The cricket's head jerked upright with a sharp snort. His antennae twitched wildly as his eyes darted around the dim cavern. His mandibles clicked in irritation when he realized what had stirred him from his forbidden nap.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzt—
That horrible, grating sound. It clawed at his nerves, like knives scratching the back of his skull. He groaned, rubbing his head as though that would silence the noise, but it only grew louder, sharper and more rhythmic.
His gaze fixed on the cages. The moths were at it again, their wings beating in unison, filling the air with a shrill, droning buzz that rattled his exoskeleton. A wave of heat rose in his thorax.
"You filthy worms," he spat, voice low and venomous.
He staggered upright, grip tightening on his crude spear. The weapon was a wooden shaft with a jagged blue crystal fixed at its tip. As he stomped toward the cages, the stone floor trembled beneath his weight.
CLANK!
The crystal slammed against the bars, sending a shiver through the stone and a ringing crack into the air. Sparks danced briefly where crystal met rock.
"SHUT. UP!" he barked, mandibles snapping, eyes wide with fury.
But the moths did not stop. Their wings only drummed harder, their rhythm unbroken, as though mocking his command. The sound reverberated in the chamber, echoing against the cavern walls until it was all he could hear.
He snarled, saliva spraying. "I SAID SHUT UP!"
He jabbed the spear forward, its tip piercing through the narrow gap between stone bars, stopping inches from the nearest moth's chest. The prisoner stared back defiantly, wings still trembling.
The cricket's arm trembled, his patience crumbling. "One more sound," he growled, "and I'll—"
The ground shifted.
A faint tremor crawled through his feet. His mandibles froze mid-snarl. He blinked down, confusion flashing across his scarred face. The stone beneath him quivered again, this time more violently, as though something clawed its way upward from the deep earth.
Rrrrk–shhhk!
The floor split open in a sudden burst of soil and dust. From the shadow of the hole, a small figure lunged upward.
"Wha—?!"
Brill's dark form erupted from the ground, antennae flicking, mandibles bared. The cricket's eyes widened, his words stuttering out in disbelief. "How did yo—"
He never finished.
The moths surged.
From the tunnel Brill had carved, they rose like a storm, wings beating in a frenzy that howled like war drums. The air filled with dust, with the choking musk of their wings, and with their cries—harsh, shrieking, desperate cries of vengeance.
"No—NO!" the cricket screamed, stumbling backward, his spear thrashing wildly in his grip. He swung, the crystal slicing empty air. His voice cracked with terror as the swarm engulfed him. "Get back! BACK!"
But there was no escape.
The cloud of moths fell over him, biting, clawing, wings slapping against his armored shell as their fury drowned him. His scream tore through the cavern. high-pitched and raw.
It ended in a choking gasp, smothered beneath the mass of vengeful wings.
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The scout led the way, his antennae twitching as he darted ahead, weaving through roots and stone. Skarn followed with his unit, crystal spear clutched tight, his heavy legs dragging grooves in the mud as they advanced.
The terrain had been unkind. They had trudged across jagged ground where thorny plants scraped at their chitin, through tangles of vines that clung like snares, and finally into the hollow silence of a cavern whose ceiling dripped with condensation. Every step echoed against the stone, their breaths rasping in unison, until at last they emerged again into the damp air.
It was here the scout slowed, antennae flicking nervously. The walls of the trail were wet with packed mud, pocked with dozens—no, hundreds—of small holes no larger than an eye socket. They dotted the passage like watchful orifices.
"Stop." Skarn's voice was low but carried authority. He raised his spear, its tip catching faint light. His mandibles clicked in unease.
"Something is off…"
"What do you mean chief?"
Just then the ground beneath their feet vibrated faintly.
"ATTACK!"
The voice thundered from nowhere and everywhere, carried with the certainty of command. Before the crickets could react, the walls seemed to erupt. Ants poured from the holes like a living tide, their black carapaces glistening in the damp light. The sound was deafening, clack, clack, clack—mandibles snapping, legs drumming against earth as they swarmed down in torrents.
"Formation! Hold—hold!" Skarn barked, but the words were swallowed by chaos.
Ants crashed into their legs, thunk! mandibles clamping into joints, scrrrk! claws scraping across the hardened exoskeleton. The crickets swung their crystal spears desperately, the weapons flashing arcs of pale light as they struck, clank! clank! against stone and shell alike.
"It's the ants!" one shouted, his voice cracking with fear.
"Group up! Stay together!" Skarn roared, trying to herd them back-to-back.
But the tide did not break.
Suddenly, white strands hissed through the air. Thwick! Sticky silk snapped across their limbs, their weapons, the ground beneath them. One spear was ripped clean from its wielder's grasp, dragged into the shadows. Another cricket stumbled as webbing cinched tight around his leg, toppling him into the snapping mandibles below.
"What—?!" a guard shrieked, struggling against the adhesive that glued his weapon hand. "A… a spider?!"
But no spider revealed itself. Instead, from the swarm emerged something larger, something deliberate. A towering ant, its body heavier, its stance calm yet commanding. The webbing had come from him.
Adam.
The realization hit Skarn like a blow to the chest. With his bulk and limited movement in the cramped path, Skarn understood the truth; here, surrounded on all sides. He was a target. A training dummy for the enemy's cunning.
"Retreat!" His order cut sharp through the clamor.
The surviving crickets broke away, dragging their weapons, leaving behind those who had already fallen beneath the churning swarm. Their crystal spears clattered against stone as they fled, the path echoing with their frantic steps.
The ants did not give chase yet. They lingered in the mud-choked passage, their antennae twitching, their mandibles dripping with the ichor of their kills. From among them, Skitt skittered up to Adam's side, his voice carrying the excitement of victory.
"What should we do, Mister Giant?"
Adam's eyes narrowed as he watched the shadows of the retreating crickets vanish into the distance. His mandibles clicked once, deliberate and sure.
"We'll pursue. Don't let them escape."
The swarm surged forward again, black and endless, their hunger and vengeance driving them deeper into battle.