The moths moved on instinct, but instinct did not mean stupidity. They began to slow, not from fear, but from learning.
They watched the wagons and the carriages, watched how the line held shape, how the beasts pulled, how the men clustered around the weak points.
Then they copied it. The stampede tightened into a file. Bodies fell into place with ugly discipline, mouths opening and closing as they ran.
A swarm that had been chaos became something like an army.
Fay saw the change and felt cold creep up her spine. She snatched up a box of alcohol, set it alight, and threw it into their path.
This time the moths cried out, but not like beasts panicking at flame.
Their bodies twisted as if they wanted to veer toward it, yet something inside them seized control and dragged them forward.
They writhed as they ran, fighting themselves.
Fay looked to Radeon, eyes wide with a question she did not dare speak. What now?
