Evening settled over the southern plateau like a warm cloak.
The antmen camp burned bright against the darkening sky. A massive bonfire roared at its heart, throwing sparks into the humid night air and painting every face in flickering gold and crimson.
The smell of spiced meat, grilled chicken, buttered bread, and strange southern seasonings hung thick over the clearing.
Tayron had sent a small feast as a gesture of goodwill — crates of foreign delicacies, barrels of black beer, and enough roasted flesh to feed the entire detachment twice over.
Antares sat on a thick log near the fire, a horn of black beer in one hand and a skewer of heavily seasoned meat in the other. He drank the entire horn in one long pull. The liquid was dark, bitter, and rich. His men erupted in cheers.
"Another!" someone shouted.
Antares wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and laughed, low and genuine. The beer was strong by human standards, but to his insectoid body it was not strong enough to affect him. He never staggered. He never slurred. He simply watched his people with quiet satisfaction.
This — the noise, the laughter, the full bellies — was one of the reasons he fought.
Around the fire, Ashfang warriors and Red Sons mixed freely for the first time since the southern march. Stories flew. Old campaign tales from the north mixed with fresh boasts about the beach confrontation. Someone produced a crude drum. Someone else began clapping a rhythm. The night felt alive.
From the makeshift wrestling ground that the Ashfang had carved out of the sand earlier that afternoon, Yajin emerged. His massive crimson frame was covered in grit and sweat.
A few younger warriors followed at a respectful distance, still rubbing their shoulders and laughing.
Antares raised his empty horn in greeting.
"I see you won, Lord Yajin."
Yajin dropped onto the log beside him with a heavy sigh that made the wood creak. He brushed sand from his tusks and accepted a fresh horn of beer from a passing camp helper.
"Those brutes dragged me in, Your Majesty," he grumbled, though pride still glinted in his eyes. "Claimed the old general had gone soft sitting at negotiation tables. I had to remind them who still leads the Ashfang."
Antares chuckled. "Of course. If you say so, I believe you."
Yajin took a long drink, then glanced sideways at his king.
"The men needed this," he said more quietly. "The southern heat, the constant readiness, the pirates… it wears on them differently than the northern cold. A full belly and a chance to throw each other into the dirt does more for morale than any speech."
Antares nodded, watching a pair of younger Ashfang already challenging each other to a rematch near the fire.
"I know. That is why I let it happen. A king who only demands blood and never allows laughter and rest will eventually rule over ghosts and ashes."
Yajin's expression softened for a moment.
"Your father used to say something similar. On the rare nights he allowed himself to rest."
Antares did not answer immediately. He simply stared into the flames, the memory of a man he had never truly known sitting heavy for a heartbeat before he pushed it aside.
Nearby, Lady Sira moved among the helpers, sleeves rolled up, personally directing the distribution of food with the same precise efficiency she brought to ledgers and trade contracts. When she passed close to the fire, Antares called out.
"Lady Sira. Sit. You have been on your feet since the ships arrived."
She hesitated, then accepted the invitation, lowering herself onto a smaller log across from him. A camp helper immediately pressed a plate of grilled chicken with buttered bread and a bowl of stew into her hands. She took it with a small nod of thanks.
"I prefer to keep moving, Your Majesty," she said. "Idle hands invite idle thoughts. And idle thoughts tonight keep returning to a certain red-haired pirate."
Antares smiled faintly.
"You still do not trust him."
"I trust the contract," Sira answered carefully. "I trust the grain currently filling our stores. I do not yet trust the man. His family has a long history of smiling while they sharpen knives behind their backs."
Yajin grunted in agreement.
"The Redbeards have never been known for lasting friendships. Only lasting debts."
Antares tore a piece of bread, chewed thoughtfully, then spoke.
"Then we will make certain the debt runs both ways. He needs us for his war. We need his ships, his information, and his sea routes. As long as both sides still need something, the alliance holds. When that changes… we will already be strong enough that it will not matter."
Sira studied him for a long moment, then inclined her head.
"As you say, my King."
A younger Ashfang warrior — one of the ones who had wrestled Yajin earlier — approached with a slightly nervous grin and a fresh horn of beer.
"Your Majesty… the men were wondering. Is it true you split the ocean with a single strike today?"
Laughter rippled around the fire. Antares accepted the horn, took a measured drink, and raised an eyebrow.
"Exaggeration spreads faster than truth. I cut a trench in the water. The ocean put itself back together afterward. Oceans are stubborn like that."
More laughter. The tension of the day bled away a little further.
The feast continued deep into the night. Men told stories of the Terror Wolves, of the Godwall, of the first time they had seen the Red Sons land like meteors.
Antares listened more than he spoke, answering questions when asked, offering quiet praise where it was earned.
He made certain every man near him ate his fill. He noticed when a younger warrior's plate sat untouched and ordered more food sent over without making a show of it.
For a few hours the camp did not feel like a forward operating base on the edge of hostile territory. It felt like a place where soldiers could remember they were still alive.
Eventually the fire burned lower. The stories grew quieter. One by one the men began drifting toward their bedrolls.
Antares rose, stretched, and gave a final nod to Yajin and Sira.
"Get some rest. Tomorrow we begin organizing the first supply caravans north. The Hive will not feed itself on southern spices alone."
He walked through the cooling night to his personal tent. The canvas flaps fell shut behind him, muting the last of the distant laughter. Inside, the space was simple — a low bed of furs on the floor, a small folding table, a single crystal lamp casting soft blue light.
Antares sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and stared at the empty air for a long moment.
Then he spoke.
"System."
A bright blue ethereal screen materialized in front of him, edges sharp and clean against the dim tent.
The real work was just beginning.