The moon bathed the meadow in soft silver light, spilling across the small trees where the butterfly colony had made its home. Shadows stretched long across the grass, and the night air smelled of damp earth and blooming flowers.
The guards patrolled with steady precision, wings flashing in iridescent arcs as they looped between branches. Thorny whips curled from their forelegs, flexing with each graceful maneuver. Antennae twitched at the slightest sound, eyes scanning for movement in the dark. Every sweep of the meadow was methodical, every turn purposeful—their vigilance absolute as they kept the territory safe under the quiet, watchful night.
A male Butterfly glided silently over the moonlit meadow, wings as straight and black as obsidian, catching the faint silver light as he approached a hollowed-out tree. His blackish-brown exoskeleton gleamed subtly under the moon, human-like dark eyes scanning the area, and his antennae twitched constantly, picking up the slightest rustle of leaves or shift in the night air. Hair as black as midnight brushed past his shoulders as he landed and dipped into a precise, respectful bow.
"Your report, Nytheris," a crisp, authoritative voice called.
"Very well, Monarch Ignatia," he replied smoothly, tone steady, practiced. "The patrol is coming along without incident. No sightings of any moths so far."
Ignatia folded her arms, her striking purple hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes piercing ruby red. Her wings shimmered in the low light—deep indigo veined with streaks of crimson hinting at her status and authority, her dark purple exoskeleton glinting faintly.
"There has been an increase in their activity these past few days," Her tone was grim, voice low but commanding as she spoke. "We cannot afford for them to strike us at our weakest and steal any of the nectar we've collected for winter."
She let out a short, exasperated huff, folding her arms tighter. "I wouldn't hear the last of it from my annoying sisters." Her piercing ruby eyes narrowed slightly, and a faint twitch of her purple hair brushed against her cheek, betraying her irritation despite the calm authority in her voice.
"Your report was quite informative. Go ahead and continue your patrol," she commanded, voice firm yet calm, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer, weighing his resolve.
"Yes, Your Majesty," With a smooth, silent thrust of his wings, Nytheris rose into the night sky. His antennae flicked methodically, picking up every subtle vibration of the meadow below. In the moonlight, he soared gracefully, fully focused on his patrol and the safety of the territory, though a cold glint lingered in his eyes.
Ignatia turned and paced a few steps further, wings flicking with restrained tension. I apologize for lying to you, Nytheris. You're my most loyal and dedicated guardian. But those fiends… their objective is not merely our nectar supplies. They're after the Moonveil Blossom. It blooms only once every hundred years, and its nectar can heal any injury, enhance strength, or cure illness. I cannot afford to wait another hundred years…
Don't worry, Luminara. I will not fail. I will return with that flower at all cost.
Four butterflies soared in quiet formation over the meadow, their wings beating in slow, steady rhythms that whispered through the night air. Each downstroke sent faint tremors across the stillness, like soft sighs rising above the grass. The moonlight caught on their exoskeleton, scattering flecks of pale silver as they banked and circled.
One let out a long, stifled yawn mid-flight, his wingbeats faltering for just a moment before steadying again.
Another chuckled, his voice carrying lightly across the air. "You've been yawning every night this week. What is it—finally found yourself a betrothed keeping you busy?"
The tired one laughed under his breath. "I wish. These endless patrols are taking their toll. We really need a little break. It's not like the moths are actually going to attack…"
The others laughed, their wings brushing faint currents of air against one another as they glided close.
"You say that now, Garren," a female butterfly chimed in with a grin, "but if Ignatia heard you slacking off, she'd have your thorax on the ground doing drills till sunrise."
"Please," Garren muttered, antennae drooping, "I'd rather fight ten moths than deal with her temper."
A ripple of chuckles passed through the group, carried on the steady thrum of their wings. The air smelled of crushed grass and faint nectar drifting from the meadow blooms below, soothing in its calm familiarity.
For a time, all was peaceful—the patrol a blur of rhythm and routine, silver wings cutting through moonlight, laughter easing the burden of watch.
From a shadowed perch high in the branches, Nytheris watched the four patrols wheel lazily through the night sky, their laughter carrying faintly on the breeze. His dark eyes narrowed, antennae flicking with sharp, deliberate focus.
So it begins now, huh, he thought, a low whisper lost in the rustling leaves.
Beyond the meadow's edge, the shapes began to emerge—moths cloaking themselves in the dark, their broad wings seeming to swallow the moonlight whole. The air thickened, the stars dimmed. One by one, their bodies slipped from sight, hidden in their veil of shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
His jaw tightened. It shouldn't have come to this. Not yet.
Nytheris's wings shifted slightly, he exhaled slow and steady, then leaned further into the dark, watching as the ambush closed in.
The patrol sliced silently through the cool night air, wings whispering in unison. A faint hum rose from their flight, steady and almost comforting—until an antenna quivered, alert to a subtle shift in the darkness.
One of the guards slowed, tilting his head, the thin feelers quivering as they caught something faint—a vibration, too subtle to place. He scanned the meadow, eyes narrowing.
"…Did I just imagine that?" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. His antennae stilled, and he pressed on.
Suddenly, the world changed.
The moonlight vanished. Stars blinked out. The meadow was swallowed whole, as though some vast hand had smothered the night sky. Black mist rolled in thick waves, seeping between the trees and coiling around the guards mid-flight.
"What—what's happening?!" one of them shouted, panic cracking his voice.
"Stay close to me!" another barked, trying to sound commanding. His thorny whip lashed the air in a defensive arc. "This darkness—it's the moths! Don't let your guard down!"
But the words were swallowed by the encroaching void. Shapes dissolved. Wings vanished from sight. Even the sound of flight grew muffled, as though the mist itself was drinking in every vibration.
Then came the first scream.
A piercing, gut-wrenching cry cut through the black. It was followed by the sickening crunch of flesh pierced by something hard and unyielding. Another shriek joined it, choked off halfway into a gurgle.
"Grey! Aris! Lior!" Garren shouted, voice ragged with terror. His chest heaved as he whipped his head left, right, but the mist was absolute. He was flying blind, spinning in circles, antennae thrashing wildly.
"No… no…" His breath came in short, rapid bursts. His hands trembled as he drew his thorny whip, lashing it violently in every direction. "I'll kill you fiends!" he roared, his fury spilling into blind desperation. The whip snapped through the air with sharp cracks, striking nothing but empty night.
Something whistled.
Then—impact.
A jagged spike slammed into his shoulder with a sickening crunch, punching through exoskeleton into flesh. His scream tore from his throat, high and raw, his whole body jerking from the force. Pain blazed white-hot, radiating down his arm, his grip faltering.
Teeth clenched, Garren ripped the weapon free. In the dim haze, he caught a glimpse—an object like a quill, thick, glistening, curved at the edges, its surface ridged like bone. His stomach dropped.
"… what is this," he whispered, horrified.
The mist moved. No—something within it. Multiple. Surrounding him.
Another projectile sliced past his antennae with a hiss, close enough to shear the tip. He gasped and twisted, dashing to the side in a sudden burst of speed. For an instant, he cut through the air cleanly.
But then three more came, from three directions at once.
One slammed into his thigh—he felt the exoskeleton fracture, shards pressing inwards as blood welled hot and fast. Another buried itself into his forearm, the thorn whip nearly slipping from his grasp. He managed to twist just enough to avoid one aimed at his chest, but a fourth carved across his wings.
The tearing sound was unmistakable.
Garren flight faltered. His body wobbled as one wing refused to catch the air, each frantic beat sending jolts of agony through the shredded membrane. His balance spiraled, every attempt to hover turning into a shaky, desperate lurch.
Blood—thick, warm—ran down his arms, soaking into the grooves of his blackish-brown exoskeleton. Droplets flung off into the mist as he thrashed, staining the darkness with faint scarlet streaks. His breaths came ragged, shallow, rattling in his throat.
His vision blurred. Pain pulsed with every beat of his heart, every nerve alight with fire.
"Looks… like this is the end," he rasped, voice breaking, despair hollowing his tone. His whip fell slack at his side, body trembling, eyes fluttering half-shut.
He sagged in the air, wings twitching weakly. The darkness pressed tighter. The moths drew closer.
And he knew he wouldn't leave the night alive.
Suddenly, a sharp whistle of air cut through the chaos, and a gust knocked him back slightly. Then—a slicing sound, sharp and metallic, cut through the air, making his heart lurch. Fully opening his eyes, he could finally see—the black mist had slowly vanished. Before him in the air were the remnants of the moths that had attacked, their bodies and wings shredded, plummeting to the meadow floor with sickening thuds.
"Stand firm, soldier," a commanding voice rang out.
Garren looked up, eyes widening. "High Monarch Ignatia!" he gasped, spotting her thorny whip slick with blood.
"The black mist you saw… it was nothing but an illusion," Her voice cut through the air, sharp and steady. "It's caused by inhaling the dust from their forewings. Be careful—don't take too many breaths."
Garren chest still heaved, each breath scraping raw through his throat. The shredded edge of his wing trembled with every shaky beat, refusing to steady. For a moment he couldn't move—only stare.
Ignatia hovered before him, whip coiled like a serpent at her side, its barbs dripping fresh blood. Her crimson eyes burned with sharp clarity, cutting through what little haze still clouded his mind.
Then—another whistle.
From the shadows above, more projectiles streaked toward her, glinting faintly in the moonlight. Ignatia's whip lashed out with impossible speed, each strike a blur of motion. Clang—crack—snap! One by one, the jagged spines shattered or deflected, splintering into harmless fragments that fell into the grass below. Her movements were not precise, unrelenting, and faster than the eye could follow.
Garren blinked through the blur of motion, his chest tightening as he lifted his gaze higher.
There they were.
Over five moths hovered above her in the air, their silhouettes blotting out the silver glow of the moon. Their exoskeletons gleamed a murky black, slick like oil, their wings stretched wide and heavy. From their hind wings protruded jagged quills—barbed, rigid, ready to fire. Each beat of those wings sent shivers through the air, carrying the promise of another volley.
Ignatia's eyes narrowed. Her voice rang out sharply through the dark sky.
"You dare trespass in our domain? Then witness your folly. I shall rid the skies of this eclipse!"
Her wings snapped once, propelling her forward. The five moths scattered, attacking in unison, their hind wings flexing as they unleashed a storm of quills.
Ignatia twisted through the barrage, every movement a dance of deadly grace. She dove beneath one quillstorm, wings cutting within a breath of a moth's quill, then spiraled upward through another volley. Each motion carved a path through their formation—fluid, precise, unstoppable. Each projectile whistled past her by the width of a hair, scattering into the empty sky where she had been a heartbeat earlier.
Garren jaw slackened. She wasn't dodging by chance—she was weaving through inevitability itself.
Then she stilled, drawing in a deep breath. Her crimson eyes ignited, blazing like molten fire.
"Velvet Rush!"
A brilliant crimson light flared around her silhouette, rippling like fire across her exoskeleton and wings. And then she vanished.
The world blurred. In an instant, she was upon them. The whip snapped forward, glowing faintly under the surge of power. Thorned barbs carved arcs of destruction, cleaving through flesh, wing, and chitin with surgical brutality.
Each moth was shredded one by one before they could even process her presence. Their bodies split in the air, torn wings and broken limbs tumbling lifelessly to the meadows below with heavy thuds.
Ignatia hovered above the carnage, her chest rising steady, whip coiling back to her side. The faint glow of her Velvet Rush faded, but her eyes still blazed crimson in the moonlight.
As she drew breath, a stray projectile found her—too fast to twist away. It slammed into her arm, hot and jagged. Ignatia's eyes flashed; she winced and ripped the thing free. Blood beaded along the barbed shaft for a heartbeat before flinging into the night.
She scanned the canopy. Only empty sky met her—no shapes, no whisper of wings.
"Show yourself, coward," she called, voice hard as chitin.
A laugh answered, sudden and close, as if the sound had been folded out of the dark itself. Something large detached from the black, its wings stretching wide as it stepped into the moonlight.
He was different from the others. His exoskeleton was a deeper black, like polished obsidian; his wings were broad and heavy, the membranes streaked with the dull sheen of old iron. From the trailing edges of those wings sprouted quills—short, wicked spines that bristled like an archer's barbs. In both his hands he held a pair of long, curved mandibles—bone-white, serrated—and he lifted them casually.
"I'm impressed," he crooned. "You were able to detect me."
A ripple ran through Garren who was wounded at Ignatia's side; his breath hitched as he recognized the new presence.
"So," the moth bowed with a mocking flourish, "we finally meet, Ignatia—one of the three High Monarchs of this Kaleidoscope of Butterflies."
Ignatia's whip coiled in her grip, every thorn bristling. "And who exactly are you?" she snapped, voice flat eyes piercing through the moth.
He smiled, a cruel tilt. "I am Magnus, the eclipse. I came to take back what rightfully belongs to me — the Moonveil Blossom. I know you possess it. I'll give you a chance. Hand it over now, and I'll be gone. We'll pretend this night never happened."
Ignatia's jaw tightened. Blood from her arm spattered one of the whip's thorns and ran in a thin, dark line down her right leg. "Over my dead body," her voice was cold and final, no hint of hesitation in her eyes.
"Too bad," Magnus replied, amusement curling in his tone. "Then I suppose I'll take it by force."
"High Monarch Ignatia!" Nytheris called, rushing forward. He whipped and coiled through the air, over twenty butterfly guards trailing behind him, wings flashing and weapons at the ready, prepared to strike.
A cold smirk curved Magnus' lips as his black wings stretched wide, casting a shadow over the assembly. "Now that you're all here, heed my warning—fly carefully, or you'll vanish into the dark. Even shadows fear the eclipse I bring."
He raised the mandibles. Around the butterflies, the other moths—hidden once again in shadow—stilled, a living darkness waiting to be loosed.
Ignatia's crimson eyes narrowed. The wound on her arm throbbed, but her wings beat once, twice—rock-steady. Her grip tightened around the whip; the barbs flashed moon-bright.
"Then come," she breathed. "And taste what it means to cross my Kaleidoscope."
With that, the sky tore open—wings beat, quills hissed, and the meadow filled with the sound of war.