The ants kept coming. Their black armored bodies poured into the tunnel like a relentless tide, mandibles snapping, antennae twitching as they scouted for weaknesses. For every one that the bees managed to plaster with resin, two more seemed to push in from behind.
Harry's arms ached from swinging his spear, his shield dented from blocking bites that rattled him to the bone. Sweat dripped into his eyes. The buzzing all around him grew frantic, the hive straining against the sheer numbers pressing at their door.
"They'll overwhelm us…" he panted.
But then, he noticed something in the bees that he didn't feel in himself—calm. They weren't panicking. Even as the ants surged, the bees moved with purpose, not desperation. And suddenly Harry understood: the bees had food for months stored within their resin pods. They didn't need to fight until the last breath. They only needed to endure.
A guard bee smeared resin thickly along one wall, then another joined, carrying fresh globs. More followed, buzzing in rhythm. Together they built a barricade—layer upon layer of sticky amber plaster across the narrow tunnel. The ants hissed and clawed, but the resin clung to their legs, their antennae, their jaws.
Harry blinked in realization. They're sealing the hive.
The resin wall grew higher and thicker with every second. Harry scrambled to help, scooping handfuls of resin with his clover-leaf pouch and slapping it into gaps. The resin oozed, tacky and strong, hardening almost instantly. Within minutes, the main tunnel was nearly sealed, leaving only a small crack through which Harry could still hear the furious clicking of mandibles.
The ants slammed against the barrier, their weight sending shivers through the wall. Harry flinched at each impact, but the bees pressed more resin into place, steady and unyielding. The hive itself seemed to hum in solidarity, every worker contributing to the defense.
Time stretched. Minutes dragged on like hours. The hive air grew hot with the collective buzzing of wings. Outside, the ants clawed and scraped, their screeches echoing faintly through the resin.
And then… silence.
Harry held his breath. The sounds faded—the scraping, the thudding, the furious hisses. Gone. The ants had given up.
Slowly, a few guard bees began chewing at the barrier, softening a thin opening in the resin wall. A sliver of light crept through, revealing the empty tunnel beyond. The invaders had retreated.
Harry collapsed against the wall, gasping in relief. His body trembled with exhaustion. He had never fought so hard, never felt so close to death—and yet, he was still alive.
The bees buzzed around him, victorious but not celebrating. For them, this was life. This was survival. They had faced ants before, and they would again. To Harry, it was extraordinary; to the hive, it was routine.
He wiped resin from his arms and looked at his bee companion, who hovered nearby, its antennae twitching toward him. Harry smiled weakly. "You guys are amazing. I never would've thought of sealing the hive. You don't have to win every fight—you just have to outlast them."
The bee buzzed softly in reply, as if agreeing.
But as the hive slowly returned to its rhythm, Harry's thoughts drifted back to where they had always been: home. His parents. He imagined them pacing the house, calling his name, searching endlessly. He imagined the despair in their faces when they realized he wasn't answering.
He couldn't stay here, not forever.
Harry turned back to his bee friend. An idea had begun to form. "Hey," he said slowly, approaching. The bee tilted its head curiously.
"You can fly. You got me here safe… maybe you can take me all the way home. Back to the house."
The bee's wings buzzed in response, a low vibration that made Harry's heart leap.
Maybe—just maybe—he had found a way back.