The cave-like chamber breathed with the rhythm of firelight. Torches lined the rough stone walls, their flames spitting and twisting, casting shadows that danced on the walls. The shadows crawled over leather tents pitched in jagged order, the largest looming at the center of the chamber. Its frame was bound with bone and silk, and from its peak drooped a heavy red banner, stitched with a sigil of crossed golden spears that gleamed faintly in the dimness.
Around it sprawled smaller tents, a miracle that some of them could stand upright, surrounded the enormous tent. From their flaps emerged crickets; lean, worn, yet hardened by labor. Some wore crude armor stitched from boiled leather, straps tight across their carapaces. A few privileged ones carried weapons, poles tipped with shards of deep blue crystals that pulsed faintly with an inner glow. Most bore nothing at all, hands and torso empty, survival depending solely on their numbers and luck.
At the edges of the camp, iron cages built from rough-hewn rock slabs pressed together with resin held the "merchandise." Inside huddled moths. Gaunt, wide-eyed, their wings dulled to ash. Their whispers rose like brittle reeds in the wind:
"Food… please… water…"
A guard struck the bars with the butt of his spear. The sharp clang echoed, silencing the murmurs in a chorus of startled gasps.
"Quiet, moths," he hissed. "One more word and I'll peel your tongues out."
The moths shrank, but desperation could not be drowned for long. As after a while, their cries welled again, like a rising tide of pleading voices.
Just then, another cricket stumbled into the torchlight, dragging behind him a limp figure. A moth, broken and mutilated. Its wings torn from its back, skin shredded, the light of life flickering in its compound eyes. The cricket yanked open the cage door and tossed the creature inside like refuse. The prisoners gasped, a shrill ripple of sorrow.
The guard spat. "What is that supposed to be?"
"Found him while patrolling," the carrier grunted, brushing dust from his arms. "Doesn't seem useful. But—" his mandibles clicked, "—anything to fill the quota, I suppose."
The first guard sneered. "Better than nothing. Otherwise, the chief would probably sell us back into the mines just to pay for his meals."
The moths stirred at the word meals, crying out louder now, their voices weaving a tapestry of despair.
"Meal? Meal!... Meal!"
The guard slammed his spear against the stone again, sparks flying.
"Silence!"
The sound rattled the chamber. The cries dwindled to shivers and whimpers.
From the great tent at the center, the air shook with another sound entirely of rage.
Inside, a broad-shouldered cricket paced across a heavy rug of stitched hides. His carapace was dulled by battle grime, scratched by years of defiance and defeat. Across his right eye ran a scar like forked lightning, a permanent reminder of his reckless defiance against tribute once demanded of him. The wound marked him as bold before his men, but in truth it was his shame; after the scar came surrender, his oath broken in exchange for his life.
Now that scar burned as he slammed his fist against the table where a crumpled map lay spread.
"Curse them!" His voice cracked the air. "Raise the tribute again? Do they think I'm made of gold?"
His breath rattled in his chest as he glared at the inked lines of the map. The trade route they had bled dry these past weeks. Thirty nights camped here, and the wagons no longer came. The quota demanded 200 moths. He had 165. 35 short. Always short.
A sigh broke from him, heavy as the cavern itself. His fingers traced the map's faded trails.
"Aarrrrrghh… They are gonna bleed me dry. My tribe would be hunting naked if I don't fill the quota."
"I should never have taken the deal…"
Skarn rested his head on his palms, frustrated and exhausted. It seems all hope is being slowly sucked out of his soul with every breath.
"Arrghh… How will I survive this year?" he muttered to himself.
His mandibles clicked in irritation. Perhaps he could capture something else. Something exotic. The collectors liked that. But risk lingered. If the species wasn't valued, punishment would fall hard. He had seen what happened to chiefs who failed. He rubbed at his scar, muttering, "There's no winning this."
For a fleeting moment, treason crossed his mind. Leave? Side with another kingdom? Trade the moths for protection? But he knew better. No nation would welcome a cricket chief. Not one with his reputation, not one carrying the stench of his corrupt homeland. And if he fled, the kingdom's spies would find him. They always did. He still remembered the cold knife across his face. The day one spy carved the lesson into his eye. He shuddered. They were no joke.
He slumped into his chair, jaw tightening. His anger was raw, his exhaustion deeper still.
The sound of commotion broke through his thoughts.
"Let me in! I must speak with the Chief!"
The guards' protests rose at the tent's entrance. The flap rustled, and the Chief's growl carried through the chamber.
"Enough! Let him through."
The tent parted, and in stumbled a cricket half-dead. One arm gone, his body slick with blood, his mandibles quivering with pain. The Chief straightened, scarred eye widening. Excitement surged in him like fire licking dry tinder.
"Could there truly be a foe worth this?" Thoughts raced around in his mind, a grin spreading across his face. The injured cricket fell to his knees, gasping. "Chief—" his voice cracked, "—ants! Chief, there are ants!"
"Ants?" The Chief blinked, taken aback. His scar throbbed with memory. "There shouldn't be any ants here…"
The soldier pressed on, desperate. "A giant one among them! Just like the ones in auctions, I swear it. And they wield mana—Chief, they used mana!"
For a moment, silence filled the tent. Then the Chief's grin broke wide, laughter bursting from him like thunder.
"Mana-wielding ants… so far from their kin? Hah! OOOOOoooooo! Bless Sharakam! The heaven truly smiled upon me! They must surely favor me!" He slammed a hand on the soldier's shoulder, making him groan in agony. "Alchemists will kill each other for their shells alone. And if we catch their queen? Her worth alone would make me the greatest Chief in all the lands!"
He laughed harder, wiping a tear from his unscarred eye. "Yes, yes… this is very fortune!"
The soldier whimpered, but the Chief only patted him harder, grinning like a madman.
"You've truly made my day," the Chief declared.
He reached into a chest and pulled out a yellow vial, pressing it into the soldier's shaking hand. The cricket's eyes widened as he bowed low, whispering frantic thanks. He drank, and with a scream of pain. "AHHHHHHHHHHHH!" flesh tore and regrew. Segments knitted. His arm sprouted anew, trembling as if alive on its own.
The soldier collapsed to his knees, gasping, sweat pouring down his carapace. "My partner… was lost."
The Chief waved him to a stool. "Sit. Sit. Sit. Tell me everything—every detail, every soldier they had, every weapon. Leave nothing out."
The scarred Chief leaned forward, eyes alight with greed, as the soldier began his tale.