The newborn pressed forward, its claws flashing in wild arcs. Every strike landed where the Queen was weakest—across her wounded side, at the crack Buzz had torn open, at joints that still bled gold. The sound of their battle was a storm: shells grinding, wings thrashing, ichor hissing on soil that screamed when it burned.
The Queen reeled back under the assault, her footing uneven, her wings stuttering. She tried to lift her claw for a killing strike, but the newborn lunged first, clamping onto her throat. The coalition gasped as one body when the mother was forced down onto her knees.
Scarabs pounded the dirt with claws, not in rhythm this time but in raw desperation. Centipedes writhed, coils snapping as they pressed against each other, debating whether to strike or wait. Glowbeetles lit frantic signals in the sky: help her, let them fight, run while you can. No two lights matched.
