The tunnels were quiet, except for the occasional soft crunch of chitin against stone. A lone cricket scout crept forward, antennae twitching as his eyes locked onto something strange. His jaw parted, disbelief and excitement mixing into his grin.
There, sitting almost too obviously in the middle of the passage, was an ant.
A small, frail-looking one.
Brill.
The scout froze, then let out a snort of laughter. A treasure. An actual ant, sitting right here in front of me.
Brill turned his head lazily, pretending to tremble as he staggered backward.
"Oh no, it's the big bad cricket," he said, his tone dripping with mock fear, almost sing-song and sarcastic. He shuffled back, claws dragging on the dirt. "Please don't catch me."
The cricket's eyes glimmered with greed. Without a second thought, it lunged forward, its claws snapped around Brill's leg.
Catching Brill and suspending him upside down like a helpless beetle grub, Brill dangled as the cricket laughed wildly.
"AHHAHAHAHAHA! Can't believe catching one would be so easy!"
Brill let his body hang limp, rolling his eyes at Skitt's faint outline in the shadows. From the corner of his vision, he saw his companion's face tighten in frustration. Skitt's mandibles clamped with anger, his eyes burning with worry. Brill's ridiculous performance was painful to watch, but he didn't falter.
The cricket scout strutted back to camp with his "prize," holding Brill high like a trophy, his laughter echoing through the tunnels.
The camp was chaos in itself. Torchlight painting jagged shadows against the cavern walls, guards slouching at their posts, the moth cages pressed tightly against one another.
THUD!
Brill's body slammed hard against the rocky ground of a cage. Dust puffed up around him, coating his carapace in a gritty layer. His head spun slightly from the force of the impact, but he stayed silent, steadying his breathing.
The stony cage door was heaved shut behind him with a heavy grind, jagged rocks being wedged back into place, sealing him shut.
Crickets gathered, their eyes gleaming. Some clapped the scout on the back, praising his luck. Others leaned closer, staring at Brill with a mix of wonder and suspicion. Still more stood further back, jealousy simmering in their gazes as they muttered under their breath.
"Unbelievable. He just stumbled into one."
"Should've been me out there." They cursed under their breaths.
Their murmurs died when the second in command approached, his carapace polished dark, stride commanding. He narrowed his eyes at the crowd.
"What is this commotion?"
The scout puffed his chest and raised Brill higher. "Sir, I caught it! An ant!"
A ripple of awe passed through the soldiers, but the commander only squinted, unimpressed. He let out a sharp hiss.
"Everyone. Go back to your posts and guard the camp. We don't have time for gawking like larvae. You. You did good. You may rest." He jabbed a claw at the scout. "While the rest of you should learn from his example."
The words, meant as praise, only fanned the embers of resentment. More eyes turned sour, narrowed with envy.
As the commander turned to leave, he paused, glancing at Brill. His gaze lingered, sharp and unreadable, locking with Brill's eyes for a heartbeat too long. Then, without a word, he strode off into the camp's shadows.
Inside the cage, the moths stirred. Dozens of ragged figures pressed shoulder to shoulder in the suffocating space, their wings torn or trembling, their eyes hollow. They stared at Brill in silence at first, until one broke it.
"Is it…Food?" one moth whispered hoarsely.
The word spread like fire through parched grass. "Food. Food!" The starving moths' eyes lit with a desperate gleam, and they lurched forward, claws scratching, mandibles snapping.
They nearly threw themselves onto Brill. A child moth whimpered with hunger, its little body trembling as it reached toward him.
"NO!"
The voice cut through the madness. The wingless moth shoved forward, his scarred body trembling but his voice firm.
"Stop this! Don't you see? This is the creature I told you about. The ant that distracted the crickets! The reason I am still here!" Brill was confused. He had never seen the moth in his life. Yet, the moth acted like he owed him a huge debt.
The moths faltered. Their ravenous momentum broke, replaced with a sharp bitterness. Some turned away with hisses of disappointment, a mother pulling her crying child back against her chest. Their hopes of food soured into frustration.
Brill blinked, still confused.
The wingless moth stepped closer, bowing his head low. His voice softened, thick with gratitude.
"You saved my life. Thank you, ant. Thank you for buying me that moment. I am forever indebted to you." Brill's head bobbed in hesitant agreement, though doubt lingered in his gaze.
He drew in a steadying breath. "…Brill. That's my name."
The moth repeated it, almost reverently. "Brill." He rose, eyes wet but determined. "Thank you for saving my life, Brill."
Then, as though reality caught up, he frowned. "But how… how did you get caught? You seem unharmed. Did they ambush you?"
Brill rubbed the back of his head and gave a sheepish grin.
"…Actually, I came here on purpose."
The moth blinked, frozen. Then his eyes widened in shock.
"WHAT?!" His cry tore through the cage, loud enough to make nearby moths flinch. Not a single cricket outside reacted. They didn't care—or perhaps they didn't believe anything from inside the cages mattered.
Brill quickly raised a claw. "Shhh! Keep your voice down." He leaned close, whispering into the moth's torn ear, his words careful, secretive.
The moth's eyes widened again, but this time not in disbelief. Slowly, his lips curled into something resembling hope.
"…Yeah… Ok... Uh huh... that might work.... But they are.... I guess it is worth a shot..."
He turned to the others, lifting his chin with newfound fire.
"This... could be our only chance to escape."
The crowd hesitated. From the back, a voice cracked, trembling with bitterness.
"And what then? Look at him!" A trembling antenna pointed toward the wingless moth. "He tried once… and his wings—our wings—our pride, our freedom—were torn from him. To lose them is to spit on Morthius, the one who gifted us the skies! If we try to escape, we'll end up the same. Broken. Grounded and disgraced."
A hush swept through the moths. The word disgraced stung heavier than chains. Some lowered their heads, antennae drooping; others shifted uncomfortably, murmuring soft agreements. To them, wings were not just limbs. They were their very spirit, the whisper of their god's breath. To lose them was to lose honor, purpose. Their Identity.
The wingless moth's eyes glistened in the faint, dusty glow of the campfires outside the cage. His mandibles clenched; for a moment, he seemed as though he might falter. The shame of his mutilation weighed on him still, a silent agony he carried every waking moment. His voice trembled at first, but then it burned with the force of conviction.
"Yes… I lost my wings." His words cut through the murmurs, sharp as stone. "They were torn from me." He turned, showing them his scarred back where only scars remained. "Every moment since, I've experienced nothing but the ache of emptiness. And you're right, without wings, I am a disgrace… if flying were the only way to honor Morthius."
The crowd shifted, uneasy. His tone swelled, rising like thunder.
"But listen to me! I was not only given wings. I was given a heart. A will. And do you remember what our Queen said?" His chest heaved, his compound eyes blazing. "She entrusted us with more than the sky. She entrusted us with protection! If we do not fight—if we cower, waiting for death in this cage—then how are we the descendants of Morthius? How can we call ourselves her children, her chosen?"
His voice cracked, not from weakness but from raw, breaking passion. "I may never soar again. But I will still fight. Because if we do not fight, our Queen's trust dies here, with us. If I must be the last moth standing, then so be it!"
For a long, heavy moment, silence pressed on the cage. Then one moth, an elder, lowered his head in respect. Another beat his wings softly, no longer in despair but in rhythm, like a battle-drum. Slowly, one after another, they lifted their antennae, wings trembling with uncertain hope.
The wingless moth's chest rose and fell, his broken pride reforged into something far stronger. That was the only acknowledgement he needed. He nodded firmly, then turned back towards Brill.
"Gather around him. Close in. Cover him."
The moths shuffled, still wary, still hungry, but something about the wingless moth's certainty pulled them closer. They pressed around Brill, wings shivering, bodies forming a shield.
Brill crouched low. He pressed his claws into the soil. It was damp, compact, but workable. His mandibles opened, biting into the earth with quiet precision. Grain by grain, he began to dig, carefully, each scrape hidden beneath the rhythm of beating moth wings and their murmurs.
The rebellion had only just begun.