The ground had already broken.
That was the part no one could ignore.
Cracks veined outward from the impact point like spiderwebs burned into stone, glowing faintly with a sickly crimson light. The tall golden grass around the training grounds wilted where the fissures passed, curling inward as if scorched—yet no heat rose from them. Instead, the air grew cold.
Unnaturally cold.
Raygen stood still at the edge of the fracture, eyes narrowed, every sense alert. The wolf-kin instincts layered into him stirred—not as a voice, not as a transformation, but as sharpened awareness. His hearing pulled distant sounds closer. His sense of space expanded. He could feel the pressure beneath the earth, like something crawling just under skin.
Asa stepped closer to his side, her expression calm but focused. One hand rested near her dagger. She didn't reach for the deeper power within her. Not even close.
Around them, the wolf-kin and lion-kin warriors reacted instantly.
This wasn't panic.
It was discipline.
"Form up!" a lion-kin veteran barked, his mane bristling as he slammed the butt of his spear into the ground. "Circle defense! Mages rear!"
Wolf-kin fighters moved low and fast, spreading outward in a crescent rather than a wall. Their footwork was fluid, predatory—never crossing lines of fire, never clustering. Some crouched, claws brushing the ground, eyes locked on the widening cracks.
Raygen absorbed everything.
The spacing.
The silence.
The way they waited.
Then—
A sound tore through the air.
A shrill, droning screech—metallic and hollow—rose from beneath the earth, vibrating through bone rather than ear. The ground convulsed.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
The first thing to emerge was not large.
A shape burst from the soil in a spray of dirt and dead grass—roughly the size of a large hound, its body segmented and glossy, wings folded tight against its back. Its carapace glowed faintly crimson, veins of darker red pulsing beneath translucent chitin.
Its head snapped up.
Mandibles clicked.
And the flame from a nearby torch died.
Not snuffed.
Drained.
The cicada tilted its head, as if tasting the air.
Then more followed.
Three.
Five.
Eight.
They erupted from multiple cracks at once, crawling free in jerky, insectoid motions. Smaller than the first, but faster. Their wings unfurled partially, vibrating without lifting them fully from the ground.
The droning intensified.
"Insects," a wolf-kin growled. "Fire-drainers."
"Blazemolt Cicadas," another answered grimly.
The lion-kin commander didn't waste breath.
"Engage! Controlled strikes! Don't cluster!"
The first cicada lunged.
It didn't charge blindly. It skittered sideways, low and fast, wings buzzing just enough to confuse depth. A wolf-kin fighter met it head-on—not with brute force, but with precision. He slid under its mandibles and raked upward with mana-coated claws, slicing through a wing joint.
The cicada shrieked.
A lion-kin spear followed immediately, impaling it through the thorax and pinning it to the ground. The creature twitched violently before going still, crimson light fading from its shell.
Raygen's eyes tracked every movement.
They weren't overpowering the creatures.
They were neutralizing them efficiently.
Another cicada leapt—this one airborne for a split second—only to be caught midair by a wolf-kin shaman's spell. Pale blue runes snapped into place around it like a cage, frost crystallizing along its wings.
"Cold binds them!" the shaman shouted. "Fire mana feeds them—starve it!"
Asa moved without being told.
She darted forward, low and fast, timing her entry between two wolf-kin. Her daggers flashed—not with raw power, but clean angles. She severed joints, stabbed beneath armor plates, and rolled away before mandibles snapped shut where her throat had been a heartbeat earlier.
Her breath stayed steady.
Her head… ached.
Not badly. Just enough to remind her something inside was watching.
Raygen didn't draw his dagger immediately.
Instead, he shifted.
One step forward.
One to the side.
He mirrored the wolf-kin footwork unconsciously—wide stance, weight balanced, eyes never locked on a single target. The instincts whispered distance and timing, not fear.
A cicada soldier lunged toward him, wings screaming.
Raygen moved.
Not fast.
Correct.
He sidestepped the first strike, slammed his shoulder into the creature's flank to redirect its momentum, and drove his dagger up beneath its head. The blade sank deep.
The cicada convulsed, mandibles scraping sparks from his armor as it drained what little heat it could from the metal.
Raygen twisted the dagger and yanked free.
The creature collapsed.
He didn't pause to look at it.
More were coming.
They came in waves—not coordinated, not intelligent in the way commanders were—but persistent. Each time one fell, another crawled free from the cracked earth. The droning layered into a chorus that made the air thrum.
"Too many," a lion-kin shouted. "They're spreading!"
Raygen felt it too.
The cracks were expanding.
Not deepening—but branching.
This wasn't an attack.
It was an infestation.
"Fall back!" the commander ordered. "This isn't a hold point!"
The warriors obeyed instantly, disengaging with discipline. Wolf-kin threw smoke charms that chilled the air, disrupting the cicadas' senses. Lion-kin mages slammed their palms into the ground, raising stone ridges to slow pursuit.
Raygen and Asa retreated with them, covering each other instinctively.
A cicada leapt for Asa's back.
Raygen intercepted, driving his dagger through its wing and slamming it into the ground. Asa finished it with a downward strike that shattered its head.
She glanced at him once.
No words.
Just acknowledgment.
They didn't stop running until the cracks were far behind them and the droning faded into a distant echo.
Only then did the commander raise his fist.
"Halt."
Breathing was heavy, but controlled. No one had fallen. A few cuts. Some scorched gear where fire had been drained clean.
Raygen looked back once.
The ground continued to writhe in the distance.
"They're spreading outward," Asa said quietly.
"Yes," the wolf-kin shaman replied grimly. "This was only the edge."
The return to the tribe was immediate.
No ceremony.
No delay.
Word traveled faster than footsteps. By the time they reached the settlement, warriors were already mobilizing. Runners sprinted toward neighboring clans. Signal fires—cold blue, not flame—rose into the sky.
The shaman awaited them at the sacred hill.
She listened without interruption as the commander reported the encounter. Her pale eyes never left Raygen and Asa, though she revealed nothing.
"Fire-draining insects," she murmured when he finished. "Foot soldiers… not hunters."
Her gaze sharpened.
"The prison stirs."
Raygen felt a chill run through him.
"We need to warn others," Asa said. "If they spread—"
"They will," the shaman interrupted calmly. "And we will not face it alone."
She turned to an aide.
"Send word to Urrakar."
The aide hesitated. "The city guards?"
"Yes," the shaman said. "To the panther-kin. Captain Thorian."
Her tone carried weight.
"The insects move like roots," she continued. "Slow. Quiet. Relentless. If the cities do not prepare, they will wake surrounded."
Raygen stood straighter.
"We'll help however we can," he said.
The shaman studied him for a long moment.
"I know," she replied.
Outside, the savanna wind shifted direction.
Far to the east, beneath sickly crimson soil, something older than memory stirred—and the insects answered.
-End of Chapter 17-