The forest didn't smell like life anymore. It smelled like aftermath—wet ash, burned moss, blood drying on bark. The survivors had begun to rebuild in fragments, but Buzz could tell it was temporary. Threads hung between trees like nervous thoughts, unfinished, uncertain.
He stood at the edge of the new encampment, watching as Scarabs dragged cracked shells into a pile for burial. Glowbeetles hovered above the dead, their lights dim and flickering. Centipedes dug shallow trenches through the mud, silent. No songs. No rhythm. Just work.
Zza approached from behind, her claws wrapped in gauze-silk. "They're scared," she said. "Not of dying. Of waiting."
Buzz turned to her. "They've been waiting since the Queen fell."
"Now they're waiting again. For the next thing to kill them."
He didn't argue. She was right.
