Dawn came like a blade of light through fog. Cinder-ant stood in the hollow grove, facing a circle of thorns arranged by the Blade-Mantis. Each thorn dripped with dew—and danger.
“Step inside,” the Mantis commanded, “and earn your pact.”
Inside the ring, tiny bells fashioned from cicada shells dangled from silk. “You must reach the center,” he said. “Without disturbing a single bell. Or you fail.”
Cinder-ant’s legs trembled. Her species was built for tunnels, not acrobatics. But the cause—her colony, the forest, balance—burned brighter than fear.
She began.
Every step was a calculated miracle. She used her antennae to sense air currents, avoiding even the faintest brush of silk. Once, a breeze shifted a bell, but she froze until it calmed. The silence roared in her ears.
Halfway through, a shadow passed overhead. A crow. Cinder-ant clung to a thorn, unmoving, until its shadow vanished.
Breath steady, muscles taut, she moved again—slower now, but sure.
When she reached the center, she bowed.
The Mantis emerged, nodding slowly. “You passed.”
He unsheathed a sliver of obsidian from under a leaf and handed it to her. “The Thornblade. Symbol of our pact. Scarablade will feel it in his carapace.”
As Cinder-ant took it, the grove felt different—not just a test site, but a place of old power. Of destiny awakening.
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