The ant colony's depths were exactly what a nightmare painting should look like.
Tunnels carved through earth with organic efficiency, walls lined with secreted resin that hardened into structural support, chambers sized for creatures that operated on alien spatial logic.
The queen's chamber was vast—thirty meters across, ceiling high enough to accommodate her fifteen-foot bulk, floors sticky with organic residue that marked territory and communicated pheromone commands.
And there—center of the chamber, surrounded by her remaining soldier ants—the queen herself.
Massive. Powerful. Wounded from her fight with Rowan and Tertius but still dangerous.
Her compound eyes tracked the three Adepts entering her domain, her mandibles clicking commands that sent her soldiers into a defensive formation.
"Standard tactics," Atheon assessed. "The Queen stays back while her soldiers engage. We need to break through the defensive line to—"
The soldiers attacked.
