The first night was quiet.
Cinder-ant stood at the root’s edge, antennae twitching. Dappled moonlight filtered through the bark canopy. His mandibles clenched at every rustle.
Then came the second night.
Strange glowing mites floated in the air. One brushed against Berry-leg, who collapsed in a daze. “Spore spirits,” muttered Thorn-mandible. “They feed on focus.”
Cinder-ant ordered leaf masks. The ants endured.
By the third night, a shadow crept from the underbrush. A velvet centipede—eyes burning red.
“No beetle told us of this,” hissed Thorn-mandible.
Cinder-ant stepped forward. “Then we hold the line… for all of us.”
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