The air was thick with the smell of scorched moss and insect ichor, yet the swarm did not scatter. Instead, the lesser beetles hissed and drew together, their bodies clicking and grinding as if answering some invisible rhythm.
From the rent earth strode their commander, once again—the leader beetle—its mandibles clashing in a cadence summoned order from chaos. Each snap was a war-drum, pulling the swarm into formation once more.
Ash slid to the flank, hackles bristling, his amber eyes narrowing as he sought angles of attack.
"Stay sharp," he growled, voice low but steady, "The big one's calling the tune."
Tholn moved with a predator's grace, twin daggers poised to dart into seams, every muscle wound tight like a drawn bowstring.
He gave a sharp grin and muttered, "Then let's change the melody."
Yvren planted his staff like an anchor, his stance steady and deliberate, eyes tracking the leader's every twitch.
