnels, there stood a city, gleaming, opulent, untouched by the world's savagery.
Its walls were carved from solid granite, inlaid with gemstones, amethyst veins, emerald roots, and veins of lapis lazuli curling like frost across the outer towers. From above, the grand structure resembled a crown buried in shadow.
In its center stood the Castle of Gleaming Burrows.
Each wall sparkled with torchlight, reflecting across crystals like golden rain. The halls buzzed with movement, not the chaos of a war camp, but the disciplined flutter of wings. Beetles of every caste moved in elegant patterns, carrying bundles of tender green leaves, surface-dried petals, and crushed flower nectar. Everything was neat. Clean. But most importantly. Civilized.
The sun's warmth never reached here, and yet she shone brighter than it.
She stepped slowly onto her balcony, her feet tapping with practiced grace.
Her dress shimmered with woven threads of silkroot and embedded shards of quartz. It flowed like water over her carapace, catching every flicker of torchlight as if daring the dark to envy her radiance. Her antennae were adorned with thin chains of molten gold, and between her wings she bore a crest—an obsidian emblem shaped like a beetle's horn, outlined in ruby filaments.
She smiled.
Below her, the capital city pulsed with life. Couriers zipped between towers, the scent of pollen and roasted seed drifting up into the crystalline air. Storage caverns brimmed with fresh plant matter, and traders polished their shells in silver-mirrored basins.
Behind her gardens, however, tucked just far enough to blur in the haze of wealth, stood the Field of Purity.
There, bodies were impaled on slender spines of hollowed stone. The traitors' corpses, burned black and smoking, writhed not in movement, but from the last twitches of nerves long dead. Their crimes were silence, hesitation.... Failure.
Their punishment was a glamorous display.
She watched them burn in rows, a harvest of justice, and sighed softly.
"It is such a beautiful day," she whispered, her voice calm, almost girlish.
The queen turned away, her steps light and melodic, even as the air behind her carried the stench of roasted exoskeleton.
She passed under silver arches, walked through a corridor lined with amber mosaics, each tile a piece of historical conquest. At the end of the hall, a messenger knelt.
"Your Radiance." His voice trembled. "He has arrived. Lord Varas awaits in the Obsidian Hall."
Her eyes lit up like gemstones struck by flame.
"Splendid." Her voice rang like laughter on glass. "Do prepare a drink. Something… celebratory. This is going to be such a thrilling summer."
She giggled, like an innocent youngling, and turned on two delicate feet.
Her wings flared outward like a gown of blades.
And with a flourish of crystal-laced silk, she disappeared into the heart of her palace, toward the main meeting chamber where Lord Varas awaited her audience.
The Obsidian Hall was silent when she entered.
A chamber carved from volcanic stone; its walls lined with jagged shards of mirror-polished onyx. Above, thousands of tiny crystal-lanterns shimmered like stars frozen in black water. A throne of sculpted carapace and fossilized roots sat at its center, not for her but for guests. She preferred to stand. She preferred to move.
At the far end of the room, near the basin of fermented bloodroot, stood Lord Varas.
A cricket.
He wore a sleek suit of stitched black leather, lacquered until it glistened like wet obsidian. It was said the threads came from the
nerve cords of a lunar moth, flayed by hand in a sacrifice of artistry. His posture was perfect—two legs crossed, two held lightly at his side. His antennae twitched once, a bow of acknowledgement.
He did not kneel.
No one expected him to.
"My Lady," he said with a voice that rasped like silk dragged over bone. "You look—how should I phrase this—devastatingly elegant, as always."
The Queen smiled, her sharp crystalline eyes twinkling in the mirrored walls.
"Oh, Varas," she cooed, stepping lightly down the curved path toward him, "You always say such lovely things. Even though you used to be such a brute."
He chuckled softly, raising his cup. The blood inside was thick, fresh. He drank like a gentleman at court—head tilted slightly, no drip wasted.
"Brute? Certainly. I was just a scrap from the south once. Hunted local pests. Lived in cracks and bit the wings off bees. Then came your invitation. And now—look at me."
He gestured toward the hall. "Drinking vintage cardinal blood in your royal chamber. A real dream."
She tilted her head, her voice playful.
"And how's the perimeter of my summer palace, Varas? No trouble with the locals, I trust?"
He grinned, thin and sharp.
"Not in the slightest, my Queen. We've cleared the nestings, seeded the canopy for ground stability, and installed hollow-siphons to keep moisture perfect. It will be completed by this spring's end, as planned."
Her joy burst out of her like pollen in the wind. She laughed and twirled in place, her crystalline dress sparkling, her four legs tapping lightly against the stone.
"Wonderful! Oh, how I've dreamt of it. A palace in the sun—can you imagine it, Varas? A place where my wings can dry in the wind."
He bowed his head with a smile, his eyes never blinking.
But then she paused.
Her smile faded slightly, curling into a smirk as she leaned close, her voice dropping like venom into silk.
"Speaking of wind and tunnels… there's been something… odd. West of here."
She walked along the edge of the hall, trailing one limb across the cold stone table.
"Some thing—or maybe some ants—have been meddling. Popping from the ground. Vanishing. You know. Rotting the earth with their disgusting presence." She emphasized the words with a slight shiver of distaste.
"Nuisance bugs," she hissed. "They've been interfering with our mineral veins. Can you imagine? My surveyors can't even extract crystal salt without the tunnels trembling like frightened larvae."
Lord Varas raised a brow. "Ants, you say?"
She nodded slowly.
"The traitors who returned said they were invisible, almost. Appearing from nowhere. Of course… it was hard to hear them properly... over their tortured screams. "
She placed a claw to her lips in a mock pout. "But I think that's what they said."
Varas took another sip, his face still. Calm.
"You sent a scouting unit, I presume?"
"Aghhh...." she groaned. "I've sent many, some traitors mentioned about this crazy "ghost spider" demon that protects those wretched dustlings. Can you believe they mistake ME for a fool?!"
Varas tapped his cup once against the stone.
"Then you wish for me to handle it?"
She smiled again. "Would you?"
He gave a light bow.
"Of course, my lady. But—" He paused, his voice drifting like smoke. "I'll need... extra resources."
Her gaze turned instantly cold.
The torches flickered.
"You… want my gems?" Her voice, sharp. Threatening. A queen of gleam and fire.
Varas laughed quickly and lowered his head.
"Oh, heavens, no, no, no. May the Cricket Saints pull my soul from my shell if I ever dared suggest such a thing. No—gems? I'd
never. Unthinkable."
He leaned closer, whispering now.
"But... you know our appetites. I was simply wondering… if you might raise our monthly allotment from twelve... to seventeen."
"Seventeen?" Her expression softened again. "Seventeen beetles... a month?"
"Only if it pleases you, my lady. It would make us ever so efficient."
Her laughter echoed through the chamber like crystal windchimes struck by madness.
"Of course. Seventeen. You may pick the ones yourself."
She turned, walking toward the exit, glowing with satisfaction.
But then—
"Oh," Varas called softly. "Will there be... any little girls in the batch this time?"
The Queen did not stop walking.
But over her shoulder, her voice chimed like silver bells dipped in oil.
"Why wouldn't there be?"
And then she was gone.
The doors shut behind her like the sealing of a tomb.