The wind changed by dusk. It carried more than air—something faint, metallic, a whisper that crawled between leaves. Buzz felt it before he heard it. The same hum that haunted the pit now echoed through the forest again, quieter but closer, like breath on the back of his neck.
Zza noticed too. Her antennae twitched. "The gold's moving again."
Buzz didn't answer. He didn't have to. The glow beneath the soil flickered every few steps, tracing faint trails through roots and moss. The infection wasn't gone. It was following.
When they reached the valley, the coalition waited. Scarabs lined the ridge, their armor patched with silk. Glowbeetles hovered above, casting uneven light over the camp. The Elder stood near the stream, surrounded by new weavers repairing the net. Every strand stretched toward the horizon, anchored to trees that still dripped sap from old wounds.
The moment Buzz stepped into view, silence rolled through the clearing. Every head turned.
