The throne room buzzed with the clamor of armored feet as Queen Celeste summoned her attendants. "Send for Commander Anastasia," she ordered. "It is time we prepare the harvest. We will use it to bargain for Princess Tanya's return."
Moments passed. Then a pale-faced soldier returned, antennae twitching nervously.
"Your Majesty… the Commander cannot be found. Nor can her top officers—Corporal Beatrice and Lily, Lieutenant Brooks, or even Lance Corporal Rory and Isla. They are gone."
Celeste's breath hitched. "Gone?" she echoed, the weight of the word settling heavily in her chest.
"They're not anywhere within the colony. Scouts are combing the outer chambers."
The Queen's gaze darkened, her wings trembling. "Summon the Council. At once."
The great stone table of the Elder Council was soon filled. The elder ants, bodies worn and shells dulled by time, gathered in tense silence as the Queen took her seat. Their antennae twitched with unspoken concern.
"This is reckless!" barked Elder Junon, his voice grating like stone on stone. "She has disobeyed royal command and taken our strongest warriors on a suicide mission. Hopper made his demands clear. As long as we met them, the princess would have been returned safely."
Elder Lysias narrowed his eyes, his voice sharp and cold. "They mean to defeat Hopper themselves, disobeying you, Your Majesty. It's treason by another name."
"Enough!" Celeste's voice rang out, her wings flaring wide. "Anastasia has never betrayed this colony. She has acted with courage where all of us have cowered."
"She may have doomed us all," Junon muttered, crossing his arms.
A long, suffocating silence settled over the chamber, the weight of their predicament pressing down on every antenna, every carapace.
Celeste's gaze hardened. "If they went to fight Hopper without waiting for royal command, it is because they believe there is no other choice. They have witnessed the devastation that Hopper brings. They know what is at stake."
The elders shifted uneasily, the memory of Hopper's brutal taxation and merciless raids fresh in their minds.
Elder Lysias broke the silence, his voice quieter but no less cutting. "And what if they fail, Your Majesty? What then?"
Celeste's answer was steady, though a tremor laced her words. "If they fail, this colony will fall. Hopper will crush us, enslave the survivors, and the harvest will be forfeit. But I choose to place my trust in them."
Junon's antennae twitched skeptically. "Trust is a fragile thing."
"I know," Celeste said, her wings folding tightly against her back. "But in times of war, it is all we have left."
The elders exchanged long, wary glances. Doubt hung thick in the air, yet none dared to voice outright defiance.
Celeste stood taller, her voice regaining its strength. "Anastasia and her officers carry more than their mandibles into that fortress. They carry hope, the memory of the fallen, and the future of our kind. If they succeed… we may yet see a new dawn, an era without fear, free from Hopper's reign."
The weight of her words pulled at the hearts of the elders. For a moment, none spoke.
"Prepare for the worst," Celeste added softly, "but also, let us hope for the best. We will fight to the end, as we always have."
Junon sighed, antennae drooping. "Then we stand with them."
Seth stood alone in the dim corridor outside the meeting chamber. The murmurs of the elders had long faded, but their tension still clung to the air like a suffocating fog. He leaned against the cold stone, fingers trembling, breath shallow.
"Anastasia really went out to fight Hopper, huh…"
The words tasted bitter on his tongue. He stared down at his hands, watching the faint tremor in his fingers. They weren't the hands of a warrior anymore—not like hers.
"That kid's got guts… just like her father. Captain Terrence."
A memory cut through him like a blade: Terrence, tall and fierce, standing his ground as Hopper descended. The scream Seth never let out. The moment he froze. The moment Terrence died.
"What does that make me, my Captain?" Seth whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.
The silence offered no answer.
"Just a lowly coward… who became Chief Warden after your death. Who chose walls and prisoners over the frontlines."
His jaw clenched, shame wrapping around his chest like iron chains. Anastasia had charged into danger without hesitation, leading others with her. And he—he had chosen safety, distance, inaction.
"I've got a title. But she's the one carrying your spirit," he muttered. "You'd be proud of her… and ashamed of me."
The corridor seemed colder now.
"I'm sorry, Captain."
With that, Seth turned away, shoulders heavy, vanishing deeper into the colony, unsure if he'd ever find the courage to face the war waiting outside his stone walls.
The outer walls of the grasshopper fortress loomed like the jagged teeth of a giant, casting long shadows under the moonlight. Cold. Foreboding.
Brooks moved like a phantom through the darkness, each step silent, his breath barely audible. Beside him, Rory kept pace, his eyes sharp and restless, flicking from shadow to shadow with every heartbeat.
They had traveled through winding, abandoned tunnels, surfacing close to Hopper's domain. The terrain was unsettlingly quiet, the silence pressing against them like a second skin.
"We've covered so much ground," Rory whispered, his gaze sweeping the corridors. "And I still haven't seen Ari. Did he get himself killed? No… he wouldn't go down that easily. He faced Hopper alone, knowing he had no chance. He's alive. Somewhere in this place. We'll meet up soon. I know it."
"Stay focused," Brooks said, his voice low, gravelly, yet firm as steel. The Lieutenant's frame was like a boulder moving through the night, slow but deliberate, exuding raw power with every stride.
"The heart of the fortress is just ahead," Brooks continued. "But we don't go in alone. We wait for Anastasia, the others… and Ari. If we take on Hopper and his generals without them, we're asking to die."
Rory nodded, determination settling in his chest. But before he could respond, a sharp rustling shattered the stillness.
Ten grasshoppers burst from the shadows, forming a semicircle around them. Each one brandished four curved mandibles—deadly, sword-like blades gripped tightly in their upper and lower arms. Their faces gleamed with savage glee.
"Ants, huh?" one sneered, spinning his upper mandibles with practiced flair. "Getting bold, thinking you can sneak in here."
"Let's gut 'em and scatter their limbs like branches," another hissed, anticipation dripping from every word.
"Lieutenant, I count ten!" Rory called, shifting his stance, mandibles poised.
"I can see that," Brooks replied coolly, his breathing steady. "Let me handle most of them. You focus and remember your training."
The battle erupted in a whirlwind of movement. Grasshoppers lunged from all sides, their blades slashing through the air. Brooks met them head-on, muscles coiling as he swung his weapon in devastating arcs, knocking two away with a single blow. His style was all force—unrelenting and precise.
"Don't let them flank you!" Brooks barked, sending one crashing into a wall with a bone-crunching punch. "Use their momentum against them!"
Rory grunted, parrying a flurry of strikes, his legs straining to hold ground. The grasshoppers' coordination was fierce—four arms moving in perfect rhythm, relentless in their assault.
A blade swept low, another high. Rory barely deflected both, his feet skidding against the stone.
"Keep your footing!" Brooks shouted, toppling another enemy. "If you lose balance, they'll tear you apart!"
"I'm trying!" Rory snapped, sweat stinging his eyes.
Two grasshoppers darted at his flank. Rory ducked, rolled, and slashed one across the chest, then spun up to parry the other's follow-up strike.
Brooks grabbed an enemy by the head, slamming it into the ground with crushing force. "You've gotten faster," he muttered. "Good."
Rory twisted his mandibles into a crossed block, catching a strike and driving his own blade deep into the grasshopper's thorax. He panted, chest heaving, arms trembling from exertion.
"Did we get them?"
Brooks scanned the area, his breathing slowing. "That's all of them."
Just as Rory allowed himself a breath of relief, Brooks stiffened, his antennae rising sharply.
"...That aura. It's heavy."
Rory followed his gaze. "What?"
A figure approached from the far corridor, massive and broad-shouldered. Spikes lined his forearms, each one jagged and lethal. His steps were silent, but the stone trembled faintly with his presence.
Baracko.
Brooks immediately squared his stance, his mandibles tightening in his grip, though he made no move to raise them.
"I never thought we'd meet him so soon," Brooks muttered, grim. "And Baracko, no less."
Rory's stomach dropped. "One of Hopper's generals? Here?"
Baracko stopped ten paces away, his arms folded, no weapons in sight. "Fate has a funny way of dragging old ghosts back into the light, doesn't it?"
"I've thought about this battle every night," Brooks said, his voice hard as stone. "I can't move on until we settle this."
Brooks' eyes sharpened. "Rory, listen carefully. Baracko doesn't use mandibles. Just his fists. And those fists… are faster, stronger, and deadlier than any blade."
Rory's grip tightened. "Can we even take him?"
Brooks' silence spoke volumes.
"Our chances… are extremely low."
A breath lingered between them.
"I fought him once, during the Great War, before Hopper's tyranny. I wasn't alone. My son, Toran, stood with me. He paid the price of my failure—with his life."
Rory's throat tightened. "Your son… died to him?"
Brooks nodded, jaw clenched. "This isn't training. This isn't a spar. If we fight him, we fight to survive. Don't let a single punch connect. One is all it takes."
Baracko slowly unfolded his arms, his gaze locking onto Brooks with chilling calm.
"But not now," Brooks murmured. "Not yet."
The air thrummed with tension, the weight of unfinished battles and buried grief hovering over them.
"Rory," Brooks said, his voice low but unshaken. "We don't strike first. Not this time."
The three of them stood there, the silence pressing in, as the war waited just beyond the next heartbeat.