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Chapter Text

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“They began as one yet grew to five
Such brave and loyal souls as were ever alive
The Mysterious and the Mighty, our lance and our wall
Strong but brittle, their memories stand tall
The Stalwart and Kind, our shield and our soul
Lost to time, taking with them our hope
And now, here at the end of all things
Given her peace from eternal suffering
The last of the Five whom I loved has gone
Dryya the Fierce, my captain, moves on.”

-Excerpt from “Lamentations for the Knights of Hallownest” by the White Lady

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Dryya was dead.

Or at least, she was fairly certain she was.

She didn’t know how else to describe her current state of being, this… floating sensation, or how to reconcile it with her memories. There were mantises, dozens of them, all gunning for the White Lady. It was fierce work, but fierce was in her name, and by its end she was exhausted but alive and her enemies were not. She remembered breathing heavily, which she chalked up to exertion, and that her hands were shaking, which she attributed to adrenaline. She remembered running her hands over her torso, feeling her armor, which had not been struck by any foe’s nail for centuries–and feeling surprise when she felt not just nicks and scratches but holes.

She remembered feeling tired, so tired, and roughly dropping to the ground, back against her Lady’s cocoon. A break. She needed a break. Just… a short rest. Time to regain her strength. Her Lady needed her at her best. She needed to be strong for her Queen. She needed to protect her.

The last thing Dryya remembered was closing her eyes, just for a moment, and then… nothing. She was here, or perhaps there, floating. It was the best way she could describe her current state. There was nothing around her but inky black laced by tiny white pinpricks which reminded her of stars.

Stars. Dryya was one of the few bugs in Hallownest to ever see stars, she supposed. Most never left the underground, but she was of the Five. There were few environments foreign to her.

She floated for some time. She didn’t know how long. Her memory of the experience was clouded, though not unpleasant. It was a hazy thing, her mind. She felt warm. Conscious thought slipped away, allowing her only dimly to take in her surroundings. Her whole body felt as if she had bathed in one of Hallownest’s delightful hot springs and simply decided to slip under.

Wouldn’t it be nice, the thought occurred, to stay here forever? It was a lovely thing, this endless nothing. She felt more at peace now than she had in years. Centuries, even. Her task kept her on constant alert, ever vigilant for threat of attack. She had lived in a state of permanent fight or flight for so long, forced to evaluate enemies at rapid speeds as she moved swiftly through the Queen’s Gardens, determining if it was safer to strike and risk leading future opponents back to her post or allow the chance of them finding it on their own…

So what if she was dead? No one ever told her death was such a peaceful thing. The Black embraced her as a silk blanket, the pinpricks of white light luring her to a deeper sleep.

And yet, a thought stirred at the back of her hazy mind.

Her task. The Queen’s Gardens…

The Queen.

Her Lady.

Dryya’s eyes shot wide open. Her Majesty…! She couldn’t die. She couldn’t be dead! She made a vow, swore an oath! Her Majesty, her beloved Lady… this could not be! This final failure to Hallownest and her King was unacceptable!

Dryya began to thrash against the Black. Her arms and legs were restrained by it, though its grip was not tight or even the slightest bit uncomfortable. She pulled at it with all her legendary strength. She rejected this. She was Dryya the Fierce, Captain of the Five, servant of the Pale Court, Second of the King, and she refused to die.

Such things are rarely left to mortals. A deep sigh rang out around her, like a death rattle. It sounded as an elder bug with a long, well-lived life behind them gladly accepting their final breath. Dryya’s heart began to race. She thrashed wildly, pulling against the Black, doing everything in her power to break free from its inexorable grip-

And then, Dryya was somewhere else entirely.

The Black surrounded her still, but she was no longer restrained. And in the distance, she could see a blip of light that was brighter than the others. Dryya stared at it for a moment, taking it in. What was that? Where was she? Her mind felt sharp again, clear of the gentle haze of the Black. She needed direction. She needed to escape. This place, if such a term could be used to describe the ever-nothing she found herself in, no matter how comfortable, was a prison.

Dryya focused on the light. She could not propel herself through the Black, couldn’t paddle against it like a current. She stared helplessly at its intensity, every fiber of her being straining with the yearn to be near it. She felt drawn to it somehow, like it was where she was supposed to be. The light called to her, but she couldn’t go near it. She thrashed and struggled and fought like she had always fought but it got no closer. She opened her mouth to scream in anguish and frustration and then she moved.

It was nothing like movement in the physical world. She didn’t suddenly start walking or swimming or even flying towards the light. One moment she was far away and the next she was directly outside a great window. Dryya, shocked by her sudden providence, stared at it and the building it was attached to. She did not know what she expected the light to be, but a building floating in what for all intents and purposes seemed to be an eternal nothing was certainly not it.

The building itself was massive, much too large for Dryya to tell much about it from so close. It was white and achingly familiar, though she couldn’t place why. It stretched far off into the Black and was blanketed in its warmth just as she had been so that eventually the two merged and faded into nothing.

Dryya returned her attention to the window. It was easily three times her size and intricately designed. Metal wedges lined its structure, which considering its great stature did not inhibit transparency. Dryya wondered what anyone inside could possibly hope to see out in the Black where she floated helplessly.

There was movement through the window. Dryya peered in, but the interior of the building was hard to make out. There was a mass of flittering shapes inside, large and small, moving back and forth on some impossible to discern task. She suddenly felt a very real sense of wrongness, like she should be in there with them. Something about this place, the people inside it, made her think of better times. Happy times. Times when she didn’t have to waste away with her Lady in a begotten corner of the world. Times where she could enjoy a warm meal, a hot bath, and a spar against something other than a mantis that wouldn’t be to the death. When there was less intensity, if only marginally, to her nail strikes.

Thoughts of her Lady again began to dwindle. It was in there that she belonged, with them. She brought a hand up and pounded on the glass, knowing not what she was thinking or doing. Her mind again began to haze. The warm Black crept back in, wrapping itself around her limbs.

None of the figures inside seemed to notice her banging. She herself heard the raps clear as day as her fist struck the glass. Frustration began to mount. She could see them inside. Their forms became clearer to her. Many of the figures were not far from her window. Why didn’t they see? Why was she not let in? Were they ignoring her? Dryya scoffed. Dainty little things, living lives free of strife. Excuse her for knocking on the window instead of the door; there wasn’t a door or gate anywhere as far as her eyes could see!

It was then that one of the figures inside stopped. Dryya couldn’t make out much about it other than its size: it was massive. Slowly, it approached her. Her heartbeat slowed as it drew nearer; its form became less fuzzy, more detailed. The massive bug, and she could now see clearly that it was in fact a bug, came to a stop in front of the window as if emerging from fog. Dryya’s eyes widened, her breathing stilling in her throat.

The bug was very tall and very wide. He was covered head to toe in armor, just as he always was. His helmet ended in two curved horns, pointing skywards. His body was round and bulky, but Dryya knew it was muscle and not fat that comprised his mass. She drew nearer to the window, pressing her palm against the glass, and silently begged him to do the same.

But his gaze… even through his helmet, Dryya could envision his eyes. She knew them well. It was as if the great knight was staring through her rather than at her.

“Hegemol, my friend, I am here. It’s me. Please, Hegemol–Hegemol, do you hear me? Hegemol!”

Hegemol gave no indication that he could even see her, much less hear her pleas. He stared out the window intently, swiveling his head from side to side as if looking for something. Dryya’s heart sank as he looked past her. There was one of her friends, her beloved knights, the first one she had seen since the Infection came, and he couldn’t see her. Couldn’t even acknowledge her presence.

Thoughts of her duty slipped further from her mind as she focused on Hegemol. She thought of her time spent in the Nothing, when she had first seen the light of this building, and focused. She harnessed her mind, fighting back the haze that had settled over her, and did her best to make him see.

Dryya fought with all her might to make herself visible to her dear friend. Slowly, it appeared to be working–and both ways, too! Hegemol became more detailed before her eyes. No longer did he appear as a mirage in the desert, wavy and blurry, and as she studied him she saw his shoulders shift and the breath in his chest stop. Hegemol flinched backwards, surprised, and then leaned forwards. His palm came to rest against the glass directly across from hers.

“Hegemol,” Dryya breathed. “I-”

She never got to finish her sentence, nor hear what her friend might have said in response. In but a single moment, the ever-black around her was ripped asunder. A bright white light, just as if not more familiar than the building in front of her, tore through the Nothing. Dryya turned to see but did not cover her eyes. It was nearly blinding, but it didn’t hurt. The light was warm, similar to the Black but different. It was less static and full of life. It was…

”Dryya!”

The Lady.

“My Queen,” Dryya breathed.

”Dryya!”

The voice was majestic. Soft yet powerful, ingrained with the very essence of life. It had a musical quality to it. It was ever serene but now laced with sorrow; it had been happy, once, before the Fall. Somehow the sorrow was even more pronounced, now. The White Lady was… distressed. Why?

The mission. Her post. Her eternal vigil.

Dryya stepped away from Hegemol, whose gaze had lost that bit of knowing. The shapes through the window lost their detail. Indeed, the very building itself began to dim.

”Dryya, my beloved knight! Come to me!”

Dryya’s breath caught. Answering her Lady’s summons was suddenly difficult for the first time in her life. She thought of the warmth of the Black and the visage of her friend. She thought of turning around, smashing through that window, and embracing Hegemol, of staying in that painfully familiar building with him, and finally taking for herself the peace she has so well-earned.

Those thoughts were fleeting.

”Dryya!”

Her Lady’s voice had added a pleading note to its song.

Dryya was causing her Queen distress.

Unacceptable.

“H-here, my lady!” Dryya called, shaking off the last of the fuzz in her mind. “My Queen! I am here!”

A white root descended from the light and offered itself to Dryya. The knight grabbed hold of it without hesitation.

The Black rumbled again. The building behind her disappeared. The light illuminated all, so blinding and so powerful that Dryya felt as if she herself might be consumed. She stared up into it in wonder and allowed herself to be taken. At last, she closed her eyes. Wherever her Queen would take her, she would go.

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Hegemol stared out into the ever-familiar Black, taking some small comfort in the visage of starlight. He had never spent much time above Hallownest, but he had once gone up to the Howling Cliffs with… well…

“Hegemol!”

The giant knight turned and saw a mantis calling out to him. She tilted her head, confused, and came to stand at his side. “What are you doing? There isn’t much to see out there and there’s still so much to do. The feast is nearly ready!”

Hegemol frowned under his helmet and looked back out the window. He sighed, visibly deflating. “Yes, I know. Thank you, Nadia. It’s nothing, I’m sure. Just…”

He trailed off. The mantis didn’t interrupt, seeming to sense that her friend needed a moment.

“...I thought, for the briefest of moments, that I saw dear Dryya…”

Nadia smiled up at her towering friend. “Dryya will come to us in her own time,” she said, patting Hegemol on his column-like arm. Mantises were tall beings, but even she could not reach his shoulder.

“Now come. Dryya may not yet be with us, but I can think of one other of the Five who may not be so happy if we’re late.”

Hegemol looked down at Nadia, took one last look out at the Black where Dryya was just moments ago, and nodded. “Yes, of course. That wouldn’t do, would it? Tell you what: I’ll race you!”

The gentle giant laughed and thundered away, leaving a squawking Nadia to race after him as best she could. The two friends disappeared into the bowels of their eternal home, leaving the window and Dryya’s ghost behind.

Chapter Text

Dryya knew the last time she felt solid ground beneath her feet. It was during her final moments, before her death, when she fought the mantises. The Black, for its part, whatever it had been, was not solid. It was tangible, yes, but not solid. It was like liquid, almost, or air given texture... like darkness itself given physical form. Yes, she knew the last time she had felt solid ground. The problem came in that she did not know how long ago that was.

At present, she found herself on her knees in a room she knew intimately well: the training grounds of the White Palace. This ground, certainly, was solid. Hesitantly, she got to her feet and looked around. Everything was as she remembered it, down to the smallest details. The ground was, of course, white; a black pattern was set into it, consisting of two loops which intersected one another in the middle of the yard, forming a perfect oval for combatants to stand in. The white parts of the floor were cobbled and the black was made of intricately carved shells.

The walls were white and black as well. Weapons racks lined their length, full of nails for new trainees to use. On either side of the yard, there were covered walkways which extended deeper into the palace. Beyond them were yet more training grounds, smaller than the main area. The White Lady’s beloved vegetation was everywhere, with silvery vines growing on the walls and flowers and grasses sprouting throughout the yard.

Dryya struggled to her feet and shakily made her way to one of the walls. She ran a hand over its familiar surface, tracing every nick and contour she had become acquainted with in her centuries of service to the Pale Court. Her hand stopped over one hole in particular, sinking inside. Even this was the same: it was in this spot that, after a fierce spar with Isma, Dryya had disarmed her fellow Knight and sent her nail plunging into the wall, creating this very hole. The blade had been buried so deep that it took Hegemol’s famed strength to extract–but he was not with them during that session, instead being out on a mission in the Kingdom’s Edge. Isma and Dryya had to wait for two weeks for their large friend to come back and extract the thing. She remembered well his throaty laughter as the tale was recounted and Isma’s good-natured smile. Dryya herself had been the most embarrassed by the whole affair: she tried and failed to pull the nail out herself many times, first in Isma’s company and then later that night when she thought herself alone. She wasn’t; Ze’mer had been training late and watched her friend curse up a storm as she tried and failed to work the nail. The other knights, Ogrim in particular, had a good laugh at her expense the next morning.

Dryya smiled fondly as she recounted the memory. She hadn’t thought of that particular incident in years. There had been little time for reminiscing during the majority of her long guard, though in its early years she recalled there being too much.

Dryya turned from the hole left by Isma’s nail back to the whole of the training yards. As glad as she was to see this place again, her presence there made no sense. She had been floating. She saw Hegemol, and then… her Lady. It was her light that brought her here, but where was here? This could not be the White Palace. It was practically on the other side of the kingdom from the Queen’s Gardens, and besides, she was dead, wasn’t she? Something was wrong here.

“Look up,” said a sad, musical voice.

Dryya knew it well and did as it said without question. She looked up. Her eyes widened. The sky was… well, first of all, there was a sky. One could not see the sky from the White Palace. Not a single room in the place was open-concept, not even its courtyards. The real training grounds were lively and full of vegetation that stretched overhead quite a ways up and stopped shy of the roof, which was a giant glass dome.

Second, even if the sky was visible from the training grounds, Dryya was fairly certain it wasn’t meant to be orange.

“My lady?” she called uncertainly. “What is this? Where am I?”

“We,” replied the voice of the Queen, “are in the Dream Realm. In your mind, to be specific.”

A gathering of white-colored light appeared at Dryya’s side. It took shape quickly, forming into a long body and branches that flowed like hair. The white light dampened, then, leaving behind a pale shape: the White Lady, fully formed and looking as she did in her prime. Younger, shorter, and with functional eyes to boot. They were as blue sapphires… Dryya could get lost in them.

There were times, usually late at night, where Dryya reflected on her duties and her devotion to the White Lady. She was one of the Five, sworn to the King, but she had always found herself drawn to his wife. The Pale King was a warrior of infinite renown and a man Dryya deeply admired. He was strong, dangerous, intelligent, and fearless. She had served at his side in countless battles and had come to rely on her liege as her focal point, her guide, her instructor. All the Pale King had to do was say the word and Captain Dryya would do anything and everything in her power to see it done.

The White Lady, though, was different. She was her husband’s opposite in many ways: subtle where he was brash, gentle where he was harsh, soft where he was sharp. The Pale King was an inspired ruler who led them all to greatness and it was easy to be swept away by his grandiosity. Dryya herself was, then. Maybe she still was. She was a warrior, after all–the greatest of the Five–and she never wanted to be anything else. Still, it was not until she met the White Lady that she truly understood the value of peace. Sitting with her Queen inside her chambers with a cup of hot tea and a smoldering fire, learning to cook, sharing long tales of their long lives… it helped her to understand what she was protecting and why she was doing it. When she said she defended Hallownest and its people, she did it so that they could experience the simple pleasures she did when in the company of her Lady.

It was on those nights, when she contemplated such things, that she wondered which of her monarchs she felt the greater devotion towards. It was a question she did not feel she was capable of answering. The Pale King was her master and she was sworn to him by honor, but the White Lady was… she was special.

“The Dream Realm?” Dryya asked. “I’m afraid I don’t know it.”

“It is a place of energy,” the White Lady said, gazing at her knight with those giant blue eyes. “All mortals dream. That stuff of soul, the imagination, it is the source of this realm. The Dream Realm is typically only accessible by Higher Beings or those mortals with very special talents. Or…”

The White Lady’s sorrowful voice grew moreso, as it was when Dryya was lost in the Black. She reached forwards and took one of her Lady’s hands.

“...Or the dead,” the Queen finished.

Dryya absorbed the information easily enough. It made sense that the Higher Beings had their own little playground. That didn’t confuse her. She had seen both the Pale King and the White Lady perform feats of unnatural ability before; why wouldn’t they be able to enter the minds of others?

As for being dead, well…

Dryya squeezed her Lady’s hand. The Queen, surprised, tilted her head. “You knew.”

“I had a pretty good idea,” Dryya said, smiling. “My nap was lasting a little long.”

“...indeed,” the White Lady responded quietly. Her ethereal form seemed to deflate. It made Dryya’s heart ache. “I am sorry, my dearest knight. It was never my intention for you… you to…”

She cut herself off with a bitter laugh. “I did not even know you had fallen. Did you know that? For months you sat outside my cocoon and I hadn’t the slightest idea you were slain. The fiercest of the Five, so dutiful. Always you checked in on me, but I could not be bothered to do the same for you.”

The White Lady shook her head. Her branches swayed with the motion, ethereal and hypnotic. “You deserve better, Lady Dryya.”

“We all did,” Dryya said softly. She again squeezed her Lady’s hand. “I sold my life in your service. As the years dragged on, I knew it would happen eventually. I have no regrets.”

The White Lady closed her eyes. Neither of them spoke for a moment, enjoying to the best of their ability the simple ache of the other’s presence. Sensing that her Queen perhaps needed a respite from such heavy topics as life and death, Dryya gestured to the room around them. “You said we were in my mind? Why here?”

The White Lady opened her eyes and peered at her knight curiously. “The landscape of one’s mind takes the form of their choosing. Your subconscious designed this arena for us based on your memory of this yard. Typically, the chosen landscape will be of a special place close to one’s heart.”

The Queen took in the room they were in, from the walkways to her own reconstructed vegetation to the carvings on the floor. “I am not surprised you brought us here, to this place.”

“I did spend a lot of time here,” Dryya said fondly.

“Mm, I recall,” the Queen replied. She indicated the hole left by Isma’s nail. “Something about a damned, accursed scrap of metal that dared to defy one of the Five, yes?”

Dryya’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “You knew about that?”

The White Lady laughed, a sensual and musical sound that melted Dryya’s heart. She hadn’t heard her Lady laugh a single time since their retreat to her gardens.

“A Queen has her ways,” she said mischievously.

Dryya smiled, her heart racing. Her expression was mirrored by the Queen’s, the two women enjoying each other’s company in a familiar, easy way that they had not been able to in years. Despite her present peace, however, there were still questions that nagged at the back of her mind. Questions that needed answering.

“My Queen,” she said, “when did I fall?”

The White Lady’s smile vanished from her lips. Dryya hated herself for being the cause. She would have slain every mantis in the Gardens if it put that smile back on the Lady’s lips.

“It has been nearly three months,” the Queen said softly.

Dryya accepted the news, nodding slowly. Three months. She’d been dead for three months. It didn’t feel like three months. It felt like she hadn’t been in that ever-black for any time at all. An hour, maybe two. But then, she had felt so peaceful. Time was a meaningless thing back in that realm.

“When did you… take notice?” she asked.

The White Lady flinched. Dryya felt guilt well up in her soul. It wasn’t as if her Lady could leave her cocoon; she was bound tightly by her chains, and even if those weren’t a factor, the cocoon was crafted of the toughest shell and most powerful seals available to her. Breaking through it to get out, as she would have to given her current enlarged size, was simply not an option. Dryya was meant to regularly check in on her and update her on how things were going outside. No contingencies were made for her death. There was nowhere else for her Lady to retreat to, no pool of manpower to draw on for her replacement. If Dryya fell, as she had, the Queen would be left to fend for herself.

“Two weeks ago,” the Queen answered, guilt lacing through the melodic pitch of her voice. Guilt was an unhappy thing to marr so beautiful a voice, Dryya thought, not for the first time. It was a singular source of discord in her otherwise perfect harmony; even her ever-present sorrow had become part of her melody. Guilt, while not exactly new, had not been this extreme in the Lady for some time.

“The cause was a strange one. I had begun to worry when I heard footsteps entering my cocoon. I knew they were not yours. They were too small and rapid. I knew also, somehow, that whoever they belonged to meant me no harm. It was… one of my children, Dryya. My Wyrm’s vessels.”

“A vessel,” Dryya breathed, memories crashing through her mind like a tidal wave. She was privy to more of the King’s secrets than most of the Pale Court, even the rest of the Five, but she had been told there were only a handful of vessels. The exact number eluded her after so long; five, maybe, or perhaps six. Further, she had been told they were all dead. Imperfect, the King had called them.

Imperfect, all save one.

Look how that had turned out.

“One of my spawn returned to me at last,” the White Lady said regretfully. “We… spoke. Rather, I did. It had questions, I was certain, and I answered them. It wanted the other half of my beloved Wyrm’s charm.”

Dryya didn’t interrupt. It was after the Kingsoul, then? She could think of only one place such a thing would be useful for a vessel.

“When it made to leave, I asked about you. I asked if it had encountered you somewhere out in the Gardens, if you were perhaps hurt or stranded. It waited a moment, then left. When it returned, it had your nail.”

The White Lady’s voice was shaky, her musical notes thrown into disarray. “You had fallen right outside my door, and I was unaware.”

“You must know I don’t begrudge you for that, my lady,” Dryya said softly. Her eyes twinkled. “If you wish to make it up to me, however, I would request that you keep my nail polished. I did a lot of killing with it the last time I held it and I imagine it’s quite dirty. I do have a reputation to maintain, even in death.”

The White Lady’s eyes narrowed incredulously. Then, she snorted. Despite herself, her face lit up with mirth. “You insufferable creature,” she chuckled. “That would be what you’re concerned with, wouldn’t it? I open my heart up to you and you’re worried about your nail.”

“My armor had not been touched in centuries by any foe, let alone a handful of grimy, infected mantises,” Dryya scoffed in faux offense. “There can be no greater blow dealt than to one’s pride. That my armor is pierced is bad enough, but my nail at the very least should be treated with the respect it is due.”

The White Lady smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Alas, my beloved knight, I do not believe I will be able to perform that task for you.”

Confused, Dryya made to respond. Before she could, however, the ground began to shake. A dull roar sounded, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Dryya stumbled, nearly losing her footing, and looked up. Overhead, the orange sky was turning black.

Of course. It’s always something.

“What’s happening?!” she cried.

The humor was gone from the White Lady’s face. “You’re dying,” she said sadly.

Dryya looked at her incredulously. “Dying? Last I checked, Majesty, there was no such thing as dying twice!”

“You’re not dead,” the White Lady said, her voice echoing inside Dryya’s mind as the dim roar grew louder. It was the same cadence as always, soft and soothing. “Only mostly. Yours is a strong will, Dryya. You’re so very strong. Even after almost three months, the faintest ember of your soul remains attached to your body.”

Not dead?!

The roar grew into a crescendo. The training grounds began to crack beneath her feet. Weapons racks fell over as the walls collapsed into chunks and dissolved into golden mist.They weren’t the only thing: as Dryya looked back to her Lady for guidance, she saw her form becoming vague. Hazy, as Hegemol’s had been. To her purest horror, she saw the White Lady begin to dissolve as well.

“Majesty! What is this?!” she cried.

“My brave knight,” the Queen spoke inside her mind. She sounded different. Tender, almost hopeful. Were the situation different, Dryya would have been glad. “I am reduced, both in power and will. I have spent so long in my garden, isolated, that I have diminished. My petals wilt. My branches dry. My roots decay. What is more is that I have felt my Wyrm pass from this world, at long last. He held on, as I did, despite his surrender so long ago. I do not know where he has gone. I can’t feel him anymore. Perhaps he has traveled the path you nearly did.”

Dryya felt herself lifted into the air. The ground fell away beneath her. Up above, near the Black, a glowing white portal opened. She was being sent towards it even as the White Lady remained where she was, flecks of her essence breaking off and vanishing into the Black.

“I cannot go on, dear Dryya. There is so little of me left. It is time that I joined my husband, wherever he may be. If that means death, then so be it.”

“Take me with you!” Dryya begged. She was starting to see what was happening and she hated it.

What was left of the White Lady’s face smiled, then broke apart into golden mist. “Where I go, you cannot yet follow. I use the last of my power for you, Dryya. My faithful guardian, my watchful protector, my closest companion. I expend myself to restore you.”

“NO!” Dryya screamed, thrashing wildly against the gentle White just as she had the warm Black. “My Lady, do not- this is not how it is meant to be! Let me go! Let me die! I died for you!”

A strand of the white particles reached out and brushed against Dryya’s cheek. “My dear knight, I know you do not want this. I know you will not understand. Do not think less of me. You have given me so much. Let me give you something, just this once.”

Dryya continued to struggle. The portal grew nearer, brighter, larger. For the first time, the White Lady’s light burned.

“My Queen, please! Don’t! You can’t die!”

Don’t send me away-

Don’t leave me-

Please!

There were no more words from her Lady. Dryya saw the Black surrounding the portal, surrounding her, racing down to envelop what was left of the training grounds.

“My Lady!”

Nothing.

“Majesty!”

Her legs touched the portal and passed through.

“Don’t go!”

A gentle sigh rang out, again reminding Dryya of the endless nothing she had apparently been stuck in for three months. Her torso passed through the portal, then one of her arms. She struggled fiercely, even harder than she had against the Black. It wasn’t enough.

Then, suddenly, She was there. One last time, Dryya looked upon the visage of her Lady. She was spectral, nearly see-through. The Queen of Hallownest leaned in and pressed her forehead against her knight’s. “Goodbye, my warrior,” she whispered. “Perhaps… in another life…”

Dryya reached out, desperate to grab hold of her and force her through the portal. Her hand wafted through the Lady’s image as it dissolved like mist. Horrified, she made to scream, but then the portal enveloped her whole. She tumbled, head over heels, into an abyss of endless white. It grew brighter and more intense until it became unbearable and she was forced to shut her eyes.

And so the White Lady moved on from this world, and the Knight Dryya lost her last and dearest friend.

Chapter Text

Dryya woke up thrashing. Her eyes opened wide, momentarily overwhelmed by color and texture. Her flailing limbs made contact with a hard surface. Breathing heavily, heart racing, eyes wild, Dryya turned her head and saw a giant, black, sphere covered with intricate carvings: her Lady’s cocoon.

She was back in the Queen’s Garden. She was alive.

It was no consolation. Her heart filled with dread, Dryya forced herself to stand on shaky legs. It was painful. She didn’t stop to think why. She didn’t check her armor or worry about the condition of her body. She spared no attention to the verdant wilds or the pile of mantis corpses at her side.

Dryya’s mind was on one thing and one thing alone.

She forced herself to hobble forwards, stumbling constantly. She had to rely on the cocoon for support. Walking had never been so difficult. She spared no thought for it. There was no room in her mind for anything but purpose.

My lady…

Dryya dragged her aching body into the cocoon. There was a back entrance, hidden from outsiders, large enough for her to get in without having to crawl.

Don’t go…

She passed through dark halls which once were full of light.

My Queen…

Dryya ran a trembling hand over one of the walls. There was supposed to be a root there. For over a hundred years, the White Lady’s ever-growing roots had been there.

My vow…

There were supposed to be roots everywhere. Dryya’s dread mounted, slowly morphing into abject horror.

My oath…

This couldn’t be happening. It was fundamentally wrong. Surely, when she forced her way into the White Lady’s room, the Universe itself would see this and correct things.

My unbroken vigil…

Dryya dragged her atrophied body into the Queen’s chambers.

They were empty.

There were no words for the tumult raging in Dryya’s head. She stared blankly at the empty place where her Queen was meant to be. Where she had been for three hundred years. This was wrong.

“My Queen?” Dryya said in a fragile voice.

Silence.

Damnable, unforgiving silence.

The White Lady was gone. Not even a single root or petal remained.

Dryya blinked and found herself on her knees. Her hands came up and cupped her face, as if their own volition. Her claws dug into her forehead. Her breath came into short gasps. This couldn’t be happening.

Her throat swelled. Her eyes burned. She could- she could still smell her. The White Lady’s faint floral scene still permeated the room, though nowhere near the extent as it used to. It was like the cocoon itself was taunting her, laughing at her inability.

The dam broke. Dryya fell to the ground, pressed her forehead against the cocoon’s hard shell, and wept.

It was a silent thing, as tears fell down her cheeks. There was no retching, no ugly crying. The only sound came from her shortened breath, gasping in air as she sobbed. She toppled to one side and tucked in her knees as if trying to collapse in on herself.

There she stayed, ruined, for hours.

The passing of the White Lady meant so much more than the loss of one life, no matter how valuable that life was. Dryya had no idea how much of herself, her very identity, was tied up in her Queen until this very moment.

She liked it when things were straightforward and simple. Before, when she served in the Pale Court, Dryya’s role was easy: she was the King’s right hand. She led his knights. She smote his foes. She protected Hallownest from dangers without while the king concerned himself with matters within. Serving in the White Palace was everything to her. It defined her as a warrior, a leader, a person. Then, one day, that changed.

The Infection came. The White Palace was put at risk. All plans to contain it, stop it, or even slow it down were met with failure. And as the kingdom fell apart around her, Dryya was given new purpose: the Queen was retreating to her Garden, and Dryya volunteered to defend her.

She had always considered her goals the same. She knew, on some level, what must have been happening in the world outside the Garden. She knew that the rest of the kingdom had likely been overrun by then, flooded and choked full of orange, gooey miasma. The arrival of the infected mantises confirmed her deepest held suspicions. There was a very good chance that she and her Majesty were the only non-infected bugs in all of Hallownest. Thoughts such as that one slowly warped her, she realized. She was changed by her Lady and her Task.

The White Lady became Hallownest. To Dryya, everything she once was became tied up in her charge. There no longer was a Pale King or a court of knights or even a citizenry to protect. Everything was Her. Everything became the Lady; the Lady became everything. Her role as Captain of the Five became captain–and sole member–of the Queensguard. Her role as the King’s right hand became that of the Queen’s. Dryya thought herself the same bug as the one who entered the Garden three centuries prior, but she realized now that wasn’t true.

With the death of the Queen came the final death of Hallownest. It was for her Lady that Dryya wept, but thoughts such as these kept her on the floor.

Was she the last, now? Other than that singular vessel, who should not have been alive in the first place, was Dryya the last uninfected being in Hallownest?

Eventually, gradually, Dryya ran out of tears to shed. Her breathing slowed. Her claw curled in on itself. A rush of hot shame flittered through her body.

This knight did not cry. Dryya the Fierce did not cry.

But what kind of knight had no monarch?

First deprived of her King and now her Queen. Without them, who was she?

Dryya sat up, still sprawled on the floor of her Queen’s chambers. She stared emptily at the spot her Lady once occupied.

A prescient question indeed: what was she without her monarchs? Dryya did not know if she could be without her Lady. And it was that thought, born of desperation, that sparked a fire of bitter anger.

How could she? How could the woman she had given everything to belittle her sacrifice as she had? To restore Dryya at the cost of herself was absurd. It went against everything Dryya believed in and stood for. She had lived to serve the Pale King and his wife. How could the Lady, in one swift stroke, ruin both herself and her knight?

What was a mortal’s life for a god’s?

How could the Queen leave her like this?

Dryya would have given everything for her Lady. She did. That sort of sacrifice, that honorable death, it was what she lived to do. To lay down her life in service of an honorable cause was nothing to be upset about.

She didn’t understand. The White Lady said she wouldn’t. That recollection only embittered her further. If the Lady knew she would react this way, why would she still do it?

Why did she choose to die?

Why did she leave?

Her anger, quickly as it had come, began to cool. Fire such as hers burned hot and fast. As it extinguished, leaving her with nothing but cooling embers, Dryya felt it take her remaining strength with her. She fell back again, breathing slowly, utterly spent. Gazing up at the ceiling so high above, she was left with the thought that she was perhaps the only bug in history to be raised from the dead and be ungrateful about it.

It was maddening. All of it. The White Lady should have let her die with her honor intact. There was nothing left for her in the physical world. What was she to do but go out into Hallownest and face a warrior’s death against the infected hordes? It would be righteous. Glorious. A dark, viscous thought crept into her head that there would be some satisfaction in spurning her Lady’s “gift” in such a bloody way.

But… then, the thought of spurning her Lady never was very appealing. Seeking death was not the way. As upset as she was, she could picture the sorrow of her Queen were she to die so horridly, like a vagrant in the dirt. Her bitterness mounted, this time directed at herself: no matter her anger, even after she was abandoned here to waste away, she could still not bear the thought of upsetting the White Lady.

So this was Dryya, then: a knight without a kingdom, bereft of purpose, without her Queen. She was nothing, now. Her long watch was broken. And to have it torn away from her so suddenly, completely out of her control… perhaps that was the worst part of all. That she could do nothing to stop her Queen from trading their lives was a shame she would live with for the rest of her life, if she truly intended to honor her Lady and maintain her gift.

A gift unwanted, but a gift nonetheless.

A flash in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Dryya rolled her head to one side and saw, over where her Lady once sat, the gleam of a blade.

Her nail.

Dryya again forced herself to her feet. Her gait was shaky as she walked over to her weapon. She fell to her knees before it. It was a magnificent nail of truly artisan craftsmanship. The blade, forged of pale ore from Hallownest's Crown, was still covered in dried mantis blood and infection. It was roughly two thirds the length of her body and sharper than any other she had come across. It was always a point of pride for her to possess the sharpest nail in the kingdom. The wristguard, while present, was tiny. It was more ornamental than protective, reflective of Dryya’s legendary skill on the battlefield. The shame and anger both returned as she took in its presence. It was arrogance made physical. She did not recall ever being stabbed during her battle with the mantises, but she knew it happened. And then, though she vanquished her foes, she died–the ultimate pyrrhic victory.

Something was different about the crossguard, though, and as she looked at it more closely she saw the reason her attention was drawn to it: there, engraved in its center, was a white leaf, emblematic of her Lady. With something close to reverence, Dryya ran her claws over its shape. How had the Queen done this? She was no nailsmith. Her powers were natural, of the green. How had she engraved one of her petals into Dryya’s nail? Why would she do this? This was all-

Too much. It was all too much. Coming back from the dead was taxing enough without the emotional hurricane she was experiencing.

Emotionally exhausted and physically battered, Dryya clutched her nail, laid down on the floor, and stared up at the ceiling. Her face hurt. Her body was sore. She had no idea the state of her armor, but considering how she died–or almost died, she supposed–she doubted it was in much better condition.

She was angry, bitter, and the most distraught she has ever been in her life. She was grieving. This was a battle she couldn’t win with the nail she held securely in her hands.

Dryya closed her eyes, breathing in the fading floral scent of her Queen and letting it lull her into a fitful sleep.

She dreamed of the White Lady, flaky specks of golden light, and the ever-encroaching Nothing that took her away.

Chapter Text

For the second time in recent memory, Dryya woke up thrashing. Her eyes shot open and her claw slammed against the wall of her Lady’s cocoon. Her other hand gripped her nail tightly. Her heart was racing and her breathing was heavy.

She hoped this didn’t become a regular occurrence. She wasn’t used to dreaming. Frankly, she wasn’t used to sleeping at all–throughout the time of her unbroken vigil, Dryya had gotten particularly good at power napping. She couldn’t protect the Queen if she was asleep, after all. Sleep left one indisposed. Vulnerable. It was a dangerous thing. She had killed bugs in their sleep before.

She supposed she had to be careful. If she got in the habit of taking proper rest, three centuries of restless nights would catch up with her all at once and the Black Egg would gain a fourth dreamer. She snorted at the thought; the absurdity of it calmed her nerves. As her beating heart slowed, Dryya relaxed her grip on her nail and sat up. Fairly quickly, she realized one thing: she had no idea what to do.

For the first time in centuries, she was directionless. The past three months had seen her through a lot of first times. She hoped that as well would stop soon, though a creeping itch in her mind told her such would not be the case.

On a normal day, she would discretely scout around the local volume of her Lady’s cocoon and take note of the concentration of mantis forces. If they were few enough, she would feel comfortable going out on patrol. Once away from her Queen, Dryya would gather food, assassinate mantis warriors, and generally stir up a ruckus to draw yet more mantises away from her post. If too many mantises were nearby, as was the case that fateful day when she fell, then a patrol meant risking her Queen being harmed. Sometimes that meant days on end without food. Dryya liked to keep a stockpile, but it had to be small lest the scent attract the mantises. Infected or not, testing their sense of smell was not something she was willing to do with the White Lady’s life on the line. Dryya recalled one time where she had gone two weeks without food. She’d been so hungry that she nearly ate a mossfly raw.

But it was not a normal day. There was no longer a Queen to protect, a vigil to maintain. What, then, was a knight to do?

The urge to check the perimeter still burned like fire in her veins. Some habits are hard to shake. Dryya had watched over this place for three centuries. It felt wrong to up and abandon it now.

But the more she thought about it, the less she wanted to stay. The scent of the White Lady was no less strong than it had been when she went to sleep, which only added to what this building was: an unwanted, painful reminder. There was nothing in the Queen’s Gardens for her anymore.

Still… one last patrol couldn’t hurt. It would do her some good to gut a mantis or two, for herself if not for her Lady.

Dryya rose to her feet… and was immediately struck by how sore her legs were. She nearly stumbled, in fact, so unexpected was the pain, but she caught herself with her nail. Using it as a crutch, the knight hobbled over to the nearby wall and used it as support. Incredulously, she glared down at her traitorous legs. So, the White Lady had evidently been able to heal her fatal wounds, but she hadn’t restored her muscle mass. Three months of inactivity had atrophied her limbs.

Perfect. When she inevitably ran into more mantises on her way out of the Gardens, she would be at a tactical disadvantage.

That was fine. It had taken a small army of mantises to take her down the first time. If she was careful, and quiet, she should have no trouble sneaking out of the Gardens without drawing too much attention to herself.

First, though, she needed to perform a task that was three months overdo: she really needed to spotcheck her gear.

There was a small lake nearby that Dryya sourced water from throughout the entirety of her now-broken vigil. It would be the perfect place to take stock of her equipment. As far as she knew, no mantises ever found it. She should be able to check out her armor and clean her nail without being interrupted. Then she could see about quitting the Gardens for good.

So much for a last patrol.

Tentatively, Dryya took her weight off her nail. She wobbled for a few seconds, struggling to keep her footing, but found her balance soon enough. Her physical body may have deteriorated, but her skills were still sharp. It was important for a warrior to maintain good balance. She’d practiced at it long enough over the years.

Slowly, so as not to aggravate her weakened limbs, Dryya began to make her way out of the cocoon. She stepped to the exit, put one foot through, and hesitated. She braced herself on the walls again, one hand on either side of the hallway, and looked back one last time. Sorrow gripped her heart once again. She could almost hear her Lady’s voice.

“Goodbye, my warrior.”

Dryya turned around fully. She almost made to bow, but that hateful, bitter sensation in her mind stopped her. Her heart dropped down to her feet. Her mouth suddenly felt dry and she felt tears threatening their return. Pre-emptively, she wiped her eyes.

“Goodbye, my Queen,” Dryya whispered.

With that, she turned and exited the White Lady’s resting place for the last time.

—------------------

There was… something different about the air.

It smelled fresher, somehow. That sickly sweet scent which seemed to permeate all of Hallownest since the Infection came was gone. It immediately put Dryya on edge. Such an unexpected change could mean any number of things. The fool in her wished to hope: the White Lady mentioned a vessel who came seeking her half of the Kingsoul. It was possible, however unlikely, that it had successfully supplanted its begotten sibling and held the Enemy at bay.

The pragmatic warrior in her snarled at such a possibility. The Infection was not something which could be stopped. All the Pale Court had tried and failed. The Hollow Knight was the Pale King’s last best hope to save his Kingdom, and it had ultimately been impure. If neither the Pale King nor his chosen vessel could succeed, then what hope did one lonely mistake have? There were so few vessels made and the Hollow Knight was the purest of them. If, somehow, one of the other failed experiments had by some miracle survived, then it would make an even worse showing than its sibling.

Dryya took a deep breath and steeled herself, locking her hopes down tight. There were few things more dangerous than hope in this day and age. The best case scenario was that the vessel had in fact defeated its failed sibling and was temporarily holding back the Enemy. It wouldn’t last, of course. When the Hollow Knight was first sealed away, the entire Pale Court had let its guard down and enjoyed a few years of peace. When the Infection came back with a vengeance a decade later, no one was prepared.

At the thought of the Hollow Knight’s destruction, Dryya felt a twinge of sympathy. She felt some fondness for the Vessel. She trained with it, made it strong. She had seen them interact with the Pale King. The entire Court believed them emotionless, but the King treated them as his own child regardless. Knowing what she now knew, that the Knight wasn’t so hollow, made her shiver. That poor child, sentenced to a fate worse than death in their eternal tomb. She wouldn’t wish such horrors on her worst enemy.

…Well. Maybe the commander of those accursed mantises. If she ever got her hands on that damned creature… she’d come so close before.

At any rate, that was the best case scenario. At worst, this was a ploy of the Enemy to lure any remaining survivors in Hallownest into a false sense of security before She played her final hand. That sounded much more likely to Dryya, who decided then and there she would be more on guard than ever before.

Still, the air smelled… nice. The Gardens were full of exotic flowers, trees, and bushes. She’d forgotten how lovely it used to smell before the Infection came. Her Lady had been so proud of her plants. She’d cultivated them herself, tending to them regularly. She spent weeks at a time in her Garden on occasion, with increasing frequency after the King made his vessels. Dryya started joining her on those trips towards the end. Those were good memories.

At any rate, it was good to not have a constant reminder of the ruin of her kingdom every time she took a breath. She wondered briefly why she didn’t notice when she first returned from the dead: for the same reason she didn’t notice her atrophied limbs or healed wounds, she realized. She was too focused on the White Lady.

Dryya took a moment, standing next to the cocoon, and took it all in. She looked around at the vegetation which permeated every part of the Garden. Overhead, a pair of aluba floated peacefully. There was always an aluba over the Queen’s cocoon. It was like they were drawn to it. Dryya supposed she could understand the feeling.

With one last look at the place she guarded for three hundred years, Dryya turned and made her way out.

There were two paths that led away from the Queen’s cocoon. One, what used to be her main route, became a mantis hot zone decades ago as they moved up the Garden. It was never safe to take that route anymore. Considering her current condition, it was even more inhospitable than usual. That left her backup route, one which she underwent great effort to hide: it was small, just barely tall enough for Dryya and too short for the larger infected mantises. It was positioned at the opposite end of the clearing from the overrun path and was within sight of the cocoon’s rear entrance. Lastly, every time Dryya came or went, she covered it with moss to block intruders from either direction from locating it. That moss was still there when she came upon it, which meant her admittedly primitive alert system was still in place. Just as had been the case for the past few decades, this path was safe. It only needed to ferry her away one final time; Dryya had no intentions of returning here.

She pushed through the moss and came into a narrow passageway. Dryya spent months carving it herself with a crudely constructed set of tools made from metal scrap and wood. It was carved, and again just barely large enough for her to stand inside, through several meters of a particularly thick tree. She squeezed through with little effort and came out in a maintenance pathway on the other side. This was a series of corridors used by the Queen’s assigned menderbugs to rapidly get from place to place in the Garden when repairs were necessary, whether those be to one of the Garden’s many greenhouses, observation areas, sheds, or irrigation systems. To Dryya’s great fortune, none of the infected mantises ever found out about those paths. Even so, she was careful to use them; mindless though they may be, the Infected sometimes had a viscous intelligence to them. If she got careless with her usage of the paths and struck out from them too often, it was only a matter of time before they were discovered and invaded like the rest of the Gardens. That was less important now that the Queen was gone and Dryya was leaving, but throughout her vigil it had been an existential threat.

Dryya squeezed her lithe form through the thin metal bars which separated the maintenance path from the Garden’s verdant wilds and dropped to her feet. Thankfully, she didn’t have to go far to reach her lake. Well, it was more of a pond, really. It was just on the other side of the path from the bars she had just climbed through. Like with the way back to the cocoon, the path to the pond had a single circular gap cut into its bars, just wide enough for a bug of Dryya’s size. She slipped through with practiced ease and entered into the small clearing which contained her water reservoir. Unlike most of the water throughout the Garden, this pond was non-acidic.

Dryya sat down on its shore and cupped some water into her mouth. As usual, it tasted earthy. She remembered the pure waters of the blue lake, just above the City of Tears. An aqueduct was constructed which brought that divine liquid down to the White Palace. Water was not meant to be exciting, but when all one has to drink for so many long years is very nearly mud, even that becomes a source of longing. Grimacing, Dryya took a few more sips.

Nourishment done, Dryya dipped her nail into the water and began to scrape it clean. The mantis blood was three months old and slightly acidic; her nail was forged of pale ore and was far too potent to be weakened by it, but her chitin and hands were certainly not. Three months would ordinarily be more than enough time to nullify the acid in a regular mantis’ blood, but the infected detritus on her blade did not come from a normal mantis. She was careful as she bathed it in the pond’s waters. Two thoughts crossed her mind as she did so: first, that if she weren’t imminently leaving the Queen’s Garden it would be a bad idea to dip this infected material into her best source of clean water; second, that if it were not also coated in Infection, she perhaps would have kept the mantis blood on her nail. Adding an acidic touch to its already deadly cut would make it more than the finest weapon in Hallownest, which it of course already was.

Cleaning the nail took longer than she would have preferred, considering that she was mostly denied the use of her hands, but by the time she was finished it had its usual shine back. Dryya stroked her blade affectionately before sliding it back into its sheath on her belt. Next up: her armor. It had taken a beating during her last stand against the mantis horde. She stared at her reflection in the pond, taking in every nick and blemish. There were scrapes on both her kneeguards and a deep cut on her legplate. Both her shoulder pauldrons had gashes in them, one of which ran along its entire width down to her neck. That strike had not broken through her mastercrafted armor, however; it appeared that the dubious honor of killing her went to three separate holes in her chestplate. One was on her lower left side that exposed part of her thorax. One made an ugly mark on the upper right of her breastplate, the gap there resultantly large and clumsy. The last was also on her left, this time slipping between her thorax and abdomen. Dryya placed a hand on that mark. Beneath the rent metal, she could feel her skin.

Morbidly, Dryya wondered which of those three blows proved mortal. Which strike was it that nearly sent her to her grave? She supposed she would never know, but ultimately it didn’t matter. She knew the areas in which she was hit; she would just have to train and improve her guard in all three.

Her business with the pond done, Dryya rose to her feet. There was a log in the back of the clearing, up against the maintenance pathway. She strode over to it and leaned over. Behind it was a small berry bush that she herself had planted after the mantises unknowingly deprived her of food for two weeks. Its bounty was never great, but it was enough to get by and keep her from starving again. She remembered the White Lady’s amusement when Dryya told her what she’d done:

“So, my fierce knight has taken up gardening now, hm? Whatever will the others say when I tell them?”

“Well, my lady,” Dryya had said, in equally good humor, “Hegemol told me for years that I ought to get a hobby. I imagine they’d be quite proud.”

Dryya sat on the log with the bush’s berries in hand and popped a few into her mouth. Getting her Lady to smile for a change had almost been more valuable than the berries themselves. The memory had been pleasant; now, it just made her stomach curl.

My lady, why…?

She closed her eyes and shook her head, attempting to dislodge the oncoming storm of emotions before it began. She did not want to waste any more time angsting over the White Lady’s decision. What was done, no matter how wrong, was done. Her heart twisted up into knots.

She suddenly didn’t feel like eating anymore.

She forced herself to gulp down the last few berries in her hand. She would need the energy for the journey ahead, wherever that would take her.

And that was her next problem: she had lived in the Queen’s Gardens for so long that she doubted she knew any longer what the rest of Hallownest was like. With the Infection on the loose, everything must be so different. Even if it wasn’t, her Lady had told her in the Dream Realm that the Pale King was well and truly gone. His loss was one which Dryya had long ago come to terms with, but its confirmation removed any potential support she might have once she was outside. Without the King or the Pale Court, where was she to go?

She took stock of her options. To the north, there was a route to the Greenpath. She expected life there would be more of the same; its proximity and similarities to the Garden would surely make it a prime habitat for the infected mantises, perhaps even the lumbering carcasses of the other three lords. That was out of the question, then. She needed to avoid the mantises, not stumble into more of them. That, among other reasons, ruled out the Fungal Wastes as well. Mantis home-turf was not somewhere she ever wanted to be. The Fog Canyon was nearby, but it was inhospitable in its own way. Besides, unless she wanted to spend time with Monomon’s comatose body, there would not be much to do there. She had no attachment or familiarity with that place.

Her thoughts inexorably turned back to the Pale King and the White Palace. Even if her master was gone, she wanted to know what happened to her home. If it was overrun by the Infection, then cleansing it would be a fine new purpose. Perhaps the aqueduct was still intact and she could get a drink of clean water. Most if not all the luxuries the Palace once offered were surely gone, but home was home.

Well, that was easy enough.

Her decision made, Dryya got back to her feet. She exited the clearing and entered back into the maintenance pathway. Getting to the White Palace from there would prove difficult, but not impossible. The maintenance pathways extended all throughout the Garden, so getting out, at least, would be easy. The problem came with choosing a path to get to the Ancient Basin. None of the options were good. She could brave the Fungal Wastes and the City of Tears, risking life and limb against what were sure to be armies of the Infected, or she could risk the quicker and possibly even more deadly path through Deepnest. As she recalled, there was also a route to the King’s elevator through the City’s sewers, but going through a sewer sounded even less pleasant than going through Deepnest. Besides, getting there still required crossing the Fungal Wastes and the Mantis Tribe, which must surely be infecting the area.

Take the long way through mantises, husks, and whatever other nightmares lurk in the City of Tears these days, or risk the horrors of Deepnest…?

While stewing over those options, Dryya kept moving down the maintenance pathways. She walked for nearly two hours. The ache in her legs got worse and worse. As she went, more of the Queen’s Garden came into view. She was high up above most of it, elevated as the pathways were. It gave her a splendid view of her Majesty’s pride. She had seen it countless times over the years, but it never failed to impress. Still, she didn’t intend on stopping, not for the view or the pain. But something down below caught her eye…

The Gardens seemed too still. Why was that?

She hadn’t noticed until now, but there was nowhere near the usual level of activity going on down below. She still saw some mossflies here and there, but where were the husks? Those spiny pricks, the ones that shot orange spikes at her, where were they? Where were those walking alarm systems, the ones that blew up?

Where were the mantises?

Dryya didn’t dare poke her head out the window for fear of giving herself away, but she did risk pressing against the glass. The Gardens stretched on as far as the eye could see, but for the first time in an age she saw nothing in the way of hostile activity. Instinctively, her hackles raised. One hand grasped the nail on her hip. First the smell, now this? What was this, a general retreat? Since when do the Infected give up ground? What was the Enemy playing at?

Something was wrong. Dryya needed to get to the bottom of it before she left the Gardens. If nothing else, finding out where her enemies were not would inform her decision as to which path to the Palace to brave.

Up ahead, there was a secluded staircase which had rusted away with time. It descended about halfway down to a rarely-traversed spot behind the old stagway station, which was itself completely abandoned. If she cut through those areas, there was a mantis village nearby that should shine some light on their activities. Dryya’s aching legs screamed at the thought of making that drop on top of the already rapid pace she was setting, but the knight didn’t slow. Pain shot up her legs and into her back, but she refused to relent. Her muscle mass was going to have to get back to her one way or another. What better way than a trial by fire?

—-------------------------------------

There must have been a better way than a trial by fire. Dryya sat at the bottom of her drop, breathing heavily, back pressed against the stagway station. The drop had gone terribly. She had performed it a million times before without flaw, but this time she was unable to hold on to a vine which allowed her to rapidly descend down from the broken stairs to the ground. Her arm gave out. She tucked and rolled into the impact, lessening its severity, but between the force of it and her pauldron pressing deep into her shoulder, she heard an awful cracking sound. She cursed her own foolhardiness; she wasn't used to operating in a weakened state. Taking a longer route down may have brought her into contact with more of the Infected, wherever they were, but it also put her in less immediate damage. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Gingerly, she touched her right shoulder and hissed in pain. Thankfully, it didn’t appear broken. Unfortunately, it was very badly dislocated. Any movement at all was horribly taxing now, between her legs and her arm, but she couldn’t give up now. She’d come too far. If she was going to die in the Gardens, she would have preferred it to be in her original spot: protecting her Queen’s refuge and surrounded by the corpses of her enemies. A little pain wasn’t going to do her in.

Dryya took a step forwards and her vision swam. She stumbled backwards and hit the stagway station hard. Sinking low and gasping in pain, she held absolutely still on the ground until she stopped seeing stars.

A lot of pain might do it, though.

Once her faculties returned to her, Dryya took stock of her situation. There were no hostiles nearby, which was very fortunate for her. If this had happened any time except during whatever malignant trap the Enemy was formulating, that bad fall might have been a death sentence.

More good luck: just in front of her was a dead mosskin. It looked to have been there awhile, but the moss on its back seemed fresh enough. That was good. She needed to reset her shoulder if she was going to get anywhere.

Grimacing, Dryya fought her way forwards. Nothing quite as dramatic as her first attempt happened again; though she felt nauseous, she was able to stay on her feet until she got to the corpse. With her good arm, she ripped the dryest-looking moss she saw off its back and put it in her mouth. She bit down on it hard, doing her best not to think about the taste or where it had been, and looking dreadfully again at the wall of the stagway station.

Is this what you sent me back for, Lady?

She took a deep breath. Readied herself.

Charged.

Dryya’s vision turned red. She bit down on the moss hard, which muffled her pained scream.

Gasping for air, Dryya clutched her newly-fixed shoulder as she stared up at the ceiling. She spit out the moss as soon as she was able, and then a few times after that in a vain attempt to get the taste of it out of her mouth. “By the gods-damned Wyrm!” she managed, breathing ragged. Her left shoulder felt like it was on fire, but an experimental rotation of her arm told her that she’d fixed it, at least.

She lay there for a few minutes, giving her mind time to process her pain. She could not afford to lie out in the open like this. It was dangerous. Even if the mantises and other monsters the Enemy created were presently out of sight, they could well be watching her every move. She needed safety.

Dryya looked up blearily at the hole in the wall which led to the stagway. The empty station would have to do, though even in her pain-addled state she felt wary. The last time she used that path, she’d made sure to cover it up with a thin layer of rocks. Someone else, or more likely something else, had come through the stagway recently.

Well, within the last three months. As far as she was concerned, that still counted as recent.

Hopefully it wasn’t too recent. If anything was inside the stagway station right now, it had a front row seat to her bad luck. It would also have a front row seat to her nail if she had anything to say about it. Tickets were currently free.

Dryya forced herself to her feet for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Her legs shrieked in agony, as did her shoulder, but she pressed on. Using her good arm, Dryya managed to pull herself up towards the hole in the wall through what was at this point sheer force of will. Once sufficiently high up, Dryya was forced to use her bad arm to hold herself steady while she used the other to begin pulling herself inside. Dryya was halfway through the hole in the wall when she cast her eyes across the room. There was nothing inside.

She breathed a sigh of relief which was immediately contrasted by the sharp hiss of pain she felt as her entire left arm seized up in pure agony. Her vision began to swim again and she nearly lost her footing. She clutched tightly to the wall with her good arm, desperately trying to hold on.

The pain was so bad that it dulled her senses. Her head thumped as sharp signals of pain travelled up her nerve system from her arm and legs. The nausea was back with a vengeance. Still, even that could not fully distract her from her surroundings. A knight must always be aware, even when they felt like puking.

Especially when they felt like puking.

There was a dull rush coming from… somewhere. It almost sounded like it came from the stag tunnel itself, but that couldn’t be right. Dryya grabbed her nail with her good hand and used the bad one to keep herself steady. She just needed to keep it together long enough to face whatever this new threat was…

The dull rush became louder. As it did, even Dryya’s addled mind recognized the sound as footsteps.

The longer she held position, the more her nail-arm began to shake. She couldn’t stay where she was, but if she tried to get down she was sure she would fall. This was a damned foolish situation to be in. She knew better than to box herself in like this. If only she wasn’t so desperate to get out of these Gardens, to stop seeing Her influence around every corner…

The footsteps grew to be very loud. Dryya could hear the sound of dust and dirt being kicked up by many heavyset appendages. She saw, in the darkness of the stag tunnel, a black mass approaching.

She readied herself for a fight.

She did not lower her nail when an actual honest to gods stag appeared from the darkness, not until saw that there was no trace of infection anywhere on him. He looked old and worn but in relatively good condition, all things considered. He was probably in better shape than she was right now, but that wasn’t saying much.

The stag matched her gaze with equal scrutiny, studying her and looking not the least bit concerned by her shaking nail. After a tense moment, his old eyes lit up like lumaflies.

“I know your face,” he rumbled.

Another bolt of pain shot out of her arm and this time she couldn’t hold her position. Dryya’s grip on the stone wall failed. With little fanfare, she dropped her nail and fell.

Chapter Text

In all her long years, Dryya never saw a stag move as quickly or as nimbly as this one. One moment she was plummeting towards the ground and the next she was cradled in its long… arms? Legs? The stag’s forebody was upright, braced against the wall, the front two of his six limbs having plucked Dryya out of the air before she could hit the ground.

“Careful, Lady Dryya,” he said in a deep, throaty voice. When he spoke, it reminded Dryya of wind blowing through an ancient cave. “I should expect that a knight of the Five would be lighter on her feet.”

Even through her debilitating pain, Dryya registered those words. A knight of the Five… so he recognized her. How strange. She didn’t think there were any stags still living in Hallownest’s labyrinthine tunnels, let alone one that would know her on sight.

“Perhaps… I killed the knight Dryya, and t-took her armor,” she challenged, voice strained.

The stag’s whole body rumbled, which coupled with Dryya’s nausea did not feel good. It took her a moment to realize that it was his version of a laugh.

“I think not, Lady,” the stag said. “Your stature is the same. You have an aged air about you, dutiful and strong. Even were these things absent, she was the fiercest of the Five! I would be hard pressed to believe she fell in combat. I believe you are the knight Dryya.”

Dryya snorted. This stag didn’t know the half of it. A flush of shame flared up at his words, working with the pain to overwhelm her senses. The knight Dryya… a knight with no Queen, who ultimately failed in her duty.

“Just… Dryya, please,” she said shakily.

“As you wish,” the stag said graciously. Carefully, in what must have been quite the ridiculous scene, he pushed off from the wall and waddled deeper into the station, still carrying Dryya on his front limbs. There was a bench below him; dimly, Dryya registered that it was not there the last time she passed through. The stag gently deposited her on its metal length and dropped back down on all six limbs beside it.

He was loud and unseemly, this stag, Dryya thought, but there was a simple grace to his movements.

“Pardon my saying so, but you seem to have had better days,” he said.

At that, Dryya actually laughed. She shook on the bench, her shoulder throbbing and her legs aching. She didn’t think she could get up again, but that one comment simplified all the heartache and unnatural absurdities she experienced over the past three months and for the briefest of moments made her forget about such things.

“You could c-call me a dead woman walking,” she said, her laugh dying down into an unpleasant wheeze.

Her head was pounding. She closed her eyes and tried to center herself.

“Hm,” the stag said. He leaned down and sniffed at her. If she were feeling better, Dryya might have protested at his violating her personal space. As things were, she barely registered it.

“Your body is ailing,” the stag said, sounding concerned. “I smell… inflammation.”

“Y-you don’t say,” Dryya said sarcastically, voice low. Inflammation was a given. She felt awful.

“Mm,” the stag said. If he was bothered by her tone, he didn’t show it. “Heed my words, Lady Dryya: there is heat in your legs and your arms both. You should not have been moving on your own.”

The words were frustrating. If things had gone her way, she wouldn’t be traveling at all. She would have stayed where she was and died there: one more corpse in a Garden full of them, and her Lady would still be in her cocoon. Diminished, perhaps, but safe. Alive.

“My state of solitude is not by choice,” she said stiffly.

The stag dipped his head. “Apologies, my lady. I meant no offense.”

Dryya didn’t respond. She winced as her headache somehow worsened. She felt as if there was something inside her skull trying to dig its way out. There wasn’t a single part of her body that wasn’t in the throes of agony, by extension if not by injury. She shut her eyes tight and brought her hands up to cover her face.

The stag took notice. “Lady Dryya, there is a pocket on my harness. Reach into it.”

Dryya blearily turned her head–itself an agonizing motion–and looked at the other bug through her claws. Her eyes were half-lidded. The stag lowered himself to the ground and positioned his shell, harness, pocket and all, right next to her. With shaky hands, Dryya reached for the indicated pouch, unfastened it, and pulled it open. The interior glowed blue. She recognized it immediately.

Lifeblood. It was contained in a number of glass vials.

Incredulously, Dryya took one of them into her hands. She looked to the stag, silently asking if he was serious. When he nodded, the knight didn’t hesitate. She ripped the cork out of the vial and downed it in a single gulp.

Instantly, the pain died down. Dryya sighed deeply and sank back on the bench, letting the vial slip from her grasp. Lifeblood was a miraculous thing. She could feel the fire in her shoulder vanishing, the throb in her legs following shortly after. The soreness which permeated her body since her return from the Dream Realm was gone. She felt like her old self.

Perhaps she shouldn’t so enthusiastically partake in the lifeblood. The Pale King, in his wisdom, banned it long ago, during Hallownest’s heyday, but he had never explained why. Dryya had never interacted much with any of the so-called “heretics” who pushed the stuff back before the Fall. Such things were beneath her position as Captain of the Five. When her vigil began, Dryya discovered a handful of lifeblood cocoons scattered throughout the Garden. Initially, she refused to have anything to do with them out of honor for her King. Once the mantises invaded, such noble trappings as honor ceased to matter. Warriors who did not adapt died. The taboo revolving around lifeblood had long since ceased to concern her.

“Wyrm,” she sighed. She took a moment to let the lifeblood fully sink in, flooding her system with its nigh-magical properties. Once that was done, she opened her eyes and looked at the stag gratefully. “That was a kingly gift, sir. You honor me.”

“Ah, no thanks are necessary,” the stag replied. “It does me well to aid any who would use the stagways.”

“You’ll have them all the same,” Dryya said. “Thank you, sincerely. I haven’t felt this well in some time.”

“Your thanks are not owed to me,” the stag said. “There is a shopkeeper in Dirtmouth. Every once in a while I hear the bell ring from that lovely little town. She scales the King’s Pass and harvests the lifeseed from somewhere inside. A sweet girl, that one. She offers a significant portion of her supply to me freely to be used exactly in situations like this. The next time I see her, she will be delighted to hear that she helped.”

Dirtmouth. Shopkeep. Survivors?

Dryya filed that information away for later. She knew of the little town on the surface and had no intention of visiting. If nothing else, it was good to know that there were still some bugs out there free of the Enemy’s grip. She and her Lady were not the last survivors after all.

“The stagways were not so generous when last I used them,” she said instead.

“Times change, Lady,” the stag rumbled. “I imagine you have not seen one of my kind since the Fall. There was no need for it then. Even now, it is a recent arrangement. This batch I carry with me is the first of its kind. There was another before you who might have done better if I were of more help.”

Dryya sensed that there was a story there. This stag was a curious fellow. “Anyone I should know?” she asked.

The stag shook his head. “You would be best served asking someone else. They were a small thing. They never spoke to me, though they aided me greatly. There is little else I could tell you.”

Dryya nodded. She rose to her feet and felt delighted when no pain followed her up. She made her way over to the wall underneath the hole she’d climbed into the station through. Her nail lay disgracefully on the ground. She picked it up, wiped it off with her hands, and returned it to its spot on her belt. Now that her mind was clear, the reality of her current situation was beginning to sink in: she was talking to another bug who wasn’t her Queen! It had been so long that she’d nearly forgotten what that was like. She would like nothing more than to talk his ear off, but there was still the matter of the missing mantises. She needed to get to that village.

“Yours is a kind soul,” Dryya said. “I will not forget what you have done for me. There is an errand I must run–one final mission in this Garden. Would you do me the honor of waiting? I have a destination I could use your help in reaching.”

The stag bowed his head. “Aye, Lady. If you will return, I will wait. There is not much traffic along the stagways these days.”

“My thanks.”

Dryya offered him a bow of her own, then turned and made for the exit. Readying her nail, she stepped back into the verdant wilds of the Queen’s Garden.

—---------------------------------

Dryya had not been in this part of the Garden in some time. She stood directly in front of the stagway station. Above her was the path back to the White Lady’s cocoon and the mantis stronghold. From this side of the station, there was no easy route up. The only way was to jump and practically fly, using a series of empty planters as platforms. Dryya had gone that way once, before the mantis invasion, just to prove that she could. It was thrilling but incredibly dangerous, and she nearly fell to her death on multiple occasions. Afterwards, when she was safely on the way back to her Queen, she resolved to take the safer path from then on. She was no use to her Lady as an impaled lawn ornament on one of the Garden’s many overgrown thorny vines.

The way down was simpler and much less dangerous. There was an old ladder on the side of the stag station that extended down towards the mantis camp. There were planters there, as well, but these were not optional. By some sadistic stroke of misfortune, the area beneath the planters on that level was completely overtaken by the deadly vines. One had to be fast and delicate to cross over towards the camp.

The planters were designed to tip over if they accumulated too much sudden weight–such as, for instance, a knight of Hallownest, or better yet a mantis. The bigger ones couldn’t fly, after all; Dryya had baited quite a few of them over the years into following her on to the planters and plummeting to their doom. There was once some kind of magic imbued in the infernal machines to prevent them from dumping their plants along with the unwanted baggage, but considering that they were all empty and had been for some time it must have failed. Dryya never bothered to broach the subject with her Lady. Telling her that her beloved Garden was destroying its own cultivated plants seemed a waste; she was sorrowful enough in her day to day.

After dashing across several of the planters, descending down a few more ladders, and slaughtering a couple of mossflies in her way just for good measure, Dryya arrived at her destination. She made no attempt at stealth. She stood unabashedly out in the open, her white armor gleaming and her nail in hand. This was a knight of Hallownest, or at least the image of one. With her full functionality restored, Dryya was eager for revenge. She waited for some beast or another to drop out of its hiding place and attack her.

None did. The only movement Dryya saw was a mosscreep in the distance chewing on a pointy rock.

Very well, then.

Steeling herself, Dryya brought her nail up into a ready position and slowly entered the camp. Her invasion went uncontested. Ahead of her, the mantis’ tents rose up. They were crude things, made of salvaged tarp from the Garden’s many greenhouses. It was not a new sight; she had been there before. The camp was a favorite target of hers. Many times over the course of her now-broken vigil, Dryya snuck in at night while the mantises were sleeping. It was not an honorable way of killing, but the world was past honor now.

She approached the first tent, ready for anything. She pulled the flap back and prepared to stab anything that moved inside.

The tent was empty. Empty… except…

Dryya’s blood turned cold. Slowly, she lowered herself to one knee and picked up a piece of empty chitin.

It was a mantis head. Casting her eyes around the tent’s interior, Dryya saw that there were several of them. There were other pieces of shell scattered around too: thoraxes, claws, legs. The mantises weren’t hiding. They were dead.

Shocked and extraordinarily wary, Dryya dropped the head and exited the tent. She looked around the campground and quickly found what she was looking for: more mantis pieces. She’d overlooked them before. There weren’t as many as there were in the tent. What parts were still extant were scattered across the makeshift village: part of a wing there, shards of an abdominal shell here… wildlife must have picked most of the remains clean. In fact, as she looked closer, she saw that the mosscreep she spotted upon first entering the village wasn’t chewing on a rock at all: it had a mantis leg in its mouth.

Something in Dryya recoiled at the sight, but she pushed it down. These were honorless savages; she bore no kinship with them. They would have attempted to butcher her Queen, if given the chance. They did not deserve a proper burial.

Still, to be feasted upon by the wildlife…

Thoroughly, methodically, Dryya picked through the rest of the village. She pried open the remaining tents, one by one, and found more of the same. There were no living mantises anywhere in sight. There were no signs of combat; the mantises weren’t coalesced in one place, nor was anything missing from their tents. Their stores of food, weapons, and even geo was left untouched.

Dryya often wondered why the Infected still hoarded geo. It wasn’t as if they could spend their money…

Speaking of weapons, there were no gashes or gouges in what pieces of shell she could find to suggest that the mantises had been cut down. It was if they all suddenly stopped and dropped dead.

This was…

Wrong.

So very, intrinsically wrong. Dryya did not mourn the passing of her hated enemies, but whatever killed them–and something must have killed them–was surely leagues more dangerous than they were. There was a Beast on the loose in the Queen’s Garden. She had to find it and put it down, whatever it was. If she wasn’t quick about it, it may reach her Qu-

She stopped herself, one claw clenching into a ball. There was no more Queen to protect, just an empty cocoon. She was no longer bound to this land, the sprawling, overgrown Garden. If there was a killer out there, invisible and bloodthirsty, it was no longer her concern. Other than herself and the stag, there were no living bugs with their Gifts intact anywhere in the Garden.

There was nothing for her here.

Still, curiosity burned bright in her soul. The thought of not knowing what happened to the vermin of this village burned her. This was her Lady's garden, and even after everything, Dryya served her Lady. She would perform her duty, her burden, as she was made to. Such was her purpose.

One last patrol, then. The one she had wanted to undertake after leaving her Lady’s cocoon. With the stag’s lifeblood suppressing her pain and her own plans for departure, this would be her greatest and final opportunity. If nothing else, the thought of carving a bloody path through any mantis stragglers while they were reeling from this strange Silent Dying had her blood boiling. Gripping her nail, Dryya set out from the village and silently promised to be quick.

It wouldn’t do to keep the stag waiting, after all.

—--------------------

Empty.

The Queen’s Garden was empty.

All along her chosen path, Dryya found pieces of mantis corpses. She found rolling heads, discarded chitin, and cracked thoraxes. She found sharp claws and singular legs. She found dozens of discarded lances, dropped by whichever Petra had been carrying them. Judging from the way that some of the blades were impaled straight up on the ground, it was clear that their bearers had been flying when they died.

She found more than dead mantises. Along her route, Dryya came across the bodies of bugs which had clearly at one point been mauled by the Infection. These were formerly husks, looking exactly as that type of beast did after being slain. Once the body ceased to be viable, the Infection abandoned its victim to die alone and the Light ceased to sustain them. That had clearly happened here, but just as with the mantises there was nothing to indicate they had died violently. They were cold, empty, and relatively pristine. There were no cuts, slashes, or gouges. No nail, tooth, or claw was used to slay these reanimated carcasses.

The final place she felt the urge to investigate was the mantis stronghold near her Lady’s cocoon. It was where their giant brute of a leader was holed up. Her curiosity regarding his fate was unbearable. She had long desired the pleasure of a completed duel with that beast. The mantis commander, for no such abomination could ever deserve the title of Lord, was a massive, hulking thing that she had come close to assassinating twice. The first time, she made herself known in an open, honorable challenge. He had responded by siccing mantis warriors on her until she was forced to retreat. The second time, Dryya attacked him while he was alone and came close to killing him. She cut him across his oversized neck and watched in disgust as he began spewing orange, infected detritus out of the wound. Unfortunately, though, the noise of their combat alerted more of the mantises and she was again forced to retreat. She never got another shot at him; he clung to the shadows after that. What she was able to observe of his movements seemed that he never went anywhere unless a squad of mantises were around him at all times.

If she were hoping for a rematch with her enemy, she was to be disappointed. When Dryya entered the mantis stronghold, she found nothing but more corpses–including his. The mantis commander was dead on the floor, so painfully close to her post. Dryya glared down at the body. She was cheated out of a rematch. Unlike his subordinates, this creature did bear marks of combat. His body was a mess of stab wounds and cuts. His shell was massive and mostly intact, though whatever gooey innards it might have contained were missing. Dryya kicked the empty head of her foe aside and watched it roll away. The scavengers had gotten to him, too.

She wondered who succeeded where she failed. Her thoughts again drifted to the vessel mentioned by her Lady, but… no, surely not. The White Lady had described the vessel as a small thing. It didn’t make any sense.

As Dryya finished her surveying of the mantis stronghold, she was left with far more questions than answers. She never sheathed her nail, just in case, but by the time she worked her way back towards the bottom of the Garden and returned to the rear of the stag station she had long since ceased to believe an attack was coming.

What had killed all those husks? More importantly, why? She had a feeling that the second question would be answered by the first. There were, at one point, hundreds of infected mantises in the Queen’s Garden. Not even she could have taken them all. No warrior alive could. Not Mighty Hegemol, not Stalwart Ogrim, not Kindly Isma, not Mysterious Ze’mer, and not Fierce Dryya. The Pale King could, if he yet lived, but… well.

Dryya knew better.

At long last sheathing her nail, Dryya scaled the wall and climbed through the hole once again. This time, she dropped down and made a graceful landing without incident. As she approached the stag, though, she noticed again a faint ache in her nail arm. After hours of patrolling the Garden, her limbs were beginning to ail again. Grimacing, she reluctantly decided she would need to rest. She didn’t want to become reliant on a crutch like lifeblood. She needed her body back in peak physical condition and she needed to do it on her own.

The stag turned to greet her. “Welcome back, my lady. Did you find what you were looking for?”

Dryya shook her head. “No,” she said. She made her way back to the bench and sat down. The stag lumbered over to stand beside her.

“May I ask what it was you sought?”

Dryya looked at him. “Mantises,” she said. “Her Majesty’s Garden was invaded by them long ago. Long have I done my best to hold them at bay, but I was…”

She trailed off. It isn’t as if she could go around telling people that she had died. How was she to explain that when she didn’t fully understand it herself?

“...indisposed, for a time,” she continued. “When I returned, the Gardens smelled different. Have you been here before?”

“I have,” the stag rumbled. “Both before and after the Fall.”

Dryya’s eyes widened. This was a kindred spirit, then. “Impressive,” she said. “It gladdens me to meet another who remembers Hallownest’s glory. You can attest, then, to the change in the air.”

“I can,” said the stag. “The air smells now almost as it once did. Fresh and clean. There is no Infection here.”

“That is precisely my point,” Dryya said. “Where has it gone? When I left you, I made a wide sweep of the Garden. Do you know what I found? Nothing. There are no husks, mantises or otherwise, who stalk my Lady’s realm. All that is left are corpses.”

“Mm,” said the stag. “I have noticed that. I rarely saw any such beings myself, but there were infected portions of the stagways. They were clumsy creatures; even my old bones were nimble enough to avoid them. Lately, though, I have neither seen nor heard them. I braved some of the infected tunnels and found bodies, as you described. It’s a curious thing.”

Dangerous, unwanted hope flared in Dryya’s chest. “The vessel…” she said quietly. Could it be? Could the Infection truly be gone? When the Hollow Knight first was sealed away, those already infected didn’t drop dead. They continued in their brutal fashion to attack the still-living, though their sickly dreams ceased to spread. The Infection actually leaving a host after it set in was unprecedented.

“Did you say something, my lady?” the stag asked.

Dryya hesitated. She hadn’t meant for him to hear that. It had been so long since she had been in the presence of another bug that she’d forgotten to regulate her speech. The King made it clear to her in ages past that all knowledge of the vessels was restricted from the public, the rest of the Pale Court, and even her fellow knights. She was to speak of it with no one but him, and even with those orders she felt sometimes that there was more she didn’t know. It wasn’t her place to pry, though, and she never did.

Dryya shook her head. “Just thinking out loud,” she said. She needed to change the subject. Fortunately, there was much she wanted to learn about this stag.

“You never gave me your name,” she said after a pause. “I cannot think of you simply as ‘the stag.’”

The stag chuckled, a deep and rumbly noise that sounded like an earthquake. “I have been asked that question before. I will tell you what I have told everyone else: I don’t remember my own name. When one has lived as long as I have, memory becomes fickle. There is so much I lost in those dark years, wasting away in the stagway tunnels, always listening for the ring of a bell… my mind emptied of thought like water dripping from a leaky flask.”

Dryya felt sympathy well up in her heart for the old bug. “That must have been hard,” she said.

The stag grunted. “Indeed! But you must know something of time’s touch yourself, Lady. Surely you can relate?”

Dryya smiled gently. “Our situations are not quite the same, my friend. Servants of the Pale Court will never be slain by time. I have lived a hundred lifetimes. Some things stay, others go. I have been active these past centuries. My task kept my mind sharp.”

“Hm,” the stag said. He went quiet after that.

Dryya realized that probably wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear and decided to change the subject again. “If I may ask, why do you still service the stagways? You could have left at any time. Why continue in your task instead of finding your own way?”

The stag looked at her for a long while, silent, as if deep in thought. Dryya was content to wait.

“When the Infection returned to Hallownest, I was a young thing,” he said finally. “Had maybe… fifty years behind me. It became clear quickly that this outbreak would not be contained. We stags didn’t know what was happening. Everyone said different things: ‘the Five are coming to sort things out.’ ‘No, it’s the King who’s going to fix it!’ They were delusions, I think, born of a life of servitude–not that I begrudge the masters, mind. If you’re born to carry out a duty, then you’d best get to it.”

Dryya didn’t agree with that last part, but two old souls arguing over philosophy wouldn’t do any good for anyone.

“At any rate, we figured out quickly enough that no one was coming. The Chief Conductor said we had to fend for ourselves. Before too many of those husks could get into the tunnels, he closed all the gates. We were all in there for so long, withering away, sustaining ourselves on whatever naturally grew inside… by the time I heard a bell ring, it was just me left. The stag gates opened, and I did think about leaving, but where was there to go? At least in the tunnels, I was mostly safe. If I went out, all bulky and alone, I was liable to get myself torn to pieces. It was better to stick to what I knew. Safer.”

Dryya frowned, sympathetic. “Surely there was somewhere you could go.”

The stag shook his head. “I haven’t got enough years left in me to go chasing scenery. If the thought of my solitude bothers you so, then rest easy: I spend most of my time with the lovely bugs of Dirtmouth, now. There’s a service exit there for my kind. I like to wander the village and chat with the locals, but I still spend most of my time in the tunnels. Which reminds me: you’re fortunate that I was in the area when you first entered my station, Lady Dryya. The next time you wish to signal a stag, I would advise that you ring the bell instead of moaning in pain. The former echoes much better and I have been trained to hear it from anywhere.”

Dryya’s eyes sparkled with humor, the stag’s words breaking through the gloom his story brought about. “I’ll take that under consideration,” she said, chuckling.

“See that you do,” the stag warned good-naturedly. “Now, my lady, if I may: you spoke earlier of a potential destination. Where may this humble servant of Hallownest take you?”

Dryya leaned forwards on the bench.

“Have you ever been to the Ancient Basin?”

Chapter Text

As it turned out, the stag had been to the Ancient Basin before. At first, Dryya was surprised: the station there was hidden, available only to a select few trustworthy members of his kind. When she questioned him about it, the stag told her that the same small passenger he mentioned earlier had called him to it, revealing its existence. Dryya narrowed her eyes at that but said nothing more on the subject.

It was becoming increasingly clear, based on her own findings, her discussions with the stag, and the White Lady’s comments about a vessel, that something was changing in Hallownest. Dryya was not yet in a position to determine whether those changes were for the better, but she didn’t see how they could possibly make things worse.

The path to the Ancient Basin was a long and winding one. Dryya remembered it well, having escorted the White Lady on many a stag-borne trip to her Garden, which was practically on the other side of the Kingdom. There were once a number of secret gates that blocked the Basin off from the rest of the tunnels, but those were now open. Conversation died down between the two bugs as Dryya took in familiar environments outside of the Garden for the first time in centuries. When they reached the Basin’s station, she didn’t speak at all.

The stag seemed to realize that Dryya needed some time to be alone. “I am ever at your service, Lady,” he rumbled. “When you have need of me, just ring the bell and I will come.”

Dryya nodded, barely registering his words. As the stag turned and disappeared back into the tunnels, she stared at the ancient walls of the station and traced her hand over them. It had been so long, but now, after all these years, it felt like…

It felt like coming home.

Dryya doubted that anyone throughout Hallownest’s history had been so pleased to see so dull an area as the Palace stagway station. It was certainly worse for wear, with what little life and color once present having long since faded away, but she didn’t care. The station was full of old signs, none of which she remembered the explicit language of. She didn’t stop to read them. Her heart was racing. Though she knew what she would find would doubtless be unpleasant, she was eager to see her home again. No matter the condition of the White Palace, she could fix it. She could drive out whatever beasts had taken up refuge inside, fix what she could of any potential structural damage, or-

She stepped outside. She was not prepared for what she saw.

Nothing.

There was nothing there but some foundations and a few loose chunks of marble.

The White Palace was simply gone.

Distressed, Dryya stepped out into the wider Abyss. In the distance, she could see the old bridge which led to the Palace from the tram station. Its lumafly lanterns were still active. That part of the complex, at least, looked as she remembered. It was stern and austere, yet comfortable. But the rest of it…

Gone. Gone. How?

How could the entire White Palace up and disappear? Was it attacked? There would be more debris, signs of battle–but there was nothing. Nothing but those sparse pieces of building she could still see in what would have once been the Palace’s Reception Hall. She could… she remembered when that was still being built. She remembered watching the stones go up. To see it like this…

It looked less like it had been destroyed and more like it had just been scooped out of the ground.

Dryya’s heart ached. She didn’t think she she could possibly feel any worse than she already did, but that pre-existing pain was compounded. She walked past a pair of dead Royal Retainers, paying them no mind, and came to the corpse of a Kingsmould. She had never liked those things, not understanding why the Pale King had sought to replace so much of his guard with void constructs. Considering what fate befell Hallownest shortly after their construction, it made sense in hindsight. Still, their existence rankled her warrior’s pride. She had trained many of those guards herself.

Dryya fell to her knees next to the construct and simply stared at the place where the White Palace once was. She stayed like that for a long time, breathing in and out the ruin of her kingdom.

She lost track of time from her position of grief, but eventually she noticed something else: the air. It felt… different than it did the last time she was there. Thinner, somehow. It had been many centuries since she last set foot in the White Palace–what her newly dashed hopes had allowed her to believe was not her final time after all–but she didn’t remember it being this hard to breathe.

She looked closer at the ruins of her King’s palace. Black whisps of… nothing rose from the stones. It was different from the Black she experienced after she died. It was cold and empty. She recognized it immediately: Void. That was Void, pure Nothing, and as she looked around the ruin she saw it everywhere. It rose from the ground like smoke from a fire. In fact, as she looked closer at the kingsmould, she saw the stuff concentrated around it. Was it the source or a simple conduit? Had the kingsmould simply broken down over time and leaked its endless Nothing into the White Palace? Was that where her home had gone? Was that even how the Void worked?

Dryya couldn’t answer any of those questions. There was only one man who could, but judging by the state of his palace… she was starting to get a pretty good feeling of what had ultimately killed her King. She came here in part to make peace with his death… what a foolish notion that now seemed.

“Killed the King.” It was such a foreign phrase. Even now, with the proof coming both from the lips of her Lady and her own eyes, it was hard to believe. The Pale King was not for killing. He was above them all. He had earned Dryya’s devotion through his peerless mastery of combat and his grand vision for Hallownest. She had seen him in action more truly than any other. His power was without limits. That was what she had always believed. Her faith in her liege was absolute. How could it have come to this?

She sighed and shifted her weight, sitting on her butt and sprawling her legs out in front of her. She leaned back and supported herself on her arms. She reached and surpassed her limit for sorrow, she thought. As she gazed out at the ruin of her home, she did her best to ignore the Void particles in the air and the potential danger to her person they represented. She wanted to reminisce, even if for only a moment, on old friends and older memories.

She thought of Hegemol, Mighty Hegemol, her truest friend among the Five. She remembered seeing him inside that building in the Black and trying so desperately to make him see her as well. Was he dead? Was that the afterlife? If it was, was it truly her friend or just a comforting vision?

She thought of Ogrim, so stalwart and boisterous. He was perhaps her most reliable friend. She missed his boundless optimism, his creativity, and unshakable faith. There was no bug better suited to lift one’s spirits. Wyrm knew she could use the boost. If nothing else, she would like to have seen his art again–though preferably made out of stone.

She thought of Kindly Isma, who out of all the Five had disagreed with her the most. Dryya and Isma fought with some regularity, with the latter believing the former too harsh in both her leadership and her warmaking. Isma liked to take prisoners. Dryya did not. Their arguments sometimes turned fierce, never made better when the Pale King inevitably sided with his chief lieutenant. Still, they were friends; Dryya believed their differences only made the Five stronger. She respected Isma and valued her company. Now, alone and three hundred years removed from her colleagues, she wondered if Isma felt the same.

She thought of Ze’mer, the storyteller. She came from so far away but made Hallownest her home. She served the Pale Court with all the same vigor as any native. Still, her cognomen was “mysterious” for a reason; Ze’mer, though full of tall tales, was rarely forward with anything regarding her personal life and in fact seemed to delight in spreading misinformation about herself. It was impossible to nail her down. The one thing Dryya knew for sure about her erstwhile friend was that she’d taken a lover from the Mantis Tribe, a relationship which she at first disapproved of. Mantis tribals were not to be trusted, she told Ze’mer. Her opinions changed when she met the sweet girl. Ze’mer’s lover was kind, empathetic, and not at all the traditional mantis. Dryya wished she remembered her name.

Her thoughts wandered further back still as she got lost in the ruins of the White Palace. She could picture the building perfectly in her mind, still standing tall and imposing over the Ancient Basin. She served there for so long, far longer than the other knights. She remembered meeting them there, back when the other four were just ordinary bugs–or as ordinary as such beings could be, anyway. Isma had been intimidated by her at first–how quickly that feeling was gone! Dryya was certain that the only thing Ogrim was ever intimidated by, for his part, was talking to Isma. Even back then, they pined for one another. One could almost call it love at first sight, if they believed in that sort of thing. Hegemol was the only other soldier among the knights, originally being a sentry in the old Crossroads. Dryya grew to like him; he was quiet but shockingly astute and good-natured, not at all fitting the stereotype his size gave him. Ze’mer was a courier from some far away place that she only ever spoke of as “the lands serene.” Dryya hadn’t trusted her in the slightest when she first arrived, though her suspicions were quickly put to rest. Ze’mer was as loyal as they came.

It was the King who decided to commission the Five, wanting a personal task force of mighty warriors who could aid him by undertaking missions and challenging foes far beyond the ability of an ordinary soldier. He pitched the idea to Dryya and Lurien the Watcher one night in his workshop. The three of them spoke extensively on the subject, and ultimately Dryya was given near-exclusive control of the project and allowed to proceed, for the most part, how she saw fit.

"They will be as much yours as mine."

She hadn't understood those words at the time.

Dryya decided to draw on an old mantis tradition: she would host a Kagath, as they called it, or, as was said in the common tongue, a Tournament. A Grand Tournament. If the king wanted the greatest warriors in Hallownest to serve him as his knights, then she would find them for him. Only the strongest would serve. She had been so focused on the aspirants’ combat prowess at the time that she neglected the other, less tangible things that were just as important. Heart, soul, spirit–these were things that couldn’t be measured in a controlled environment. She considered herself lucky that such mighty figures as her friends ended up possessing nobility to match.

And then the way it had all ended, erupting into utter chaos in the worst way possible… that Tournament had been truly eventful, if nothing else. Its bombastic conclusion was Dryya’s greatest shame for a long time, but there was triumph in it as well: for the King, who gained four new champions, for her friends, who were allowed finally to live up to their truest potentials, and even for her. Dryya never had a home before the Five. A place, certainly–at the side of the King–but not a home. Her friends saved her in more ways than one.

She remembered it all so well…

Chapter Text

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From Wyrm beloved and Kingdom raised
That all may come and sing His praise
A chance for glory only one had known
A chance to match our Knight’s renown
Four servants chosen, four heroes made
To join the First in our Pale Glade
From the dirt, four heroes climbed
Let their names be honored for all time!

-Excerpt from “Remembrance of the Grand Tournament” by the White Lady

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Long ago…

Today was the day.

From all across Hallownest, bugs of every shape, size, and walk of life had flocked to the White Palace. Most were warriors. Some had brought their families. Some had come just for the spectacle. They were saying that this was the largest public event in the young kingdom’s history. The crowds were absolutely massive. Dryya was the first to admit to potential security concerns due to the sheer volume of arriving civilians; there simply weren’t enough Palace Guards to sift through the traffic. Eventually, whole platoons of sentries from the City of Tears had to be temporarily relocated to the Palace, much to the chagrin of its administrators.

She had no one to blame but herself. The Grand Tournament was her idea, after all.

Tournaments were an old mantis tradition wherein combatants dueled one another for honor and prestige. They could be either fatal or just to first blood, depending on the challenge issued and the prize battled for. When the Pale King asked how she would go about gathering warriors for his perceived Five Great Knights, a Kagath was the first thing which sprang to mind. She had competed in several during her day, but never organized one. She was realizing, as she stared down at the crowd from a balcony in the courtyard, that she may have underestimated the sheer fervor Hallownest’s citizenry was developing for their monarch. Perhaps she should have hosted the event elsewhere.

“Ahem.”

Speaking of fervor…

Dryya turned from her overwatch position over the assembling contestants to greet the newcomer. She offered a respectful nod.

Lurien the Watcher swept into the room, cloak billowing around his feet. He was an imposing figure, standing nearly as tall as Dryya herself and wearing a mask with a singular eye in the middle. He was essentially faceless, an effect which unnerved most bugs he met. After spending enough time with the man, she suspected that was the point. If she was the Hand of the King, then Lurien was his Eye. The man had an uncanny knack for gathering information and was a capable administrator to boot. She understood perfectly why their monarch placed the still-new City of Tears under his care.

“Watcher,” she greeted. “Come to take in the view?”

“Hand,” Lurien replied, returning her nod. He came to a stop still inside the room which her balcony connected to and gestured for her to join him. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.”

Dryya resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “It never is with you.”

She stepped away from the balcony and followed Lurien deeper into the room. It was formerly a relaxing common area most commonly frequented by the palatial servants. Dryya had transformed it into her temporary headquarters. It had the best view in the Palace of the courtyard down below and was large enough to accommodate all the traffic she’d been handling as overseer of the Kagath. A desk in the corner was covered in stone tablets she’d been etching commands and event rules into. There was a deep grey rug on the floor and a series of tapestries along the walls, all of which demonstrated one scene or another of the King’s various exploits throughout Hallownest. The White Lady was in a few of them. Dryya and Lurien, arguably his two most important servants, weren’t represented. She sometimes felt the tiniest bit bitter about that.

Dryya passed Lurien and led him over to her desk, which she sat down at. The Watcher sat across from her.

“I wished to go over our security detail one final time before the Tournament begins,” he said, cutting right to the chase.

Great. She fretted enough about the Palace’s security without yet again soothing her colleague’s nerves. She understood his concerns, of course, but she was tired of retreading the issue. She was doing the best she could with the resources available to her. “The situation is well in hand, Watcher. Trust me,” Dryya assured him for what must have been the third time. “There are more contestants than I planned for, but with your City Guards in play we have made up the difference.”

The Watcher never physically emoted. It was usually almost impossible to tell what he was feeling. The only tell was his voice. He usually had a flat, serious monotone. Right now, though, it was easy to hear his annoyance. There was an uncharacteristic tightness to his tone. “I hope you know what you’re doing, commandeering my guards like you have,” he said. “I am not comfortable with how exposed the City is right now–nor, frankly, with the amount of authority the King has vested in you throughout this affair. If this goes wrong, it will be your head rolling, Lady Dryyra, not mine.”

Dryya laughed incredulously, leaning back in her chair. It was a pure, throaty sound. She would never call herself a people person, but compared to Lurien she was practically a party animal. She always found herself amused by just how blunt he was. “Oh, Watcher, you needn’t worry about such things. This will work. By the week’s end, the King will have his knights and you will have your guards back–if you’ve done your job.”

Lurien sniffed. “If I have done my- I resent the implication, Hand. I have compiled a profile on every single contestant, just as you asked. I have taken into account both physical and mental abilities in consideration of the upcoming trials. Every one of them was thoroughly screened. Do you think I would have let them enter the White Palace otherwise?”

“Do you think I would have?” Dryya asked, humor gone. She sat up straight and stared the Watcher down, face suddenly as emotionless as his.

Lurien’s annoyance seemed to melt away, the tension in his shoulders easing. “No, I… I suppose not. Your track record is exemplary.”

Dryya nodded, satisfied.

“I just don’t like this,” the Watcher continued. “There are too many variables at play. Too many things could go wrong. Five hundred bugs have come. Three hundred families have pitched their tents beyond the walls. We should at the very least have hosted the event somewhere else and not put the Pale Court at risk.”

Now that she could understand.

“I will grant you that perhaps I was overeager to use the Palace,” Dryya admitted. “But I stand by my decision. This is the font of the King’s power. Holding the Tournament here will give the selected knights legitimacy in the eyes of the people.”

“Perhaps,” said the Watcher. He paused for a moment. “He has placed an exceeding amount of faith in you, Dryya.”

The remark hit home. “I know. That is why I have to get this right.”

Before anything more could be said, a horn sounded from down below. Both of the bugs turned their attention back to the balcony.

“It’s time,” Lurien said. “Are you ready?”

Dryya rose to her feet. “The Kagath runs through my blood. I was born to do this.”

“Then let us hope,” he said, “that you were born to succeed.”

----------------

Dryya stepped out onto the balcony to the roar of a crowd of antsy warriors, Lurien following at her heels. The two stared down at the crowd, hemmed into the courtyard by a ring of Palace Guards. Deeper inside the Palace, Lurien’s loaned City Sentinels mixed with the remaining palatial units to lock the complex down. Patrols and all guard postings were doubled. There were to be absolutely no mistakes today.

Staring down at the crowd, Dryya was suddenly struck by an intense bout of longing. She wished that the White Lady was here. These sorts of public affairs were certainly more to her liking than Dryya’s. The Queen’s company, at least, would put her at ease. So many bugs of Hallownest, gathered in one place… she didn’t think it would affect her to this degree.

Even now, she felt like an outsider.

Dryya reeled her thoughts in before they could distract her any further from her mission. The crowd had silenced down below, looking up at her gleaming white figure for direction. She wondered how she looked to them. Did she inspire? Intimidate?

She could feel Lurien’s gaze boring holes in the back of her head. It was time to start the proceedings. She cleared her throat and made ready to speak. On her chest, a bright white symbol flashed and then disappeared: just before they’d stepped outside, Lurien painted a temporary seal of amplification on her armor that would increase the volume of her voice.

“Warriors of Hallownest, you stand on hallowed ground,” she began, her voice thundering throughout the courtyard. Even she was surprised by how far it carried; the crowd became silent as death as they drank in the Pale Knight’s words. “This is the Palace of King and Creator. You honor him and yourselves by being here. This morning, there was only one knight in service to our master. By the time this tournament is over, four of you shall ascend and join me at his side.

Today, you will all be tested as you never have been before. Make no mistake: you will stand or fall by your ability to fight, but this is not solely a test of physical skill. Adaptability, courage, strength of will, and intellect will uplift the victors. To fail in one of these categories is to fail in them all.

Your first challenge is to begin immediately. Each of you has been placed into a bracket for a trial by combat. When only one of you is left, we shall proceed to the next challenge. Remember: you battle for your King today. Let that thought drive you. Only the very best will serve his Court. Victory will bring you to the feet of God.”

With that said, she raised her nail in the air. It was the signal to begin. Down below, the crowd began to split into groups, hurried along by the Palace Guards Dryya entrusted with the actual on-site running of the Tournament. Her speech was short and to the point; she wasn’t one for eloquent wordplay or long-winded talk. That was the royal couple’s area of expertise, especially the King’s, though his public appearances were becoming rarer.

The first challenge, as said, was a trial by combat. There were two brackets, within which would eventually be selected one warrior each. The final victor would earn accolades and Dryya’s attention, both of which were important steps towards becoming a knight. Each bracket was expected to take a full day to complete, after which the next series of trials would begin.

Dryya left the balcony, not bothering to stand and watch the fighting begin down below. She doubted any of it would be worth her time. Those bugs down below, after all, weren’t raised the way she was. They weren’t warriors by birth. They hadn’t trained their whole lives to get here. How good could they possibly be?

Lurien followed her back inside.

“Any favorites?” she asked him, making her way back to her desk.

Lurien harrumphed. “I have flagged 172 bugs as likely to perform well during this challenge. Going through them now would be frivolous.”

Dryya sighed. “It’s small talk, Lurien.”

That the Watcher managed to convey such incredulity through his mono-eyed mask was all the answer Dryya needed. The knight chuckled mirthlessly. “Right,” she said. “What was I thinking?”

-----------------

That night, after the day’s bracket wrapped up, Dryya wandered the White Palace alone. It had become a nightly ritual of hers almost immediately after the complex’s construction was finished. She was given many titles by her monarch: Hand of the King, Chief of Security, Pale Knight. All of them involved his protection in one way or another. She didn’t like to leave anything to chance. Now that there were so many strangers within striking distance, she felt that her nightly patrol was even more important.

The Palace Guards didn’t bother her as she walked past. They patrolled the halls themselves, of course, but they had all grown accustomed to their captain following up on their work.

It only took Dryya an hour to comb the entire White Palace for intruders and find nothing. Anyone else, she thought proudly, would take that long just to walk from end to end. She knew the Palace better than anyone. Her efficiency was unmatched.

There was only one section left to check: the Reception Hall and its adjacent rooms, which had been more or less handed over to the knight-aspirants competing in the championship. Makeshift barracks were set up all throughout that part of the Palace. The regularly posted guards should be keeping a lid on things, but just like the rest of the complex, Dryya would make her rounds.

When she arrived, things were not as orderly as she liked. In the Reception Hall, the room which led out to the Wyrm’s Gate and the Ancient Basin, there were eight guards posted. Six of them were sitting around a large table in the center of the room, playing what she thought was a game of marbles. Sitting with them were four knight-aspirants, none of whom she recognized.

Dryya didn’t mind her men getting to know the aspirants. She did mind them playing a game while on duty. She especially minded that they were completely oblivious to their surroundings, judging by the fact that she had entered the room and the only ones who noticed were the two still at their posts. They were standing by the entrance to the Main Hall, the White Palace’s chief artery. The Main Hall was incredibly long and winding, feeding into almost every other part of the structure. It was also the way Dryya came in.

Both the standing guards went wide-eyed when they saw her and saluted. One of them, a whitefly, looked at her, then at the distracted guards, then back at his colleague. He smirked wide and drew a finger across his neck.

Dryya approached the game silently. One of the aspirants, a massive creature she faintly remembered seeing in the courtyard that morning, looked up and saw her. To his credit, he said nothing to the others. This creature seemed to be watching her as she drew nearer, but it was hard to tell; he wore a full suit of armor and a helmet that ended in two curved horns. She didn’t like that he was completely covered at this late hour, given that he wasn’t a guard–a helmet or mask hid the identity and could allow for potential crimes within the palace–but she supposed he was too large to actually hide. If nothing else, he didn’t seem threatening. His posture was relaxed, and she was fairly certain the deep, booming laugh she heard before entering the Reception Hall was his.

Dryya came to a stop directly behind two of the seated guards. She looked between the group, amazed that only one of the ten seated bugs had noticed someone as tall as her approaching. She cleared her throat. The assembled bugs, save the big one, quite literally jumped out of their seats.

The guard directly in front of Dryya, a grasshopper, turned around, annoyed. “Wyrm, Dregol, don’t- d-don’t…”

His face paled, eyes widening in horror. He immediately snapped off a salute, as did the other five guards. “C-c-captain… my lady, we- we…”

His words died on his lips. Dryya didn’t at first respond, shifting her icy glare from one guard to the next. Negligence at a time like this was unacceptable. Sneaking past these fools to get deeper into the Palace and closer to the King would have been child’s play. Any halfway competent assassin could do it. The two still by the Great Hall were only guarding one of the Reception Hall’s four exits. They couldn’t do a squad’s work by themselves.

“Who instigated this?” Drya asked icily.

Nine of the ten bugs standing were practically shaking in their boots. Naturally, then, it was the big one who answered. “I did, my lady,” he said, voice deep and accented in a way Dryya didn’t recognize. “Everyone is so tense around here–I wanted to lighten the mood. I thought a little game would do us all some good.”

“So you took it upon yourself, then, to distract my guards,” she said.

One of said guards, a ladybug, made to rise in the big one’s defense. “C-capta-”

One glare shut her down. “You six will return to your posts, now, before I make you run the length of this whole palace!” she snapped. The guards scrambled to get away from her, racing for their posts without so much as a look back.

Dryya turned her attention back to the aspirants. “Did any of you compete today?” she demanded.

All four of them shook their heads.

“Then don’t you think,” she said, leaning towards them and putting her full weight on the table, “that you should be sleeping? Tomorrow’s trial will require all your strength.”

“But I’m not tire- oomph!” one of them said, cut off by an elbow to his ribs.

“That wasn’t a suggestion, Bes!” whispered the woman with the elbow. “We-we’ll be going, miss! You’ll ‘ave no more trouble from us, promise!”

Three of the aspirants dissipated. Only the big one remained.

“I did not intend to cause any trouble,” he said once they were alone. “It does me well to see a bug smile. I offer my sincerest apologies for complicating your defense of the Palace. In hindsight, I could have chosen a better place to spread my cheer.”

“You think?” Dryya asked sarcastically. She shook her head, then extended one arm in the direction the other aspirants went. It was as plain a dismissal as anything her voice could deliver.

The big one bowed his head. “I have displeased you. Not a state of being one wishes to occupy at this time. I will make it up to you, Lady.”

“Please don’t,” Dryya said.

It was too late; there was renewed vigor in the big one’s voice. “I will win tomorrow’s combat bracket, Lady Dryya. That will be my first act of repentance.”

Dryya sighed loudly. “Just go,” she said, exasperated.

The creature dipped his head respectfully. “As you wish, my lady. We will meet again tomorrow, after I win!”

He turned and lumbered off the same way the other aspirants went. Dyya watched him go, both frustrated and, despite herself, somewhat intrigued. In the face of her guards’ negligence, however, such intrigue was quickly forgotten. She turned to them and raised her voice so she could be heard throughout the Reception Hall:

“The next one of you to leave their post without authorization will be scrubbing the Palace walls until they’re white enough to blind. Do I make myself clear?”

One chorus of frightened “Yes, ma’am!”s later and Dryya left the Reception Hall, making for the part of the Palace occupied by the aspirants.

--------------------

Her patrol was nearly done when she heard quiet muttering in the dark.

Dryya didn’t bother actually policing the barracks where the aspirants slept, but she still went through the corridors and halls where they were. Those aspirants still awake parted before her like a stick through water. There was nothing particularly out of the ordinary about those places other than the carpet of dust which now coated the otherwise pristine white floors. She made a note to talk to the cleaning staff when she got the chance. The aspirants hadn’t been set up for more than a few days and they’d already made a mess.

It was when she was leaving that Dryya heard the noise. It was coming from the direction of the courtyard, so she slipped away from the barracks as quietly as she could and crept towards it. The courtyard was a nexus point in the White Palace; there must have been two dozen halls and pathways connected to the enormous room. The word “yard”, even, was something of a misnomer, seeing as how the only vegetation which existed inside came from what the White Lady had slowly been growing. Like the rest of the Palace and unlike what the term “courtyard” implied, it didn’t open up to the “sky”. Instead, the courtyard’s walls ended when they connected to a massive glass dome far, far overhead.

The muttering was coming from one of the four main halls connected to the courtyard. Dryya peaked inside from around a corner and saw an unfamiliar bug, pacing back and forth. Hers was a form the captain had never seen before. She was massive, far taller than Dryya herself but not quite to the scale of that troublemaking fellow she chastised in the Reception Hall. She wore a long grey cloak which brushed against the floor as she paced.

How strange.

“Nym’majesty… che’ wishes for your hearing… mel’nail is sharp, ready to blood… nym’majesty, che’ hears the call, came. The Lands Serene call for che’, say that there is harm. Che’ wants not for harm, nym’majesty…”

Prayer?

The bug went on. Dryya didn’t know what any of this was, nor did it seem relevant to her. It was a little unnerving, honestly. So long as the creepy thing kept to herself, there was no harm in leaving her be.

Mind made up, she turned to leave. Just as she began to sneak away, however, she heard a voice cry out. “Le’mer! Le’mer, come to me. Le’hon, do you fear the foreigner in the dark? Is le’mer not Dryya the Fierce?”

Yep, definitely creepy.

Dryya stepped out into the open. The creature raced towards her and Dryya had to fight back the urge to flinch. Anger immediately flooded her mind and tried to choke that misplaced fear out. Since when was she intimidated by anything–or anyone?

The bug stopped right in front of Dryya. She was nearly twice her size; Dryya had to strain her neck to meet her eyes. The thing bent over and took a step forwards, drawing closer. Dryya’s heart raced; she took a step back.

The tall being giggled. “Che’ intimidates? It is, shall we say, unintentional? Che’ brings a nail from Lands Serene, far away. Che’ comes to serve. Many set out, but only che’ comes, yes?”

Dryya swallowed and found her nerve. “What are you?” she asked. “I have never… that is, nothing has ever…” She found that she couldn’t admit her fear to the other bug. Her pride wouldn’t allow it.

The creature snapped her head sharply to the right faster than Dryya could blink. “What is che’? Le’hon wishes to know che’? Che’ could enjoy friendship, but ull wai! Che’ unnerves. It cannot be helped. Nym’knight, nym’hand is courageous, yes? Meled’knight, you are brave? Che’ is a roach from the Lands Serene.”

She giggled again. “There are many like che’, but none so independent. Che’ wished for freedom, heard nym’majesty’s call. Che’ has travelled for so long, nahlo.”

Dryya was having a hard time understanding this creature. From what she surmised, the bug before her was a very off-putting roach from a distant land who couldn’t help the fear she caused in others. Was it a biological factor? Pheremones, perhaps? And what did she mean by “majesty’s call”? Did the Pale King bring her here? That thought took her back, far back, to her own recruitment.

This creature gave Dryya much to think about. Apparently, she was still vulnerable to fear. She thought that weakness was beaten out of her when she was young. Apparently, it was still capable of influencing her actions. She needed to train. Training would help her overcome any weakness, mental or physical.

Training…

She honed in on the thought, using it as a focus. And then, just as quickly as it appeared, Dryya’s fear was gone. It was drawn from her mind as poison is drawn from a wound. Her heart slowed in her chest. Her breathing regularized. Blinking rapidly, she looked up at the creature for answers. The stranger, for her part, brought up two small hands from within her robe and applauded. Dryya absently wondered how many she had.

“Chalce, chalce! Che’ applauds le’mer. Concentration, yes, and so quickly! Le’mer’s will is stronger than most. Meled’knight, che’ understands your name of Fierce. Che’ cannot help the way others feel. It is natural. Concentration on something important to le’mer is key.”

Incredible. Absolutely incredible.

“Tell me your name, aspirant,” Dryya said, amazed. What an ability this one had!

“Che’ is called many things, but preferred name is Ze’mer. Che’ will answer to that most often, le’hon.”

“Ze’mer…” Dryya repeated. She looked up at the other bug in a new light. She so quickly now had ceased to frighten, though her towering stature still marked her as a potential threat. “I recognize that name. You won today’s combat bracket.”

Ze’mer puffed up with what the knight assumed was pride. It was hard to tell. Dryya found herself unexpectedly wishing she had stayed to watch the day’s proceedings after all. She was curious to see her fighting style.

She shook her head disbelievingly. “Having just been on the receiving end of that trick of yours, I think I understand why.”

Ze’mer sighed. “Ull wai! Che’ has no trick. For combat, fear is useful. In friend-making, not so much.”

So it isn’t something she can control… yet. Still a useful ability for a warrior to have.

Dryya could well imagine a creature like this in the service of her King. She felt certain the roach would go far in the Tournament.

Dryya reached up and patted Ze’mer’s arm–she was tall, but even she couldn’t reach the other woman’s shoulder. “Give it time,” she said. “I have a feeling that you’re in the right place.”

Chapter Text

Having learned from her encounter with Ze’mer, Dryya decided to watch the next day’s combat bracket in its entirety. It wouldn’t do to miss the rise of another potential champion.

So far, it was… incredibly dull.

The warriors she looked down on from her balcony so far above were uninspired fighters. They were simple creatures, using nails and lances like clubs rather than as extensions of themselves. That was what a warrior’s weapon was meant to be, after all: part of the body, another limb, just as natural as an arm or leg. Dryya’s own nail was decades old and she was so used to its weight that she felt off-balance without it. That was the kind of expertise the Pale King demanded and deserved.

He should have let her form the Knights from the Palace Guard, like she asked. At least then, all his champions would be consummate professionals personally trained by his chief lieutenant. Though Ze’mer seemed a unique find, so far she was a diamond in the rough. The bugs she watched play at fighting were meant to be protected, not do the protecting.

Fortunately, the bracket wasn’t even halfway over. The morning was late, but the challenge would continue until nightfall. There was still time for someone to impress her, and impress her they had better: whoever won today would have to fight Ze’mer tomorrow, and so far she didn’t like anyone’s odds.

“Ahem.”

Dryya instinctively rolled her eyes. Lurien.

“Hello, Watcher,” she said, turning around. Lurien stood before her, again just inside the room attached to the balcony. His arms were invisible under his cloak, as was almost every other part of his body. Only his feet and shins remained exposed. She assumed that was to keep his dark cloak clean. Not for the first time, she wondered what kind of bug Lurien was, or if anyone else knew.

“Hand,” the Watcher replied. Unlike yesterday, there was no emotion in his voice. “You wanted to talk about one of the aspirants?”

“I do,” Dryya said. She left the balcony and gestured for Lurien to follow her inside. It was quieter there, easier to speak and be heard. The two wound up back in the exact spots they occupied the day before, with the knight behind her desk and the Watcher in front of it.

“Care to tell me which?” Lurien asked as soon as they were seated.

“Ze’mer,” Dryya said.

“Ah, yesterday’s big winner,” the Watcher said. He brought his hands out of his all-encompassing robe and pressed them together. “She’s an interesting specimen, isn’t she? What did you want to know?”

“I met her last night,” Dryya said. “She is strange, and a foreigner at that. Though she never raised her nail, I got the sense that she knows well how to use it. There’s an unnatural air about her, too. She instills a sense of fear in everyone nearby. Even I was affected by it–it was overwhelming, and I am not accustomed to losing control.”

“You’re suspicious of her? I understand the feeling,” Lurien replied. “I’ve been watching her. Her every coming and going has been monitored and logged. I didn’t screen her myself, but one of my aides told me how frightened he felt when she was near. I decided to approach her and ask about it, but I felt nothing. I returned later with a different aide to see if the effect was in fact real and found her pacing the halls, praying. Praying! Can you imagine that? A foreigner has come to our home to worship our King.”

Dryya shrugged. “His Highness is a mighty figure and his cult is useful. When the object of worship is the reigning monarch, a religious populace is a loyal populace. That his light shines even in foreign lands is an interesting notion, though. Did he do it intentionally, to attract this new champion, or is it simply a byproduct of his power? I doubt he'll tell us if we ask. The King does so love his secrets.”

“His Majesty certainly doesn’t seem displeased by his worship,” Lurien said. “At the very least, he doesn’t discourage it.”

“Could he?” Dryya asked. “The Pale King is beyond our ability to truly know. I think you and I have come close, or at least as close as any in Hallownest have. When one can do what he can, does it not make sense to praise it as divine? His power is so far beyond ours. He raised this land from savagery to civility in a single mortal lifetime. He gave them the freedom to choose, and they have chosen worship. Can he take that away? Should he?”

She paused. “I can say this, at least: I do not believe he came here to be worshipped. I believe he came to rule and be King, not to play God. But then, I don’t think he minds it. To a mind such as his, perhaps to be King and God are one in the same.”

It was Lurien’s turn to pause, both of them taking a moment to reflect on their King and their place in his Court. “Perhaps, then, that Ze’mer of yours was being genuine,” he said finally. “Though an unnerving creature, the King’s power could feasibly draw servants from the ‘Lands Serene.’”

“You think she can be trusted, then?” Dryya asked, leaning forwards in her seat.

“I am not so shallow as to dismiss a bug because they appear frightening,” Lurien said, and was that- was that humor she detected in his voice? Was Lurien the Watcher cracking a joke? He would know a thing or two about looking scary. She would too, she supposed.

“Thinking of finally making a friend, Lurien?” Dryya asked.

“Certainly not,” the Watcher said, affronted. “I was merely answering your question. Is the creature Ze’mer a threat to palace security? Possibly, but no more so than any of the other vagrants you’ve brought to us. Can she be trusted? Perhaps, given time. None of these aspirants are yet known factors. Is she dangerous in battle? I shall leave that question up to you. Combat is your enterprise.”

“I see,” Dryya said. She rose to her feet. “Thank you, Watcher. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Indeed,” Lurien said, rising with her. He turned for the door, but looked back just before he exited. The distant echoes of combat far below rang around them. “Oh, and Hand? The next time you wish to wax poetic about the nature of God, perhaps we might do it in a less noisy place.”

Dryya cracked a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

—-----------------------------------------------

Dryya took her place back on the balcony after her meeting with Lurien. To her surprise and reluctant pleasure, the proceedings quickly became more interesting.

Over the next few hours, Dryya watched a number of more-impressive aspirants throw themselves into their battles with fervor. They moved just a bit more gracefully, launched attacks with just a bit more precision. It was… encouraging, she supposed. Most of the fights still lacked that panache she expected a professional to have. Some ended too quickly for her to get a sense of the combatant’s prowess. Those engagements were useful for quickly dispelling the weak from the championship, but triumph over such creatures was no true victory. To truly take stock of which of the so-called warriors below her were worth the Pale King’s time, she needed the strong to combat the strong.

That was coming soon.

She took care to memorize key details about the fighters who put in a good showing. There were several: a butterfly whose aerial advantage allowed him to befuddle and outmaneuver his opponents, a beetle with a giant curved horn on her head that she charged her enemies with at full speed, and a wasp with a mean-looking stinger. One she took particular note of was a small, lithe, green thing that she was quickly able to identify as a follower of Unn. She was agile and fast, able to weave through her opponent’s attacks and overpower them with some sort of plant-based magic that Dryya was only passingly familiar with.

All of those warriors had one thing in common: they used their abilities as a crutch. When it came down to it, none of them had anything resembling proper footwork or a decent grasp of nailplay. They fell one by one as the brackets got tighter and superior aspirants climbed the ladder. To her surprise, the one doing much of the dispatching was the big fool from last night. Just as he said he would, he was effectively and cleanly dismantling his competition.

The big fool didn’t carry a weapon. His body was his weapon. Dryya watched him clean house with nothing but slight movements and unnatural grace. He reacted instead of acting, letting his enemies come to him. It was an impressive display. He flattened the wasp with one decisive punch, grabbed the beetle by the horn and flipped her through the air, and was even fast enough to catch the butterfly by the wings. When the dust settled, there were only two aspirants left standing: the big fool and the green witch. Dryya found herself favoring the larger bug. She respected his technique.

The fight wasn’t a long one. Though the knight found herself admitting that her earlier assessment of the witch wasn’t a fair one–she was crafty and good on her feet–she wasn’t fast enough to stay out of the big one’s reach for long. Her defeat came when she leapt high into the air and conjured a massive vine from her hands. She launched it at her opponent like a spear, but the big fool was deceptively fast. He caught the vine, wrapped it in his hands, and yanked the Witch out of the sky. It was a brutal finisher. She hit the ground hard and seemed to be out cold. The big one was the bracket’s winner.

Tomorrow, he would fight Ze’mer. Today, he would get what he asked for the night previously: a second meeting. Dryya could forgive his slip-up in the Welcome Hall if he had that kind of skill.

Down below, as she watched him, the big one looked up at her balcony and waved. Were the gesture coming from any other bug, she might have thought it mocking. From him, based on their admittedly very short encounter, she knew it to be sincere.

Mind made up, the knight pushed away from the balcony and headed back inside. It was time she paid today’s champion a visit.

—-----------------

Hegemol watched as Dryya’s gleaming white figure disappeared from the distant balcony. She was so high up that she resembled little more than a speck of glinting light. He wondered how she saw them from so far away.

A groan of pain turned his attention back to his fallen competitor. Isma was already awake and trying to rise to her feet. Grinning, Hegemol extended a hand to help her up, one which his colleague gratefully accepted.

“You were excellent,” he told her once she was standing on her own two feet. “Your abilities are like nothing I’ve ever seen before! Truly, you are something to behold.”

Isma offered a pained smile. “Thanks, but you don’t need to try and make me feel better. I just made a fool out of myself in front of everybody. What was I thinking, trying to hit you with that vine? If you can catch a butterfly, you can catch a vine.”

“You are being far too hard on yourself,” Hegemol assured. “You finished second. That’s good! It took my own great mass to take you down.”

“I guess,” Isma said. Her smile turned genuine. “Thanks, Hegemol. If anyone had to kick my butt, I’m glad it was you. You’ll be a great knight.”

Hegemol patted Isma on the back with his massive hand. There was no force behind it; Isma hardly felt a thing. “Don’t count yourself out yet,” he said good-naturedly. “I hear from some of my new friends in the Palace Guard that we’ll be doing agility challenges next. I don’t expect I’ll be performing quite so well in those.”

Isma’s eyes widened. “R-really? That’s great!”

It was a chance to really prove her mettle and demonstrate to the Pale Knight and the Court that the Green was valuable. An agility challenge was exactly what she needed.

She beamed at her friend, but her joy quickly turned to horror as she realized exactly what she said. “O-oh, not that I want you to do poorly! I just got excited about the idea of doing something- I mean, that is to say that I-”

She put her face in her hands. “Oh, I’m sorry Hegemol. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Hegemol laughed, amused by his small friend. “As many of our colleagues learned today, my hide is not so easy to pierce. Rest easy, Lady–I take no offense. I am glad that you will get a chance to shine in a challenge better suited to your skillset.”

Isma looked back up. Her face was flushed a deep green.

“Though I will admit I don’t quite understand how you expect to do well,” Hegemol continued. “I mean, you are a plant. Plants aren’t known for their mobility.”

Isma grinned and slugged Hegemol in the shoulder. The larger bug didn’t seem to feel it. “It just doesn’t make sense,” he said.

“Isma!”

Another bug was shoving through the receding crowd of fading aspirants to reach them.

“Perhaps I will outperform you after all,” Hegemol said. “I will leap through a few hoops while you stand still and photosynthesize.”

“Isma!”

Isma turned from her friend to see who was calling her name just as the other bug came to a stop. He was a beetle with a deep red shell, taller than Isma herself but shorter than Hegemol. That wasn’t saying much, of course. Everyone was shorter than Hegemol.

Her flush grew deeper. “Hello, Ogrim.”

Ogrim grinned, wide and true. “An incredible performance! You move like a dancer! You’re so fast and graceful! And you, Hegemol, the control you have over your body is immaculate. My friends, the pair of you are something else!”

Hegemol bowed his mighty head. “Ah, you are too kind, Ogrim.”

“Not at all! It was an excellent match. Even better is that Knight Dryya actually saw this one!” Ogrim countered. “Very fortunate! She didn’t watch yesterday’s bracket, so I wasn’t so lucky.”

Isma’s smile morphed half into a grimace. “That… might be for the best, right?”

Ogrim looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “Of course not! How am I to learn from my failures without proper feedback? That Ze’mer creature flattened me faster than Hegemol did you! She caught my shell and threw me across the entire courtyard! If the Knight Dryya had been observing, perhaps I might have had some feedback.”

Isma sighed. “She’s got way better things to do than waste time with us,” she said. She wasn’t sure how that made her feel.

Ogrim tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Now it was Isma’s turn to gawk. “‘What do I mean?’ She’s only the most legendary warrior in all of Hallownest. She’s only been serving the Pale Court since before it existed. By Unn, I mean, it’s embarrassing enough that she had a front-row seat to Hegemol thrashing me-”

“Sorry,” Hegemol said.

“-but if she came down here and saw me all jittery and freaked out, she’d never let me into the Knights! The last thing I need right now is for the King’s champion to throw all my mistakes back in my face!”

Ogrim squinted at her. “You should not be so unconfident, Isma. I think if Lady Dryya were here, she would tell you to trust yourself. You shouldn’t be so wrapped up in what others may or may not think of you.”

He grinned. “Trust me! I’m an expert in that field. You should see what I usually fight with.”

Isma’s face burned. She briefly wondered what that meant, but her thoughts quickly shifted back to the gleaming figure in white. The Pale King’s knight was the first of his servants and the most formidable weapon in his arsenal. She was a creature of the Pale Court. “I- I know. Thanks, Ogrim, really. I don’t usually have confidence issues, but it’s- it’s Dryya, you know? She’s terrifying.” For more reasons than one.

“I think we all want to impress the Pale Knight,” Ogrim assured. “You aren’t alone in that.”

“Well, if you do, then it looks like you’ll soon have your chance,” Hegemol said. When the other two looked at him for clarification, he tilted his head towards one of the courtyard’s many entrances. “Here she comes.”

Isma whipped around lightning fast, moving as if she were still in combat. Her heart racing, she saw on approach the woman who held her future, and the future of the Greenpath, in her hands: the Pale Knight, Champion of the Pale Court, and Second to the King. Dryya, brazen white armor practically glowing in the courtyard’s light, was here–and she was making right for them.

—---------------

The first thing Dryya noticed about Hegemol was that he had a gaggle of other aspirants with him. She immediately recognized the little green one as the witch he so cleanly handled in the day’s last fight, but she didn’t think she’d ever seen the beetle before. He must have competed in yesterday’s trial. They were talking easily, laughing and being friendly with one another. How nice that must be for them, she thought.

The other aspirants parted for her as she pushed through the courtyard. Most of them, already on their way back to their barracks, doubled their speed in their haste to get out of her way. A few stopped and gawked at the sight of the Pale Knight, no longer looming over them like a goddess but now walking amongst them like a bug. The Pale Court was full of legendary figures, ranging from the Pale King himself to Lurien the Watcher, but martial stories, such as the ones she always featured in, have always held a special place in the mind of the living. Dryya knew her own fame, but she didn’t care for it.

“That was quite the performance you put on today,” Dryya said by way of greeting. She came to a stop a short ways in front of Hegemol, Isma, and Ogrim. Of the three, only the big one didn’t seem affected by her presence. Ogrim was practically drooling, his eyes gone wide, while Isma appeared… nervous?

“Well, Lady, I did tell you that I was going to win,” Hegemol said, dipping his head respectfully.

“Indeed,” Dryya replied, suddenly finding herself very distracted by his companions. Their staring was making her uncomfortable. “Are your friends alright?”

Ogrim twitched when he heard Dryya mention him. He bowed low. “I have never been more alright, my lady!” he proclaimed excitedly. “It is an honor to stand before such a noble defender of the realm, and in the White Palace, no less! I have long dreamed of this day.”

Isma spoke with a shaky voice. “Indeed,” she said. “I… yes, I agree with Ogrim. It’s an honor, my lady.” She offered a curtsy, but didn’t meet Dryya’s eyes.

The Pale Knight wasn’t here for them. She looked at Isma and Ogrim both, two aspirant bugs from nowhere important, and perhaps should have found them uninteresting. She already had qualms with Isma’s fighting style, and Ogrim had clearly lost whichever battle he partook in the day before. Still, there was something about them she found intriguing. Ogrim, at least, seemed to have spirit. Isma was ferocious in battle, but now couldn’t meet her gaze. How curious.

Dryya studied them each in turn, but only for a moment. “Your names, aspirants?” she asked.

“I am Ogrim, my lady,” the beetle said. His tone was grandiose. Just hearing him speak made Dryya think of gallant deeds and heroic quests. It was clear that his mind was entirely dedicated to his task and the Tournament. If nothing else, this one had spirit.

“Isma, Great Knight,” said the plant. “Isma of the Greenpath. I bring greetings from the remaining lands of Unn.”

There was an edge to her voice–she sounded some combination of intimidated, starstruck, and bitter. Dryya caught it. The others did too, if the sudden uncomfortable look on Ogrim’s face was anything to go by.

An aspirant with a grudge? How thrilling. Dryya remembered visiting the Greenpath once, long ago. She was her King’s escort. A deal was negotiated with Unn, the higher being who created Hallownest’s wilds: in exchange for ceding half of her territory to Hallownest and allowing free access for all bugs to her lands, she would receive protection and guarantees for what was left. The ceded lands became the White Lady’s personal garden and the kingdom’s breadbasket. Food from the region sustained the citizens of the City of Tears as it was being populated. Dryya wondered if that was what Isma was bitter about. Perhaps a good spar would put the plant woman in her place.

Another time, maybe.

The Pale Knight smiled thinly. “Your service honors your King, aspirants. Should you perform well in the upcoming trials, perhaps we shall speak again.”

Isma seemed to take the hint. “My lady,” she said, curtsying again. She turned and left without another word. Ogrim looked after her worriedly.

“It was truly an honor, Lady Dryya,” he said, his voice more muted than before. “I hope you will watch my next trial. My victories are dedicated to the Pale King and to you, as my service always has been.” He bowed once more and scurried off after Isma, who was already almost out of the courtyard. Dryya watched them go, not turning back to face Hegemol until they were gone.

“What strange company you keep,” she told him once they were alone.

“They are lovely bugs,” he replied. “Ogrim is perhaps the noblest creature I ever met, if not the most focused. Isma, for her part, has a generous soul. She is very kind for a warrior. I find myself wondering if this path she’s on comes from choice or some perceived duty.”

“How perceptive,” Dryya said. This large creature continued to surprise her. “And what of you, aspirant? What’s your name? Your story?”

“My name is Hegemol,” came the reply. “As for my story, you may not wish to hear it. I imagine it would bore one of such high standing as yourself.”

“Nonsense,” Dryya replied genuinely. “Your performance impressed me today. I would know more of the man who so boldly declares he shall become one of the Pale King’s knights.”

“If the Lady insists,” Hegemol said. “It starts very simply. One day, I was born. I spent some time between here and there, went from one end of the kingdom to the other, and settled in the Crossroads Watch. The Crossroads are a peaceful, quiet place. The company is good, but the activity is low. I wanted to do more–see if I was worthy. When we received the Pale King’s summons, several of us decided to answer the call.”

He sounded amused. “In fact, you met three of my fellow guards last night. You terrorized them out of the Welcome Hall.”

“But not you,” Dryya said.

“No,” he agreed. “I am not so easily cowed. But I must again reiterate my apologies for that incident. I meant you no disrespect. In the Watch, we often play games to pass the time. The Crossroads are a wide, open space. We can sit and play while still observing our surroundings. We have gotten very good at that. I didn’t expect it would be an issue in the White Palace. After all, who would attack this place?”

“The Pale King has enemies,” Dryya said. “Cowards who lurk in the depths of Hallownest’s glory, burrowing in the dark to hide from his light. We must be ever-vigilant for dangers presented by such base creatures. That is the mission of the Palace Guard. It will be one shared by the knights, once the selection is made.”

“Then once I am chosen,” Hegemol said in good humor, “I shall take that lesson to heart. You will never catch me playing marbles again.”

Dryya laughed, the sound genuine and loose. “You’re alright, Hegemol,” she said, and she meant it. It had been a long, long time since she fell so quickly into easy conversation with another bug. There was something bright yet subtle about Hegemol. He was so large and attention-grabbing, but his voice was quiet and his eyes were keen. He was perceptive, more so than perhaps even she herself.

“Ah, that is what we all strive for. To be regarded as ‘alright’,” Hegemol replied good-naturedly. He took a moment, studying her intently. “And, if I may fall upon your good graces, there is a question I would ask you.”

Dryya didn’t see any harm in the request, though perhaps she should have. “Of course,” she said.

Nothing about his posture or tone of voice indicated that he understood the totality of the topic he had in mind. “If I may, I have long wondered how a Mantis Warrior came to serve the Pale King,” he said, and there it was. There was the inevitable end to such pleasing conversation. It was only a matter of time. “In my experience, the Mantis Tribe is isolationist and rather xenophobic-”

Dryya went very, very still. Hegemol noticed.

“My lady?” he asked, suddenly aware that he had perhaps overstepped.

“Too perceptive,” Dryya said softly. “Much too perceptive.”

A duel. Not a duel.

She turned away and stared up at the domed expanse that was the courtyard’s roof. Somewhere far above, the Fungal Wastes stretched on forever.

“There is no mantis in the Pale King’s service,” she said distantly. “Only a dreamer.”

Assassin. Coward.

“My lady?” Hegemol asked again, confused.

“A pale dreamer.”

Hegemol said nothing else. Dryya turned back, briefly, and looked him in the eye–but her gaze was absent. No one had broached this topic with her for quite some time.

“That will be all, aspirant,” she said, and she left.

Hegemol watched her go, a million questions on his lips.

—-------------

Elsewhere…

At the bottom of the civilized world were four thrones. They were tall and black, carved from ancient stone in an ancient place. They were meant to seat the noble lords of the Wastes, proud gods of battle who honored worthy challengers and enemies as their own kin. Instead, three of them sat empty. Only the fourth was occupied, claimed by a lone mantis. She was tall, even for her kind. Her chiton was blackened by age and a lifetime of combat. Her face was scarred and angry. Her claws were long, sharp, and well-used. An ancient, well-forged lance rested in her seat against her shoulder. At present, she was reclined in her throne, one claw supporting her head. Before her, grovelling on his knees, was a creature rarely seen in the Tribe’s throne room: a male mantis.

“The troops are ready to move on your command,” he said, voice quivering. “I- I swear to you, it’s been done exactly as you ordered.”

“Trying to surprise me for once, are you?” the throned mantis asked, voice neutral and completely disinterested.

The male mantis looked up. When their eyes met, he flinched and cowered back to the ground. “I promise you, Lord, that the army is ready to move. You will find no fault with your soldiers.”

“It is not fault with my soldiers that I expect to find,” the throned mantis replied dismissively.

The male grit his teeth. A clacking sound rose from his throat. “I have done everything-”

“You have done the bare minimum and barely succeeded,” the throned one cut him off, voice sharp. “You are weak in body and spirit. Your claws are dull. Your carapace is soft. Your will could not contest with a fungling.”

The male’s eyes flared. He rose to his feet, fists clenched. “I will not sit here a-”

“On your knees!” the seated mantis thundered, sitting up in her throne. She made no other physical move; the male mantis, fuming, did as instructed. He fell back to his knees and again averted his gaze, perhaps now more of shame than fear.

The throned mantis relaxed at her subordinate’s submission. “Very good,” she said, calmer now. “Know your place.”

The male said nothing.

“Now, assuming that you have in fact done as I asked, you may go,” she continued. “I grow weary of your grovelling.”

She flicked one of her claws dismissively. The male stiffly rose once again from his position on the ground. Briefly, their eyes met. The throned mantis saw fire in the dark depths of her subordinate’s soul; he looked ready to strike her. She felt a twisted sense of pride at the thought.

But instead, more disappointment. The male turned away. “Yes, mother,” he growled. He leapt into the air, latched on to one of the village’s many vertical pathways with his claws, and climbed away.

Sighing, the throned mantis rested her head in her claws. Below her, one member of her tribe yet remained: another mantis, this one female, stood next to her throne. She was old, evidenced by the dark, mottled blue of her chiton and the lines on her face. She held a lance in hand, though unlike her Lord’s it appeared to be ceremonial in nature. Its hilt was a dark brown and its blade was golden. Like its owner, the lance wore its years heavily on its frame: there were cracks in its still-shining blade and its vine-woven hilt showed signs of wear.

“You are too harsh with the child,” she said, unprompted.

The throned mantis sneered. “Spare me your lectures, elder. I have no use for them.”

“He is young,” the elder said, seemingly uncaring of the Lord’s rebuke. “You foster only bitterness in his heart.”

“He lacks conviction,” the Mantis Lord snarled. “He is spineless and frail. If he deserved love he would earn it. Better yet, he would try and take it from me. Giving him even the simple task of organizing my army has been a constant headache. How can such a weak, pathetic creature succeed my authority?”

The elder stared impassively up at the One on the Throne--and the three that were empty at her side. “There will be none of us to succeed your authority if you go through with your plans. You know our history. We both lived through it. The Mantis Tribe cannot survive another conflict with the Pale King.”

“Survive?” the Lord scoffed. “That is all we have been doing: surviving, feeding off the scraps his royal majesty has deigned to leave us. We will have glory again, elder, even if I have to drag the rest of you towards it kicking and screaming.”

“This grudge you carry is not worth the cost,” the elder said. “How many fine warriors will die so that you might sate your thirst for ridiculous vengeance?”

“It is not your place to question me!” the throned mantis snapped, rising to her feet. She leapt down, lance in hand, and landed next to the older woman. She towered over the elder, barely contained fury emanating from her black shell. “You have made your disagreements plenty clear, as have many others. I say to you what I said to everyone else: defeat me, as our custom dictates, and you may do with what pitiful remnant of a Tribe we have become as you will. If not-”

She leaned in close, eyes narrowed to slits. “-then fall in line.”

The elder bowed her head. Smiling dangerously, the Lord turned and began to walk back to her throne.

“You cannot hope to defeat the Wyrm, Elara,” the elder called after her, voice taking on a desperate pitch.

The Mantis Lord looked over her shoulder, finding the elder's words more annoying than angering. “Defeat the Wyrm? Gods, we’ve been over this. I couldn’t care less about the Wyrm and his army of toy soldiers. There are pieces in play which will neutralize them.”

She leapt back up onto her throne, resuming her earlier relaxed position. “The only thing that matters is his slave. We need to bring our Pale Dreamer… home.”

Chapter Text

”I have long wondered how a Mantis Warrior came to serve our King.”

In retrospect, Dryya could have handled that exchange better.

Nearly a day had gone by. The Pale Knight was seated behind her desk in her observation room, alone with her thoughts. Vivid memories kept her up the night before; she didn’t get much sleep. Ordinarily, such references to her own species didn’t stir such a reaction from her–but then, ordinarily she wasn’t referred to as a mantis. Such conversations were clinical and distant. She could sit through strategy meetings and economic councils regarding the Mantis Tribe all day: how do we defend against their raids? How do we coerce them into a partnership?

There was, of course, no working with the Mantis Tribe. She would know. Dryya was a mantis.

She was… and she was not.

It’d been so long since anyone referred to her by her species name. She supposed she’d been taking that fact for granted. The Mantis Tribe was so reclusive and so xenophobic these days that sometimes even she could pretend they didn’t exist. Few laid eyes upon those ancient warriors; fewer still lived to tell of the experience.

It helped that she didn’t exactly look the part of a typical mantis. She sported a long, hefty, third crest atop her head as opposed to the usual two–not an unheard of feature among the Mantis Tribe, but rare. Her kind were far from the only bugs in Hallownest to have claws instead of hands, so that was nothing unusual. She herself had three instead of just one, yet another variant feature which further widened the gap between her and her kin. Lastly, her chiton was a stark, near-blinding white: when she accepted the Pale King’s blessing and entered into his service, Dryya embraced his power wholeheartedly. She wanted to put distance between herself and her past. She wasn’t sure if that desire had something to do with her physical transformation or if that was going to happen regardless, but her body entirely lacked the usual deep blue or green hues one would expect from a mantis. She was the Pale Knight and she reflected her King.

So most bugs didn’t recognize Dryya as a mantis on sight. She never made any mention of her own species herself. The Pale King didn’t–would never–parade her around like a trophy. Before yesterday, there were only three bugs in all of Hallownest who knew her origins: her King, the White Lady, and Lurien. Now, she had to add Hegemol to that list–and who knew what he would do with the information.

Dryya’s past was an inherently dangerous secret. The Mantis Tribe held some sway over the population as the boogeymen of the Fungal Wastes, the one-time butchers of merchants, civilians, and explorers. They hadn’t made much noise over the past ten years, but their fearful legend held. Her own legend, meanwhile, was without peer. She was the first of the Pale King’s servants, his piercing blade, his Hand. Her master expected the best from her. She had always delivered, but here, now, there was risk. If the citizenry turned on her, would the Pale King still value her service? If she became more of a burden than an asset to the White Palace, who would she be?

Objectively, she knew this would never happen. The Pale King and the White Lady cared little for who she had once been. They valued her for her. She was too useful to the King to be so casually discarded, at least. She wanted to believe that. She had to.

Objective truth, however, mattered little in the face of overwhelming emotion, and Dryya feared rejection. Even more, she feared being known.

The idea of being outed as a mantis now, during the middle of a tournament–a Kagath she organized based on their traditions–was terrifying. She’d been at odds with herself for so long that if she were forced to confront her own dual identity she might just snap. She always felt somewhat guilty just by having the thought of organizing a Kagath, let alone actually hosting one. Such a thing was not to be done by an outsider. It was forbidden. Forbidden! She was able to sequester such feelings away to the back of her mind up to this point, justifying her actions as service to her King, but now…

Now, she had to confront herself. Her inscrutability was her shield. The more who knew her origins, the more who knew her weakness. Her shame. Without her legend, Dryya was a series of shatterpoints liable to break. She could be exploited. She would be lesser. Her service would be rendered moot. Her usefulness to the King would end, and then what? Without her King, where would that leave her?

She felt like an imposter in her own skin at times. She certainly felt that way now. Memories kept her awake through most of the night. Guilt and anger warred in her mind. She didn’t regret for a second joining the Pale King, but the way she’d left… to be rejected by one’s own people was a terrible thing indeed.

She was never a very good mantis. It just so happened that her Tribe was made to agree.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Blearily, she looked up from her desk. She really didn’t feel like dealing with any of this right now–the Kagath, the aspirants, the angry thoughts in her own head. What she wanted was a nap, or in lieu of that, some of the White Lady’s special blend of tea. It had a way of soothing the mind.

She would settle for the Queen’s presence in general. She was the one person Dryya felt she could talk to about all this. She could almost hear the soothing tone of her musical voice, envision the gentle warmth of her lovely sapphire eyes… but no. She would not trouble her Lady with such things. The monarchs of Hallownest were sequestered away deep in the Palace, conducting their own affairs as they awaited the Kagath’s conclusion. Their work was too important to disturb with such minor tripe. The knight was on her own.

“Enter,” she called, knowing full well who the knocks belonged to. They were controlled and nearly mechanical, always made in the exact same rhythm. Rap, rap, rap.

Sure enough, Lurien the Watcher’s ethereal form appeared in her doorway and swiftly made his way over to her desk. For a bug who claimed to dislike company, he sure did end up in her office a lot.

“Excellent news!” he exclaimed, sounding uncharacteristically chipper. Well, chipper for him, at least–which in practice meant that his monotonous voice was just the slightest bit higher than usual. “Nearly a quarter of the participants have gone home. They have evidently accepted that they will not be joining his Majesty’s Knights. Even better is that more are expected to follow after today’s bout. My analysts seem to believe that many of the aspirants are remaining solely to witness the battle between Hegemol and Ze’mer. I expect a full third of the crowd to have dissipated by tomorrow morning!”

Dryya didn’t immediately respond. That was good news. Less aspirants meant less security risks. Frankly, she was surprised that only a third would be gone–not enough of them performed well in the combat brackets for the upcoming agility challenges to make any difference. She felt some sympathy for the failed aspirants, but such was life. Only the strong were needed here.

“Good,” she said finally, not presently able to get much more than that up her throat and out of her mouth.

Lurien finally seemed to notice that something was wrong. He tilted his cyclopian head and peered at her, only now noticing the droopiness of her dark eyes and the rough, raw, unrested look of the white chiton underneath.

“You look terrible,” he said.

Annoyance fought its way to the forefront of her storm of emotions. “I see why they call you ‘Watcher.’ Very observant,” Dryya said.

“Sarcasm is beneath you,” Lurien told her, unimpressed. “Is your current state of being going to affect your performance?”

Dryya bristled. Of course that would be his first question. “No. Of course not,” she said. The very idea was insulting. The Pale King would receive nothing less than her best even if she didn’t have it.

“Good. There's nothing to be gained by chasing demons,” Lurien said matter-of-factly. “But then, I suppose an unstructured mind like yours can’t help such things. Your past is behind you; why dig it up? Must you always seek pointless challenges?”

The Pale Knight rolled her eyes, a sour taste in her mouth. Damnable creature, he was observant–and out of touch–as ever. “What can I say? I’ve won too many fights. The only worthy battle left to be had is with myself.”

She levelled an accusatory claw in his direction. “And for the record, we aren’t all unfeeling machines like you are. Don’t speak to me as if I chose this.”

Ordinarily, the Watcher would have further argued with her. They would have snipped at each other back and forth until ultimately nothing was accomplished and everyone went home annoyed. That was how their relationship tended to work when they weren’t doing something productive and professional. Instead, he did something very out of character: he hesitated. “If it will improve your efficiency, I am willing to let you… offload your stressors,” he said, speaking slowly as if the words were painful.

Dryya’s dark eyes widened comically, Lurien’s words so ludicrous that she momentarily forgot her problems. From anyone else, she would have just ignored them–but from him? They hit her like a fully grown stag. “Wait, are you coming on to me?” she asked, completely bewildered.

Lurien stiffened in his chair. “What?!” he yelped, real emotion–not just the hint of it–bleeding into his tone for the first time. “No, of course not. That’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Don’t be absurd.”

Dryya couldn’t help it–she threw her head back and laughed, tension seeping out of her body. She laughed and laughed until she couldn’t anymore, her armored form shaking the whole time. Such a proposal would have been entirely out of character for the Watcher, who, for his part, sat fuming across from her, arms crossed over his cloak.

“Never change, Lurien,” Dryya said, still chuckling as she calmed down. She wiped her eyes. “Wyrm, I needed that.”

“If you’re quite done,” the Watcher said hotly. She wished she could see his face under that cyclopean mask. She could only imagine his expression.

Dryya waved her hand. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry. You were saying?” There was still a small grin on her face.

“I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, that it might be best for you to speak of your troubles. Get them off your chest. You need to be at your best.” The Watcher almost sounded as if he were pouting. “Your actions reflect on our master. The Pale King needs his Knight to oversee this Kagath of hers without issue. I heard tell that you ran off from Aspirant Hegemol yesterday. That is exactly the kind of spectacle we need to avoid.”

Dryya’s grin faded. “How do you-”

“I’m not called ‘the Watcher’ for nothing,” Lurien interrupted stiffly. “People talk. I listen. It’s my business to know things, and I’m very good at what I do.”

She didn’t have a good counterargument for that.

“You should be thanking me,” he continued, voice once again tightly controlled. “This is a conversation that needs to be had. What could he possibly have said to you to elicit such a reaction? It won’t do to have ideas of weakness spreading down to the common bug.”

Dryya sighed, bringing her claws back up to her temple. This was a conversation she would really rather avoid, but he was right. She was a mess. “He knows,” she said.

“Knows? Knows what?”

“Too much!” she snapped. She looked Lurien dead in the eye. “That aspirant, Hegemol. He knows that I’m a mantis. He… he knows me.”

She slouched back in her chair bitterly. “You want to talk about ideas of weakness? There we have it.”

Lurien took a moment to process that information, going very still. “I… can see why that might upset you,” he said finally. But don’t you think you might be blowing this ever so slightly out of proportion? Trust me when I say that I understand the value of inscrutability, but public knowledge of your origins won’t reduce your ability or your accomplishments.”

Dryya froze up. “I- I- no. No, that’s not- that’s unacceptable. I can’t live like that.”

Lurien’s voice softened. “Hand-”

Dryya slammed her fist down on the table. “No!” she snarled. “You don’t get to come in here and lecture me on how to handle this, you unfeeling bastard! How would you feel if your greatest shame was put out in the open for the entire kingdom to pick apart and analyze? Your greatest failings made public? Your weakness…”

Her voice turned shaky. “I can’t be a mantis, Lurien. I can’t identify myself with my own species. They threw me out for trying to save them. They called me a traitor. My own people… my…”

She cut herself off, not trusting her voice.

“Dryya,” Lurien said. His voice was gentle. Soft. It was a tone she never heard or expected to hear coming from him. What’s more–he used her name. Wordlessly, she met his gaze. “You’ve lived with this for too long. You’ve let it eat you up and twist you around until now, at just the possibility of it getting out, you’re falling to pieces. Maybe this… maybe it’s a good thing.”

The Pale Knight shook her head silently. The Watcher sighed.

“Let’s shift focus, then. Let’s assume that this mantis story of yours is truly as disruptive as you say it is–and let me interject that your reaction to it is far more destabilizing than the story itself. But for argument’s sake, let’s assume that such isn’t the case.”

Lurien put his hands together and put his elbows on her desk. “Would you like to know something about aspirant Hegemol?”

The question took Dryya by surprise. “What? Where’s this going?”

“Patience, Hand,” he said. “I asked you a question: would you like to know something about aspirant Hegemol?”

“Is this the part where you tell me everything there is to know about his daily routine?” Dryya snarked. “His eating habits? His politics?”

There was a barely discernible hitch in her voice. She hated herself for it.

Lurien ignored it and her snark both. She felt briefly grateful for that. “He was a City Sentinel, once,” he said. “A sergeant, I believe. He served for ten years. His record was exemplary. Then, in his final year, he bore witness to the Mantis Raids. He transferred to the Crossroads Watch shortly thereafter. I don’t know exactly why he quit, but I suspect those raids to be the reason.”

So he was a soldier, then? Curious. Dryya absorbed the information silently. She knew he must have had some form of contact with the Mantis Tribe in order to recognize her as one of them, and she even remembered the raids Lurien was talking about. She’d been furious when she heard the news: half a dozen merchant caravans were destroyed in the Fungal Wastes over a five month period. She was ready to march down there and deal with things herself before they subsided, and then other matters captured the Pale Court’s attention. That was ten years ago, and no one had heard a peep from the Mantis Tribe since. She wondered why a seemingly capable warrior like Hegemol would retreat from his duty after surviving such an experience.

“What does this have to do with me?” she asked.

“Everything,” Lurien said. “I never met the man myself, but all my files and character witnesses say he is honorable and kind. I very much doubt that he would gossip behind the backs of those he respects–and he does respect you.”

“He’s also somewhat vapid,” Dryya countered, thinking back to his game of marbles in the Welcome Hall. “Besides, your story paints the picture of a man who has ample reason to hate my kind. Those raids were bloody and cruel. He might view exposing me as a form of revenge.”

“That would suggest a weak character indeed,” Lurien said. “I don’t believe he would do such a thing. You’ve witnessed him, spoken with him–do you?”

Dryya hesitated. The truth was a kernel in her gut, hard and unpleasant but relieving once dislodged. “Perhaps not,” she said finally. “Not maliciously, at least. But I barely know him, and all this–it’s according to your files. What if you’re wrong?”

Lurien sniffed, offended. “I am never wrong.”

He looked towards the balcony. Dryya followed his gaze.

“You still have some time before the big fight begins. Go down there. Speak with the aspirant. You will see that all is well.”

Dryya looked back at the Watcher, her eyes piercing. “And if it isn’t?”

Lurien once more seemed his usual self, cold and restrained. “This business with the Mantis Tribe is your demon, Hand. If your secret is out, then it is out–but I think you shall find that it is not quite the storm you’ve made it out to be.”

—---------------------

Hegemol didn’t speak much that day.

His silence wasn’t out of character for him. Those who knew him didn’t pry. He was glad for the reprieve; he had a lot on his mind.

Dryya the Fierce was a mantis.

Perhaps that shouldn’t have been the thing he was most concerned with, considering his nearing fight with Ze’mer, but it was all he could think of. He had never seen the Pale Knight in person before, of course, but there were statues: one in the Fungal Wastes in front of the entrance to the City of Tears and another in the Crossroads not far from the stagway. He knew her visage well. Most citizens of Hallownest did. In her gleaming, white armor she cut a striking figure.

He knew better the appearance of the mantis warrior, members of that savage race which dwelled at the bottom of the Fungal Wastes. He fought them. He was nearly killed by them. He never saw one like Dryya, though, and so kept his suspicions to himself. Slander was not his intent. He broached the subject with the Pale Knight the day before out of genuine curiosity. The reaction received was not one he expected, though it at least confirmed his theory.

What could drive such a mighty figure from her people? What history existed between them to elicit such an apparently pained reaction from the unflappable Dryya?

It was none of his business, of course, but Hegemol couldn’t help but wonder. Everyone knew the stories revolving around Dryya the Fierce, each more fantastical than the last. She brought to heel innumerable threats to the Pale King’s realm. As a warrior, he respected her prowess. As a soldier, he respected her loyalty and commitment to her duty. As a bug, she seemed nice enough–and he was always in the market for new friends.

Dryya’s origin explained much about her: her emphasis on honor, her warrior nature, and how she always seemed just a bit out of step with the rest of Hallownest.

He wondered if he would hear anything more of the subject. He had long since decided to speak nothing of the matter to anyone–it was no more their business than it was his–but of course Dryya couldn’t know that. Would she come to demand his silence? Was his discovery dangerous? Hegemol didn’t think so, but then, he also didn’t expect her to practically run away from him due to a simple question.

The more he thought of it, the more he realized that Dryya’s species was never really discussed. No one knew where she came from or from what group she descended, but then, such was the case for plenty of others as well. Hegemol had never heard of another dung beetle besides Ogrim, after all. That sort of mystery was more or less expected in Hallownest’s populace. All of them were uplifted by the Pale King, after all, so it wasn’t as if most bugs could chart their ancestry beyond that event. There were stragglers of all shapes and sizes with no kin to speak of–at least none related by genes.

But that wasn’t Dryya’s legend. She was old–very old. No one knew her exact age, but it was common knowledge that she predated the Pale Court itself. That made her older than at least the City of Tears and perhaps even the White Palace. Dates got murky when going further back than that, but the possibility did exist that she was older than Hallownest itself.

Perhaps if he defeated Ze’mer in this final combat challenge, he would earn another audience. Maybe then he’d get the full story behind her strange behavior yesterday.

—----------------------

Isma didn’t know what to make of all this.

She felt like she should be more excited. She was in the White Palace! Every bug in Hallownest dreamed of even getting a look at the building she’d spent the past three days inside of. And really, what did she have to complain about? She’d given her all in the Tournament, done really well, and made some new friends to boot. Hegemol was a big old sweetheart and Ogrim made her smile.

And, on top of those things, she met Fierce Dryya! The King’s champion and right hand, the Pale Knight herself. Anyone who ever picked up a nail wanted to be like her. Anyone serious about combat wanted to be her. And really, Isma was glad for the experience. She just really thought she would have been better at managing herself.

But she wasn’t. And when she met the legendary Dryya, all she could think about was Unn, her family, and her own bitterness.

Maybe it wasn’t fair. That business with what was now the Queen’s Garden happened so long ago. The Pale Court put the land to good use; it fed most of Hallownest now. It wasn’t as if her people were robbed for no good reason.

But it still stung. She really wished that it didn’t.

She wondered if she would get another opportunity to speak with the King’s Knight. Maybe she would be able to keep the sour taste out of her mouth, then.

Currently, she sat in what the aspirants had come to dub “the ready room.” There were two of them on either side of the courtyard which seemed to have once been massive storage sheds. Once the Tournament was over, she was sure they would return to that function. For now, the ready rooms acted as large, well-stocked spaces for the aspirants to prepare themselves for their challenges. There were weapons racks, armor stands, benches, and all sorts of other material they might need for a fight.

She wasn’t alone, nor was she the only one lost in her thoughts. Hegemol and Ogrim were with her. The former was his usual pensive self. That in itself wasn’t anything new, so Isma didn’t think much of it. Hegemol was a quiet bug; he hadn’t even moved in nearly an hour. After a few failed attempts to engage him in conversation, she left him be. He clearly had a lot on his mind, which was understandable. Ze’mer was a terrifying combatant in more ways than one. No one that large should move so fast. Just being near her inspired a sense of fear.

Isma shuddered at the memory. She hadn’t actually spoken to Ze’mer yet precisely because of that unnerving feeling she experienced just from being around her.

For his part, Ogrim was cheery and calm. He was humming quietly to himself, tapping one foot to the beat. He held a ball of clay in his clawed hands which he was meticulously molding into a small figurine of some kind. Isma peeked at it, trying to figure out whose image it was, but the process wasn’t far enough along for her to know for sure. Maybe it was the Pale King or the White Lady. Hells, maybe it was Dryya. Ogrim was fascinated by her. She supposed she couldn’t blame him; the Pale Knight was quite the imposing figure.

When Ogrim noticed her watching him, he beamed and waved. Isma’s face flushed a dark green, her heart fluttering in her chest. She waved back. Ogrim’s smile grew wider, then he returned to his statue. His humming sounded a little louder.

If nothing else, this made it all worth it. This quiet moment with her friends made the whole Tournament worth it.

Isma wasn’t a fighter by nature. She didn’t necessarily want to become a Great Knight, but she had to try. It was her duty. Someone had to look out for the Greenpath, and no matter what they said she wasn’t sure she trusted the Pale King or his Hand to do that.

And then, out of nowhere, her feelings of contentment and peace wilted away like an uprooted flower. Ogrim stopped humming. Hegemol actually moved. All three of them looked towards the ready room’s entrance. A towering figure was just outside. Their shadow overtook all the light which streamed in from under the door. When it opened, none of them were surprised, though Ogrim jumped in his seat regardless.

“H-hello, Ze’mer,” Isma said nervously.

The lanky foreigner took up almost the entire doorway. This was the first time Isma ever saw her up close, so she fought back her nerves and tried to study her. Her heart raced faster and faster the longer she sat there, not acting; Ze’mer was practically radioactive in the way she affected those around her.

She was tall and wrapped up tightly in a cloak. Her face was flat and white, its expanse interrupted only by two black slits of eyes and a small mouth. Four long antennae hung loosely from the top of her head. She was shorter than Hegemol but was still easily the second tallest bug in the White Palace. Her height only added to her intimidating stature.

For a moment, the ready room was dead silent. She was pretty sure everyone stopped breathing. All three of the gathered aspirants stared at Ze’mer, waiting for her to make a move.

When she finally did, it wasn’t one the others were expecting.

“Che’ is sorry, me’honi,” she said. Her voice was soft and entirely non-threatening. Isma might have called it sweet if not for the inferno of fear raging in her heart. “Che’ did not know this room to be occupied. Che’s presence is unintended. An accident? Che’ does not mean to frighten.”

Isma felt like she was suffocating. She quickly cast her eyes to Ogrim, who was sitting closest to the door. He was staring at Ze’mer just as she was, wide-eyed and still. Behind her, she heard Hegemol shift on his bench. She didn’t spare him a glance, not daring to turn her back to the newcomer.

“Frighten? Not at all,” she heard Hegemol’s booming voice say. There was a barely discernable shakiness to it that wasn’t normally there. “Are you… here to join us?”

“Hegemol,” she heard Ogrim hiss.

Isma was torn. She wanted to give Ze’mer the benefit of the doubt, but between the thumping of her heart and the roar in her ears she was having trouble doing so.

“Che’ feels that le’meri might not agree,” Ze’mer said. She giggled, but it sounded almost sad. “Concentraton, nahlo. Pure focus. It is so rare a gift.”

“Concentration?” Isma asked, voice strained.

“Che’ fears,” Ze’mer said. “Causes fear, is fear. Fear follows che’ from lands beyond your own. Such cannot be helped. Perhaps one day. For now, focus, le’mer. Che’s presence unnerves. Che’ tries to ease it…”

Isma looked at her. Stared her down. Did her best to still her beating heart. She was supposed to concentrate? She could do that. She focused internally, trying to silence her fear. Her mind was racing a mile a minute, but she channelled every part of herself into slowing it. Calm. Calm…

She thought of the running waters of the Greenpath. The Lake of Unn, the cute little mosskin. She imagined the endless, towering vines and the way the humid air felt like a blanket on her chiton. She thought of lying down in the grass with her siblings and flocks of maskflies singing to each other overhead.

Her heartbeat slowed. The goosebumps on her skin began to fade away. The fear wasn’t gone, not completely, but it was more manageable now–more like a thrum of anxiety than absolute terror. At the very least, when Ze’mer made eye contact with her, she didn’t feel like running away.

“Chalce!” the roach beamed. “Very good! Le’meri heartbeats, they slow!”

Isma looked around. Ogrim was still stiff in his seat, but his breathing seemed to have slowed. He was staring down at the little statue in his claws, still carving it even as Ze’mer spoke. It was very detailed. The shape of its head was starting to look familiar.

Hegemol was still in the back of the ready room. She had no idea what he was doing to focus. His helmet was pointed at Ze’mer, but was he actually looking at her? Were his eyes even open? There was no way to tell.

“That… ability of yours,” Isma managed, deciding that someone had to speak. “You can’t control it?”

Ze’mer shook her head. “Ni, nahlo. Che’ did not know such power existed. The Lands Serene were not affected as Hallownest’s bugs. It is… unfortunate? Fierce Dryya says mel’aura may help in mel’fights. Che’s thoughts are not so utilitarian.”

Despite her still-rushing thoughts, Isma felt some sympathy for the creature. She sounded lonely. It was a feeling she understood all too well; despite the Pale King’s summons drawing aspirants from all over Hallownest, she was the only one from Greenpath to answer the call. She understood why, of course, but it didn’t help her initial feelings of isolation. She was lucky that Ogrim and Hegemol fell in with her so quickly. Considering the horrible sensations Ze’mer evoked in others just by standing near them, Isma had a feeling she wasn't so fortunate.

“Dryya is wise,” Ogrim said, voice shaky. “If she calls it useful, then it must be so.”

“Perhaps after training,” Hegemol said quietly. “That was… unpleasant. You must work to contain it.”

“Che’ attempts, truly,” Ze’mer replied. “Progress is slow.”

She stepped out of the doorway and back out into the hall. Isma watched her go, wanting to say something but having no idea what. That sympathetic pang in her heart grew stronger.

“Che’ apologizes again,” Ze’mer said. “There is a second ready room. It will perhaps be unoccupied. Che’ does not intend to sabotage le’mer’s performance. Soon, che’ and le’mer shall dance, yes?”

Hegemol nodded stiffly.

Ze’mer giggled. “Che’ shall see le’mer very soon.”

She disappeared back out into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind her.

Isma instantly felt better. Her mind cleared and her heart slowed. She closed her eyes and took deep, shuddering breaths. In front of her, Ogrim gasped in air like he was drowning. With Ze’mer’s heavy presence gone, they could finally breathe again.

“Be honest with me, friends,” Hegemol said after a moment. “How doomed am I?”

Isma laughed, the last of the tension leaving her body. Ogrim peered over at him and tilted his head. “Well, she at least won’t be able to toss you across the courtyard like she did me. You're much too large.”

“Too bad for me,” Hegemol exclaimed. “I begin to think I might want to be as far away from her as possible!”

Ogrim chuckled and looked back to his statue, humming resumed. Isma smiled but didn’t laugh, the joke inspiring more contemplation than humor. She thought about Ze’mer and the way she made her feel. She felt bad for her. It must be awful to live in such a way, feared and shunned by everyone around you. No friends, family, or support of any kind.

Maybe that was why the roach was here, in this tournament. Maybe she wanted a home.

She was about to voice such thoughts when the door slammed open again. Expecting Ze’mer, her eyes zipped from Hegemol to the room’s entrance–only to be met by a much more frightening figure.

“Aspirant Hegemol!”

Dryya stood in the doorway, white armor bright and gleaming, dark eyes narrowed to slits. She was stiff as a board.

The Pale Knight tilted her head towards the hall, away from the gathering. “A word, if you would.”

It wasn’t a request. The big bug got out of his seat and slowly made his way over to her, the eyes of his friends on him as if he were on a death march.

—------------------

Dryya dragged Hegemol through the grand halls of the White Palace. Neither of them said a word. She was certain he knew what this was about. She was less certain of his integrity. The way she abandoned their conversation the previous day was hardly dignified and Hegemol had already displayed a tendency to act first and think later. Beyond that, what if he really did hold a grudge against all mantises? She wanted to believe that he hadn’t told anyone about his discovery, but then, considering the way he brought it up, perhaps he thought it casual information. Perhaps it was a common rumor.

She dismissed that thought quickly. Lurien had eyes and ears all throughout Hallownest. A vengefly couldn’t shriek in the Blasted Cliffs without him finding out about it. No, Hegemol’s information was his own. Whether it stayed that way, though…

Dryya led her companion to the boundary of where the aspirants were allowed to go, just past the courtyard’s northern encircling halls. A pair of whitefly guards were stationed there, both of whom nodded respectfully at her as she walked past. She returned the gesture and took Hegemol deeper into the Palace. They didn’t travel far. Just a short distance away was their destination: a short, cone-shaped hallway that got increasingly larger towards its end. At said end was a large door. It was black and made of some kind of shell, intricately carved with various patterns of branches, flowers, and leaves.

She placed one hand on the center of the door. Instantly, white light shot out from that spot and filled every groove on its rough, ridged, shell-like surface. The massive structure rolled into a slot in the wall with no further fuss, allowing the Pale Knight to step inside. Hegemol dutifully followed after her. The door silently closed behind them.

The room the pair now found themselves in was magnificent. Hegemol looked around, awestruck. It was the grandest space any of the aspirants had yet seen. It was enormous, nearly as large as the courtyard, and was filled to the brim with vegetation. White vines, trees, flowers, and roots covered the entire room, stretching uninterrupted from one end to the other. Pale grasses mixed with stones the same color and texture as the door to provide a comfortable walkway that followed the vegetation. Towards the back of the room was a small pond overlooked by a comfortable-looking white bench.

“Where are we?” Hegemol asked, voice filled with wonder.

Dryya put her claws on the bench and leaned against it. “This is the Queen’s Glade,” she answered. “The White Lady’s personal garden.” She went silent for a moment, taking the time to breathe in and out the comfortable scent of her Lady’s private grove. She let the familiarity of the room settle on her, grounding her to that spot and that time.

“It’s beautiful,” Hegemol said.

“Yes,” Dryya agreed quietly. “It is.”

More than ever, she wished for the presence of her Queen.

The two stood in silence a short ways apart, Hegemol taking in the scenery and Dryya letting it relax her. After a few moments of such comfort, she broke it. It was time to get this thing sorted.

“You know why you’re here,” she said.

Hegemol turned and looked at her. She had her back to him, facing the pond. On its opposite shore, he saw another walkway which ran parallel to the room’s gigantic stone walls and another door–a second entrance. Far above them, the distant roof was brushed by towering roots and pale, hanging vines. Those vines had bulbs on their ends which glowed brightly, their pleasant light filling the room.

“I do,” he replied.

“Who have you told?” she asked.

The answer was immediate and calm: “No one.”

Dryya turned around to face the larger bug. Mistrust and paranoia gnawed at her exhausted mind. Her earlier assertion that Hegemol would not maliciously reveal her secret became muddled in her mind’s eye, consumed by the thought of her long-buried past digging itself out of its grave. She wanted to trust the aspirant, but trust was a rare currency that she could ill afford to spend.

“Do not lie to me, aspirant,” she warned, a cold edge to her tone. “What you know… this is deeply personal to me. I won’t have it spread.”

“My lady, I swear to you on my honor as a soldier of Hallownest and a subject of the Pale King that I have told no one of our conversation,” Hegemol promised. He sounded sincere, and yet…

Dryya stared up at the aspirant’s hidden face. He was, as always, covered head to toe in body armor. His helmet masked his features. Perhaps they masked his true feelings as well. Masks were an important yet unnatural part of Hallownest’s burgeoning culture. They warped truths and gilded lies until one was indiscernible from the other. How could one tell fact from fiction if one’s face was always covered? What use was a mask to a bug who spoke truly?

“Your voice sounds genuine,” she said. “Your words ring true, yet my heart remains unconvinced. I know of your experience with the Mantis Tribe. Would you tell me honestly you bear them no grudge? Does the idea of bringing me down give you no satisfaction?”

It was Hegemol’s turn to go still. He hesitated a moment, then said carefully, “My history with your people is a topic which I prefer not to discuss.”

Some humor returned to his tone. “But, considering that I began all this, I suppose it makes us even.”

Dryya waited, feeling that there was more he had to say. She was surprised, then, when Hegemol, as if reading her mind, did the last thing she expected: he brought his hands up to his helmet, unlatched it from his head, and removed it, bringing it down to his side and tucking it against his hip.

His head was large and a monochromatic shade of black. Two massive horns of the same color jutted up on either side, matching their counterparts on his helmet. His face was stocky and rough, covered in a myriad of tiny scars. A single, much larger scar crossed from just above his right eye down to the underside of his left mandible. Said mandible was one of two which rested on either side of his mouth. Two great black eyes met her own.

It was said that one’s eyes were a window to the soul. Hegemol’s were gentle and kind, yet a quiet determination ran behind them and gave them strength. Dryya felt her hostility waver at the gesture of vulnerability.

“I told no one of what we discussed,” Hegemol said quietly. “I didn’t know for certain that you even were a mantis until you reacted the way that you did. I bear you no ill will for the actions of your people. How could I? You must believe me.”

Dryya’s gaze softened. Her posture loosened. “I see,” she said. For a moment, she felt overcome by relief and she shut her eyes. When she opened them again, she saw clearly.

She moved around the white bench and sat down. “Sit with me,” she said, staring out at the pond. It was a picturesque scene. The clear water rippled gently thanks to miraculous wind, which blew throughout the Queen’s Glade thanks to the titular monarch’s magic. Easy white runes glowed faintly along the walls: the wind’s origin.

When Hegemol finally lumbered over and sat down beside her, Dryya felt at ease for the first time all day. She felt she was good at reading people. She saw the truth in Hegemol’s eyes and heard it in his voice. He was honest. Her secret was safe with him.

“You were being sincere,” she said.

Hegemol nodded.

“I apologize for the way I treated you,” she said. “The thought of my past being exposed was unbearable.”

“I understand, my lady,” he replied. “We all have our secrets.”

“And a secret it must remain,” Dryya warned. “I… am not ready to face those demons. I don’t know that I ever will be.”

She grew quiet, contemplative. For a moment, the Queen’s Glade was silent but for the gentle brush of wind against its occupants’ chiton. Then, Dryya spoke again. “I wonder… perhaps I was so adamant that you had revealed me because I wanted it to be true.”

Hegemol tilted his massive head at her, confused. “My lady?”

Lurien insisted that her secret was unimportant. The Queen knew. The King knew. The bugs of Hallownest didn’t, but what did their thoughts matter? The only person who really cared that Dryya was a mantis was Dryya herself. She thought that her revelation would make her weaker. She still did, but what was all of this if not weakness? Her past was a messy, interconnected web of shame and sorrow that she wasn’t ready to face. But the Watcher was right: just the thought of her exposure left her in a sorry state. It left her drained. This was no way for a knight to conduct herself. She owed the Pale King her best and he wasn’t getting it.

Frustrated, Dryya did her best to shove all of that to the back of her mind. She was getting nowhere. For now, it was best to lock it all up and ignore it, just as she had done for years before.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just… thinking out loud.”

“Mm,” Hegemol replied. He looked down at her, shifting his attention from the serenity of the pond. “To a degree, Lady, I think understand where you’re coming from.”

“The remark was unexpected. “Is that so?” she asked disbelievingly.

“To a degree,” he repeated. “It must be lonely, being the only mantis in the White Palace. Separated from your culture and kin–and yet, I think you are lucky.”

Dryya laughed incredulously. “Indeed? I was unaware of such fortune.”

“I am the only member of my kind,” Hegemol replied, unphased. “I don’t know what sort of sordid details lurk in your past. Perhaps one day, should such lovely moments as this one become regular, you will tell me. But at least you have people. You may not see them, but you know they are safe. You know your culture continues. I have no such comfort. When the Pale King’s light illuminated the world, I was alone. There are no others like me.”

Dryya’s expression turned contemplative. That… wasn’t something she’d ever thought of before. The idea that there might be others who feel even similar to the way she did was new. Of course she knew on paper that there were dozens of different species gathered together who shared in Hallownest’s glory. She further knew that many of them had only a scant handful of members. The Pale Court conducted its first census just a few years ago to obtain a better understanding of its citizenry. The most common theory for bugs like Hegemol was that during their base years, they had wandered into Hallownest on their own without a supporting population base. They likely weren’t native. She wondered if that was what happened with Hegemol. She doubted he knew.

“We are alike in that regard,” Dryya replied. “I am without a people. I am no mantis. I was stripped of even that basic dignity long ago.”

Hegemol smiled. “It seems that we both are in need of people, then.”

Dryya didn’t respond, staring out at the pond.

She remembered something the Pale King said to her when he first suggested forming a group of knights: ”They will be as much yours as mine.”

Was this what he had in mind?

Maybe we are, Hegemol. Maybe we are.

Chapter Text

The Ancient Basin was usually a very quiet place. Other than the White Palace, it had no population center. There was only one widely known entrance: an elevator which connected to the City of Tears. It wasn’t ordinarily available to the public, though, and required a special seal to access. Guards were posted around it all day every day to prevent any vagrants from slipping through. On paper, it was a safe, boring post. In practice, every guard at some point in their career had to deal with an overeager zealot trying to slip past them to get a glimpse at their God-King. Such creatures were known to turn violent. It was a sad way to be.

There were other, more dangerous paths for the truly desperate to attempt. The Basin was connected to two regions not part of the Kingdom of Hallownest. The first was Deepnest, a massive, dark, and poorly understood “sister nation”, ruled over by a tribe of spiders called the Weavers. They were viewed as rebels by the Pale Court for refusing to accept the Pale King’s authority. For the enterprising traveller, however, the Weavers were the least dangerous beings one could stumble across in the dark. They were at least civilized. Deepnest was full to bursting with all sorts of creatures, abominable beasts and burrowing monsters that were anathema to all other life. They preyed upon and cannibalized one another. Some, depraved as they were, hunted purely for sport and killed for the sake of killing. Of all those who ventured into that land of shadows, none returned. The tight tunnels which connected it to the Ancient Basin were filled in during the White Palace’s construction. None had ever been breached.

The other region parallel to the Basin was only marginally safer than Deepnest. It was once a land of exiles, lorded over by ruffians and deviants. It was uncivilized in only a way that only the scraps of civilization could be. It once had some connection to the Mantis Tribe, though none of Hallownest’s populace knew so. To them, it was the Kingdom’s Edge. They knew it by no other name. It was a truly vast wasteland of unknown proportions, stretching high up into the mountains, far down below to the Ancient Basin, and far, far beyond. Entrance into that land was strictly prohibited by edict of the Pale King. Were one to violate such an edict, they would find that the air itself was choked with ash and nearly impossible to breathe. The wildlife was inexorably hostile and the terrain was treacherous. Yet another sister kingdom of Hallownest’s rested in that place: the Hive, occupied by isolationist yet honorable bees. The tunnels to the Kingdom’s Edge were guarded just as the elevator was, though they received notably less traffic. The sentence for violating the Pale King’s prohibition was death. Few were foolish enough to risk it.

At present, considering the unprecedented volume of traffic the Ancient Basin was receiving, all of those entrances were under increased scrutiny. The elevator from the City of Tears had been constantly moving up and down before the Tournament began, accommodating the massive and unexpected influx of knight-aspirants and their families. The Palace Guard was stretched thin by the crowds, forcing the requisition of entire regiments of City Sentinels from the urban center above. No chances were to be taken during the Tournament. That was why every entrance to the Basin, even the usually neglected tunnels to Deepnest, were under increased surveillance.

It was at one of those tunnels that a pair of Sentinels, an ant and a beetle, were standing.

“I tell ya, I never heard of these things til’ we got sent out here,” the beetle said. He was tall and stocky, a rarely-used nail held loosely in one hand and a shiny helmet pressed against his hip with the other. “Tunnels to Deepnest? Really? Never gave the place much thought, y’know? ‘S a crypt full o’ boogeymen. Always figured it was nonsense.”

“Stay in the service, kid,” the ant said. She was shorter than her counterpart but made up for it in musculature. Her form was well-built and lean; her armor was banged up but well cared for. Every dent and gouge was polished to perfection. She wore a helmet that covered her head entirely, leaving nothing exposed but her antennae. “You’ll find out that most of what folks write off as nonsense is really a knife in the dark, waiting to cut you up as soon as you turn around.”

She looked the sealed tunnel up and down, studying it with all the precision of a trained soldier. The sheer stone which the King’s menderbugs installed was in good shape and clearly hadn’t been interfered with. There were no signs of it ever having been moved: no grooves in the walls, cracks in the rock, or loose sediment lying about. She nodded, content, and turned to head out. “Let’s move on to the next one.”

The beetle fell in behind her as they stepped out into the wider Ancient Basin. This far from the Palace, the terrain was claustrophobic and dark. Glowing mushrooms and white weeds could be seen every so often, indicating that the horrors of Deepnest were close. They were held off only by the stone barricades the pair of Sentinels were presently investigating for signs of tampering.

“I heard that the Mantis Tribe used ta be somethin’ like that,” the beetle said as they began navigating the tunnels towards the next exit. “Boogeymen, right? Folks said they weren’t real, then they came up outta nowhere and started attackin’ civilians. Killed lots, I heard.”

“That they did,” the ant replied gruffly. “I was there.”

They pushed through some loose hanging moss into a smaller tunnel. Each of the Sentinels had to turn sideways to shimmy through the tight gaps, a process made all the more difficult by their heavy armor.

“What- ow!” the beetle cut himself off as he hit his head on a low-hanging rock.

“Helmet,” the ant admonished.

Grumbling, the beetle slipped his helmet back on. “Can’t see a thing in this,” he complained.

“It’ll save your life someday,” the ant told him.

The beetle grumbled some more before he got back on track. “What was it like? Back then with the Mantis Raids. How’d ya fight ‘em back?”

“Blood and iron,” the ant replied. “They fought like beasts. Vicious killers, those mantises.”

Her posture was stiff as she led her subordinate through the dark, winding tunnels. She didn’t seem to be in a very talkative mood, but the beetle persisted. “They’re s’posed to be honorable warriors,” he said. “That’s what I heard. I heard that they-”

“Honorable? That’s a laugh,” the ant interrupted sourly. “Don’t believe everything you hear, kid. Those mantises are bloodthirsty animals. They’re cowards. Not a scrap of honor in the lot of them.”

“O-oh, okay,” the beetle replied, properly cowed. “Sorry, sarge. I didn’t mean ta upset ya.”

The ant took a deep breath. “I’m not upset,” she said, upset--and a little guilty. “I’m not. There’s nothing wrong with being curious.”

Still, the beetle said no more.

The two fell into a slightly uncomfortable silence as they rounded a corner and came face to face with another of the stone barriers. Like the last, it too was undisturbed. It was smooth and blemished only by erosion. The ant sergeant ran a hand across its surface while the beetle hung back, scratching his neck under his helmet.

Satisfied, the ant turned to leave. She didn’t get far, though, before the faintest of sounds caused her to snap her head back towards the rock. She raised her nail and went absolutely still, facing the barrier in a stance that denoted a lifetime of discipline and skill. The beetle, for his part, crept up behind her, his form not nearly so prepared.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he whispered.

“That noise,” the ant said. “Didn’t you hear it?”

The beetle titled his head. “I hear you.”

“I heard something,” the ant insisted. “Something on the other side of that stone.”

The beetle went quiet and put a hand to his ear. “I don’t hear anythin’,” he said.

The ant didn’t move, staring at the barrier with a quiet intensity. Nothing happened. The noise didn’t come again. It had been a quiet rustling sound, like footsteps–or the shuffle of a predator. She was sure of it. Her companion, for his part, gradually appeared less and less nervous, relaxing his grip on his nail.

“Must’a been the wind,” he said after a few moments of waiting.

There was nothing.

“There was something,” the ant insisted again, though she too was starting to have doubts.

“Maybe one’a them Deepnest beasts,” her companion suggested. “An animal, nothin’ more.” His demeanor was easy and simple, lacking the wisdom of his more experienced leader.

At first, the sergeant said nothing. As silence continued to reign, however, she caved. Slowly, hesitantly, shei relaxed her stance. “I… sure, yeah,” she said doubtfully. “I… maybe I’m just jumpy.”

Her subordinate nodded sagely. “Mm.”

She straightened herself, hesitated for just a few moments more, and again turned to leave. “Come on, kid,” she said, a shaky confidence returning to her voice. Plenty more tunnels to go through.”

The beetle fell in behind her and they pressed on as if nothing had happened. If the sergeant’s grip on her nail was any tighter than normal, she told herself that it just came down to nerves.

Behind them, lost in the murky black of the Basin’s winding tunnels, a series of cracks appeared in the stone.

—-----------

Hegemol and Dryya weren’t gone ten seconds before Isma and Ogrim began furiously gossiping to one another.

“What do you-”

“What did he-”

“I can't believe-”

“Where-”

“Dryya!” they exclaimed together. They made eye contact, held each other’s gaze, and then broke. Isma burst into uncontrollable giggling while Ogrim smiled dopily from ear to ear.

“Do you think he’s alright?” Isma asked, calming down after a moment. “I hope he isn’t in any trouble.”

“He’ll be fine,” Ogrim assured. His voice held absolute conviction. “Hegemol has been honored by a personal visit from the Pale Knight! That is a rare thing indeed. I’m sure she just wanted to discuss his upcoming bout with Ze’mer. There’s nothing more to it.”

“She seems to have taken a special interest in him,” Isma said.

Ogrim’s smile turned sour for the briefest of moments, but was back to normal so quickly that Isma momentarily doubted she saw any change at all. “Indeed,” he said simply.

A thought crept into Isma’s mind. She grinned. “Ogrim, are you jealous?”

Her friend’s face flushed as he stumbled over his words. His smile vanished. “I- I- of course not! What a preposterous notion. A knight must be above such gross feelings.”

“You aren’t a knight yet,” Isma said playfully.

“Well, no,” Ogrim said. He sighed wistfully. “But I have always sought the honor. I’ve tried to hold myself to a higher standard my whole life. Jealousy is beneath me. Hegemol is my friend and I wish him only the best, but…”

He hesitated, a grimace washing over his features. “I must admit I wish my own efforts would be so readily acknowledged. I just need to win, as Hegemol did, and then I will be noticed.”

“You shouldn’t try so hard,” Isma told him. “You’re a great fighter and a better man. What does it matter if Dryya doesn’t pay you any mind? You don’t need her approval.”

Ogrim frowned. “Your words are kind, my friend, but misplaced. I very much do need her approval. So do you, for that matter. I have trained my whole life for an opportunity like this Tournament. I’ve travelled from one end of the kingdom to the other, doing good deeds and testing my mettle against all kinds of foes exactly in preparation for this moment. Becoming one of the King’s knights is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Isma went quiet for a moment. Her friend’s words filled Isma with a sense of disquiet. Ogrim was perhaps the one she’d bonded with the most since entering into Dryya’s Kagath, and he, like everyone else, was absolutely smitten by her legend. Isma herself would be lying if she said she wasn’t similarly awestruck by the Pale Knight, but the lands of Unn ever lingered at the back of her mind. The injustice done to her people by the Pale Court would never be answered for, but it could at least be discussed, could it not? Isma had so far refrained from doing so, worried about her place in the Tournament and confused by her mixed feelings for the ones overseeing it. Now, though, with the event halfway over and Hegemol dragged off, she found herself near bursting. She at least wanted to talk to someone about her struggles. Validation from another might well set her mind at peace.

She looked her friend in the eye. Hesitantly, she asked, “Ogrim, do you… trust Dryya? The King?”

Ogrim looked appalled; she got the answer she expected. “Of course! They are our noble defenders! Our righteous leaders! One uplifts and the other defends! Are we not here to prove ourselves worthy of standing by their side?”

“Of course we are,” Isma said quickly. “Of course I don’t… I mean, that is…”

She took a deep breath. “I only meant to ask if you think they always have our best interests in mind. The little guys. Persons, not just people.”

Ogrim scratched his head. “Persons, not people. As in individuals opposed to the group. Okay.”

He set his little clay statue down again, leaving it on the bench he sat on. “Why are you asking? Is there a person you think the Crown has wronged?”

Isma’s expression became slightly desperate. “I… I don’t know,” she said. “I think so. Maybe. Maybe it’s more than one person. Maybe it’s a whole group, but compared to all of Hallownest they may as well be just one.”

“Isma,” Ogrim said patiently. “What exactly are you saying?”

“I’m saying that systems are great at leaving people behind,” Isma snapped. She rubbed her forehead, the sudden increase in stress giving her a mild headache. “I’m saying… I’m saying that maybe the Pale King has to wrong a smaller group to benefit a larger one. I’m saying that if he does, there are better ways to rule than to stomp on the weak. Brute force doesn’t have to be the answer.”

“It should be the purpose of the King to take actions which benefit the largest number of people,” Ogrim said slowly, not certain exactly where Isma was coming from. Perhaps he was misunderstanding her. “Would you disagree with that? Is it not just to rule for the majority?”

“His actions should benefit the greatest number, yes,” Isma said. “Of course. But I think you’re wrong to say the King ought to rule only for the majority. He should rule for all, always, whenever and however he’s able.”

Ogrim frowned. “That’s not… Isma, that isn’t-”

“I’m not naive, Ogrim,” Isma cut him off. “I’m not. I understand that rulership is a challenging art. Sometimes, not everyone can be appeased. But the effort should be made to at least try.”

“The Pale King is wise, Isma,” Ogrim said, looking somewhat uncomfortable. “He is a god. Of course he tries. His decisions are benevolent.”

“Was he trying, then, when he stole half the Greenpath away from my people?” Isma demanded.

Ogrim looked stunned. “What?”

Her friend was confused, but Isma was on a roll. She’d been bottling this up for days. It was all coming out now. “The Queen’s Garden. He stole it from us. Turned it into a farm. He… he could have bargained with us. Negotiated. Unn is kind and generous. She cares for life. She might have ceded the land willingly if she knew what it was for.” Isma sounded bitter and defeated. She put her head in her hands. “She wasn’t given a choice. She was given a diktat, like my people matter less than the others just because we don’t live in the Pale King’s big fancy city.”

Ogrim looked like his breath was caught in his throat. “I… I apologize, Isma. I had no idea.”

He hesitated a moment. Silence reigned, neither bug speaking; they lacked the words to give their thoughts form.

After what felt like an eternity but was in actuality only about twenty seconds, Ogrim spoke. “I don’t think I’m the one you really wish to discuss this with,” he said carefully. “I can’t answer your questions. I don’t have the King’s wisdom or the Pale Knight’s conviction. I can’t tell you why they do what they do. There are few who can, and only one of whom you might actually get an answer out of.”

Isma looked up quickly, dread on her face. “N-no. No! That’s insane. I can’t go corner Dryya and demand answers. I… she’s the Pale Knight. The whole reason I’m talking to you is because I can’t with anyone else. She’ll kick me out of the Tournament. The whole reason I’m here is to keep what happened to my people from happening to anyone else. Someone in the Court has to look out for the little guy.”

Ogrim paused. Then, with a smile on his face, he said, “I will give you this vow, then: should the Lady Dryya not treat with you in good faith and give you the answers you deserve, I will voluntarily leave the Tournament alongside you.”

Isma’s eyes widened, the weight of his offer stealing her breath away. “W-what? Ogrim, you can’t! This is your dream!”

That easy smile of his grew wider. “I think you do not give Dryya her due. I fully believe that she is honorable and just, as is the King. This tale of yours must have a happy ending. Perhaps you don't have the full story. They would not have done what they did without reason and nobility. If they did, well, they aren’t the bugs I thought they were and do not deserve my service.”

Isma didn’t know what to say. She was completely floored by her friend’s generosity, his unmatched and boundless faith. Her words again failed her, so she reacted with another sort of language: she crossed the ready room in a single bound and threw herself on top of Ogrim, wrapping her arms around the larger bug to the best of her ability in a bone-crushing hug.

“Thank you,” she breathed, her voice shaky and eyes squeezed shut. “Oh, thank you.”

Ogrim laughed, returning the hug. “What are friends for if not defying a god?” he teased.

Isma laughed as well, a joyous and wet noise. “You really are a good man,” she said.

“Even if I may be a little jealous of Hegemol?” Ogrim asked.

“Even then,” Isma assured, smiling.

The two remained there for a time, enjoying one another’s company and the feelings of warmth that brought about. Though it would end, their moment lasted longer, far longer, until eventually the heavy weight of time cast itself upon them and concluded their tale far above in the bowels of a broken City.

In the present, though, the hug’s end came when the door swung open, startling them and revealing Hegemol’s giant form. He started, taking in the appearance of his friends, but recovered quickly. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked, a grin in his voice.

“Ah! Hegemol!” Isma exclaimed, practically leaping off of Ogrim. “I was… we were just talking about you!”

It was impressive how well Hegemol managed to emote through his helmet. His mischievous smirk was very evident even when he wasn’t speaking.

“Is that so?” he asked. “You were talking about me?”

“I- well-”

“Among other things,” Ogrim cut in smoothly. He smiled at his friend, rescuing Isma from herself. “How was your talk with Dryya?”

“Oh, splendid,” Hegemol replied, not missing a beat. “She wanted to speak with me about my duel with Ze’mer. She had some very helpful advice.”

He leaned in from the doorway, hanging on to it with one massive hand. “I think I might be her favorite,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Ogrim almost immediately started pouting. Isma elbowed him in the stomach. “Oh, that starts soon, doesn’t it?” she asked, recovering her wits. “We’d all best be getting out there.”

“Indeed,” Hegemol said. “That’s why I’ve come. I expect you both to be present to witness my victory.”

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Isma assured.

Nodding, the big bug turned and left. Isma looked back to Ogrim and smiled, her cheeks flushing a dark shade of green. Her friend didn't seem to notice, though, having already picked his clay statue back up. Looking at it closely, she finally saw why it appeared so familiar: it was starting to look an awful lot like her.

—-----------------------

Dryya sat, for the first time since the Tournament began, in the courtyard itself. A dais had hastily been constructed for her overnight, atop which rested a simple black seat. It was made of shell and bore no patterns, being as plain as anything in the White Palace could be. Even still, with her imposing presence bestriding it, another bug might have called it a throne.

Dryya called it a chair. And it was in that chair that she finally got a good look at all the aspirants who looked up to her as the chief servant of their god.

It was an odd thing to be the center of attention for so many focused eyes. The crowds weren't anything new; the Pale King inevitably drew attention wherever he went and Dryya had accompanied him across Hallownest and beyond. The unfamiliar aspect of it all came in the fact that this time, all the eyes were focused on her.

There must have been hundreds of them pressed up against the glass of the hallway windows. Before the main event even began, before either Hegemol or Ze’mer even arrived, they were waiting. They stared at Dryya with a mix of trepidation and rapturous awe. She fought the urge to shift in her seat. The attention made her somewhat uncomfortable. No matter how godlike the Pale King was, she was just a woman. Her association with him meant nothing when it came to matters of divinity. She didn’t do what she did for the fame. She was a tool, not a celebrity.

It was a relief, then, when the time came. On either side of the rectangular courtyard, two doors opened. On Dryya’s left entered Hegemol, behind whom she briefly saw the figures of Isma and Ogrim before they faded into the larger crowd. To her right came Ze’mer, alone. There were far fewer sets of eyes clustered on her side of the makeshift arena. Her frightful aura was potent as ever.

Dryya felt it as the foreigner drew nearer, creeping slowly into the courtyard: that same chill as before, horrible and overbearing. Ze’mer sent shivers down her spine. For the briefest of moments, she felt the urge to move from her chair, put her head in her hands, draw her nail, flee--anything. Anything but sit there and watch as the creature drew nearer.

The thoughts disgusted her. Quickly, she brought her fears to heel and her thoughts into order, focusing as she had done two nights ago. Her mind was an iron cage, fortified and strong. She thought of the match she was about to witness and why she was doing it. She thought of selecting a champion from this bracket and moving on to the next one, drawing ever closer to fulfilling her duty to her Majesty. Duty. Duty was her life.

Duty…

Dryya’s heart slowed as her thoughts again became her own, banishing that lingering fear of Ze’mer from her mind. Looking around the courtyard, she saw that she was the first to do so; through the windows and in the halls, hundreds of aspirants cowered and shook. The foreigner’s aura clearly affected some more than others; some were white-faced with terror while others seemed merely shaky or out of breath. Even Hegemol, mighty as he was, seemed to be thrown off-kilter. His stance was firm but rigid, leaned forwards but frozen in place as if the very armor on his shell wanted to turn and run. Glacially, he took a step forwards, and then another.

Ze’mer, for her part, stood casually in front of Dryya’s dais, making no moves whatsoever to antagonize in any way. She seemed almost meek. Embarrassed? The Pale Knight felt a sudden, unexpected rush of fondness for the frightening aspirant. To be so dangerous yet so gentle was a rare combination of traits.

She rose to her feet and stepped off the dais. Ze’mer tilted her head in that unnerving sharp way of hers, but Dryya held up a hand and kept her still. Hesitantly, the foreigner relaxed and Dryya turned away, making straight for Hegemol.

Ordinarily, she would never give advice to one aspirant over another. She didn’t want to play favorites or skew the results; nepotism made for poor warriors. The strongest would inevitably come out ahead and it was the strongest that the Pale King demanded and deserved. Under these circumstances, though, she felt she could make an exception. Ze’mer’s ability was unnatural and pervasive. Even she strained under the long shadow it cast. Hegemol, by sheer virtue of the fact that he still struggled forwards, proved himself strong-willed. If the match was to be fair, then Ze’mer’s influence must be lessened. She had a thought about that, but she first wanted to test Hegemol’s resilience.

She came to a stop halfway between her chair and the aspirant. The massive bug stared her down, seeming to channel everything he had into dragging himself towards her. That was good. Focus was key. She stood, waiting, silently encouraging him to approach. She wouldn’t do all the work for him; this was a proving ground, after all. This courtyard was a crucible by which legends were forged.

He finally seemed to find his stride as he watched her, perhaps using her as a focus. Hegemol’s speed increased until he was walking normally. He came to a stop in front of an expectant Dryya, who nodded approvingly.

“Well done,” she praised quietly, so as not to draw attention. This was a private conversation, not for the ears of snooping aspirants.

“It feels… more intense than before,” Hegemol said, voice strained.

“You’re nervous,” Dryya replied. “It makes you susceptible. Channel your energies. Focus your mind. Guard your thoughts.”

Hegemol looked past her, his gaze drawn inexorably towards Ze’mer. Dryya grabbed him and his attention both by one massive arm. “Look at me,” she said sternly. Hesitantly, the aspirant did.

“Breathe,” she told him. Dryya held eye contact for a few silent moments, giving him time to do so. Hegemol took a few deep breaths. “Good. Very good,” she encouraged at their end. “Yours is a strong will, Hegemol. I’ll not have you enter this contest at any less than your best. Ze’mer does not do this consciously. You must focus. Focus. Select a goal and dedicate every fiber of your being towards it. Show me that same intensity I saw in your duel with Isma.”

Hegemol continued to breathe deeply. He stared her down all the while, his helmed visage somehow making very clear that his eyes were on hers. Then, like a switch was flipped in his brain, his demeanor changed. His posture relaxed and his breathing evened out. It was as if a great fog, once restraining his movement and clouding his mind, had lifted from his person.

The massive aspirant shook his head, clearing the last of his thoughts. “I… I feel… good.” He sounded awed.

Dryya was pleased.

“Thank you, Lady. I promise I will not let you down.” There was absolute certainty in his voice, like the rock in a cave or the dirt of the Garden: it was a real thing, tangible, simple, and undeniable. A fact of reality.

Dryya did her best to fight back a smile, but she wasn’t entirely successful. She was still exhausted from staying up the previous night; she could excuse herself for one slip-up. Still, she had to refrain from playing favorites–to the best of her ability, at least. After their talk in the Queen’s Glade, and even if she couldn’t admit it aloud, she found that she rather liked this one.

“Do your King proud, aspirant,” she told him, “and that will be enough.”

Hegemol dipped his head respectfully. Dryya, her work done, turned back towards her dais.

As she walked, she cast her eyes about the courtyard’s windows and looked into the halls. Most of the previously peering eyes were gone. Some remained, but no more than two dozen. Among them were Isma and Ogrim, Hegemol’s friends, who seemed to be doing better than all the rest. That thought brought her some minute comfort; the two of them had performed well enough in their respective combat brackets, with each of them landing in second place. If they could resist Ze’mer as well, then that made them fine candidates for the Pale King’s Knights.

It seemed that an overwhelming majority of the aspirants, however, could not handle even short-term exposure to Ze’mer. It was a curious thought. She wondered how the foreigner slept given that, to her knowledge, no special accommodations were made for her. If the other aspirants couldn’t stand her even for a few minutes, then lasting a whole night was out of the question. Perhaps that was why, when they first met, Dryya found the aspirant alone, pacing and praying in the dark.

She would have to ask Lurien about it later. For now, she still wasn’t quite ready to begin the match. Having tested Hegemol’s ability to withstand, it was time now to test Ze’mer’s ability to control. Discipline was necessary for any warrior, let alone a Great Knight.

She stopped in front of the roach, her back to her chair. The foreigner’s unnerving gaze was fixated solely on her.

“You must control your ability,” Dryya said in lieu of greeting.

Ze’mer wilted. “Che’ cannot,” she said sadly.

“You can,” Dryya insisted. She recalled Ze’mer’s first words to her in that dark hallway and mirrored them back to the aspirant now. “Are you not Ze’mer, one of the mightiest of my aspirants? Do you not seek to become one of the Wyrm’s Knights?”

“Che’ has tried,” Ze’mer said desperately. “Che’ is not… there is strength lacking. The mind withers, falls. Le’mer, che’ tries. Mel’aura controls, is not controlled.”

“Any aspect of a person can be controlled,” Dryya declared. “This ability is part of you. Can you not control your breathing? Can you not relax and slow your heartbeat?”

“Does le’mer control her thoughts?” Ze’mer asked quietly. “Does Fierce Dryya keep her memories, or do her memories keep her? Le’hon, not all is controlled.”

Dryya paused. Almost unconsciously, she brought a claw up to the chiton around her eyes, tracing the rough grooves and dark patches in her otherwise pristine white shell: her exhaustion and struggles made manifest. Hegemol was not the only aspirant with a talent for observation, it would seem.

“Discipline is a capricious goal,” Dryya admitted just as quietly. “It is something that is trained for and achieved, but constant effort must be applied to maintain such achievement. I admit that I am not infallible, but one’s thoughts can eventually be brought to heel. Mental health is as much your own responsibility as the physical. Through training and applied discipline, all things that are possible remain so. This ability of yours must be contained, aspirant, if you are to earn a seat in the Pale Court.”

She hesitated, thinking perhaps she was being too discouraging. “You can do this,” she added softly.

For a moment, it looked as if Ze’mer would buckle under the weight of the Pale Knight’s words. She felt disappointment well up within her as the usually frightening bug, who loomed over her but now seemed quite small, took a step back. It was then, though, just as she was beginning to think Ze’mer a lost cause, that it happened: the foreigner closed her eyes, straightened her posture, and began to sing.

The words were of a language Dryya didn’t recognize, but they were beautiful all the same. Ze’mer sang quietly, her voice soft and melodic. She slowly relaxed into the tune, the tenseness leaving her muscles and the rigidity of her posture melting away. Her voice began to carry, growing louder as she disappeared into her song. Her face became peaceful; her stance became loose.

All around the courtyard, those aspirants who yet remained seemed to come back to themselves. They had been pressed up against the windows, eyes wide and unfocused, but their spirits were rejuvenated by Ze’mer’s song. Their breathing became heavy and regularized as Ze’mer’s boot came off their throats. Their eyes calmed. Their postures, too, relaxed and became easy. Dryya felt it too: that peace, that relief which could only come after outlasting a discomfort most acute. She felt Ze’mer’s song wash over her and carry away her fears, forcing them to the back of her mind and then farther still. She no longer had to focus so intensely on her task to withstand the aspirant’s presence; the fear now became little more than a thrum of anxiety, easily withstood and suppressed by one such as her.

Just as it began, Ze’mer’s song slowly drew to a close. Her angelic, foreign voice never crescendoed, instead staying soothing and soft. When she finished and opened her eyes, she was greeted by Dryya’s wide, warm smile.

“Wonderful,” she said simply. “I told you it could be done.”

Ze’mer bashfully matched Dryya’s smile. “Che’... che’ cannot believe it. Che’ has been trying since arrival, me’hon. Has barely slept, been kept from company. Che’ felt… frightened. Alone. Mel’song comes from Lands Serene, like che’. It is… comforting? Peaceful. Free.”

“Know this discipline, then, and keep it true,” Dryya said. She placed a comforting hand on Ze’mer’s arm. “These are your first steps. When you have fully mastered your ability, you will know true peace.”

Ze’mer dipped her head, imitating Hegemol’s respectful gesture. “Che’... words fail. Thank you, Fierce Dryya, le’hon. Che’ will earn her place. Perhaps with this good deed done, le’mer might sleep better tonight?”

This time, Dryya was successful in biting back her grin. “Time will tell,” she said. “For now, I believe I’m owed a trial by combat.”

Ze’mer nodded eagerly. “Harre, harre! It is time to dance. Mighty Hegemol has promised che’ a worthy battle.”

“He has promised the same to me,” Dryya said. “Ensure that he keeps his word.”

Ze’mer’s grin was enthusiastic and downright dangerous. “Che’ would be honored.”

Satisfied, Dryya turned and climbed the three steps of her dais. She took her seat back on her shell-carved chair. Hegemol, seeing that her business with Ze’mer was concluded, approached confidently and took his position opposite of the foreigner. Both bugs stood before her and she sat above them in judgement. With her house finally in order, Dryya opened her mouth to speak.

“Warriors of Hallownest, you have honored the Pale King through your service. You have earned the right to stand here before me. Both of you have been crowned victor in your own bracket. Those were lesser warriors. Before me, you are equals. Now, one of you shall triumph over the other and prove yourself worthy of a place in the Pale Court.”

She raised her nail into the air. The perfectly crafted blade gleamed in the courtyard’s light. All the spectating aspirants watched with baited breath, enraptured by the proceedings. Before her, Hegemol and Ze’mer both tensed and readied themselves.

“Prove yourselves worthy of my time!” Dryya thundered. “By King and Creator, give this duel your all! The Pale King will only take the best. Are you the best?!”

There was no answer given. Words would not satisfy such a question. Ze’mer’s twin blades looked hungry in her hands. Hegemol slammed his fists together, unarmed as usual.

Both of them had impressed her. Both of them were safe selections for the King’s Knights. Only one of them could be the overall winner of the combat challenge. She was eager to finally see Ze’mer fight.

Dryya spoke next not with her voice, but with her body. Her nail dropped and pointed at the aspirants.

As one, they charged.

Chapter Text

Most duels were not very long. A skilled combatant knew the anatomy of a fight as a surgeon did the body. One’s weapon was an arm, one’s armor an extra layer of skin. Movement was precise and technical, one mishap liable to pierce the cold veil between life and death. Confidence and experience were the twin shields of both masters. Fortune could equally grant victory or undo them both.

This one was no exception.

It began more like a dance: an elegant yet fierce showing of skill, the fighters moving nimbly and swiftly in perfect orbit of one another. It was a spectacle. A delight. A demonstration. An oath. A plea.

An answer to Hallownest’s call.

Hegemol and Ze’mer were both masterful warriors. Their forms were nearly immaculate, speaking to a lifetime of combat and training. Though neither of them would be capable of crossing blades with Dryya herself, she felt certain just by watching them that they were by far and away leagues above the rest of Hallownest’s population. They were the cream of the crop, the best of the best. All of the aspirants who had come to the White Palace possessed some skill. None could hold a candle to the pair of warriors sparring today.

Ze’mer was deceptively light on her feet for a being so large. She was fast and limber, weaving through the air like a fish through water. Her twin nails flashed with white light as they lashed out from her cloak; she wielded them as a dancer would wield a baton. Dryya still regretted skipping the combat bracket she made her debut in. Thankfully, the foreigner’s skills did not disappoint.

Hegemol was slow and methodical, not nearly so mobile as his opponent. What he lacked in agility he made up for with strength and the sheer obstinate refusal to be moved. Using nothing but the heavy armor on his shell, he deflected and fought off Ze’mer's attacks and retaliated with a few of his own. His strikes, unlike Ze’mer’s, were sporadic and intentional. Hegemol kept his energy in reserve, expending it only when an opportunity presented itself.

One of Ze’mer’s nails shot out almost playfully and scraped against Hegemol’s armored forearm. The giant leaned into the strike and batted aside her second nail with just his hand. The force behind the blow staggered his opponent, but the roach recovered gracefully. She ducked underneath a follow-up attack and slid underneath his outstretched arms, leaping to her feet in that quick, sharp, disturbing way she moved. Ze’mer, now behind him, went for a stab to the side. The nail lodged itself in between the plates of Hegemol’s heavy armor; with a snort, the column-like warrior turned with an unexpected burst of speed and ripped the weapon from his opponent’s arms. It fell to the ground behind him, out of reach.

Ze’mer, now with only one nail, didn’t tarry and immediately leapt forwards again. Hegemol met her halfway, catching her blade in between his hands. Ze’mer, unwilling to lose her second weapon and likely the match, did something unexpected: catching him and everyone else off-guard, she threw back her head and shrieked. The sound carried throughout the courtyard. It was an unnatural, frightening thing. Part of that earlier fear momentarily returned to all who heard it, even Dryya, who found herself briefly pressing her forehead to her claws to fight off a sudden headache.

Momentarily stunned, Hegemol lost his grip on Ze’mer’s nail. Victorious, the roach raced forwards, pressing her advantage in the riskiest of ways: she got close, right in Hegemol’s immediate personal space, so close that under any other circumstance all he would have to do to win is grab her by the throat and squeeze. These were not ordinary circumstances, however; as far as Dryya was aware, that shriek of hers was not an ability she had yet disclosed. The foreigner had held it in reserve until this moment.

Ze’mer leapt on to Hegemol’s chest and sprang upwards, barbs in her feet allowing her to find easy purchase in her opponent’s heavy armor. Up and up she went, quick as a gasping breath, until finally she leapt over him, flying like a maskfly, and kicked him in the back of the head. She landed gracefully behind him while Hegemol stumbled from the force of the kick. Smiling to herself, she took the opportunity to pick up her second nail–which rested now on the ground at her feet.

Hegemol recovered quickly, shaking the stars from his eyes. His helm absorbed most of the blow. He turned ‘round to face his foe, standing perfectly still.

“You’re full of tricks,” he rumbled.

“Che’ fights to win,” Ze’mer replied.

“Che’ fights dirty,” Hegemol said, attempting to mimic her speech.

The roach giggled. “Le’mer fights perfectly clean, che’ thinks.”

“Mm,” Hegemol said. “Then the gloves are off.”

Taking that as the conversation’s end, Ze’mer again rushed forward. This time, though, things were different. She swung her twin nails, each blade independent of the other in their quest to find weak points in Hegemol’s armor or otherwise batter him into submission. She likely expected a return to their previous way of fighting, wherein she would strike and her foe would defend. Instead, Hegemol seized the initiative by the throat and started pounding her with it. In a series of quick jabs, he batted aside both her blades and landed a devastating punch directly to Ze’mer’s midsection.

The roach flew backwards, skidding to a halt nearly a third of the courtyard’s distance away. She buried one of her nails into the white rocky floor in a bid to slow herself down. She panted heavily, trying to recapture the wind which was knocked out of her, but had no time; she suddenly found herself on the defensive as Hegemol barreled towards her like a fully grown stag. Ze’mer, adrenaline spiking through her at the sight, leapt into the air once again and somersaulted over her opponent.

Hegemol shot one arm upwards in a bid to grab her. He was only half-successful, again managing to take hold of one of Ze’mer’s nails–but it was enough. Seizing the opportunity, he yanked on the blade as hard as he could with his heavy steel gauntlets. Ze’mer’s graceful arc was completely ruined as her momentum was suddenly directed downwards; she toppled roughly to the ground, rolling head over heels as Hegemol’s grab took her completely by surprise. Her remaining nail dropped with her, clanging to the hard white floor just at her side. She quickly made to grab her weapon, but it was just as quickly kicked away from her. Its twin, she subsequently found, was pointed at her chest.

Her antennae twitched, frustrated. “Le’mer calls that clean?”

Hegemol chuckled. “I call that winning.”

He lowered his stolen nail and offered Ze’mer a hand. The roach narrowed her eyes and stared at the offending appendage for a moment before her face was overtaken by a tiny grin. She accepted his aid and allowed him to pull her to her feet, swiping her nail back once she was upright.

The whole duel took no more than a minute. From her chair, Dryya watched with a wide, unabashed grin on her face. Though her people may have cast her out, somewhere beneath all her shame she was still a mantis. Combat thrummed in the Pale Knight’s blood, as essential to living as oxygen or water. A good fight plucked her strings like a maestro with their instrument. What a performance! What talent! What audaciousness!

Briefly, she felt an overpowering urge to leap into the arena herself. For the moment, she set those desires aside. There would be time to personally test her Knights (her Knights?) later. For the time being, she was satisfied–no, thrilled–by an excellent showing from the two frontrunners. Her exhaustion was momentarily forgotten; should they perform even half as decently in the agility challenges to come, she was certain they would have places in the Court.

What a day it had been. She never would have believed that morning that she would feel so pleased in the afternoon.

“Aspirant Hegemol, your victory is well-earned and acknowledged,” she spoke, her voice carrying across the courtyard. She clamped down on her enthusiasm to maintain decorum, but she maintained a slight smile. Hegemol dropped to one knee before her, dipping his head. He did not boast. In fact, he said nothing at all, bearing his victory with a quiet dignity.

Dryya turned her attention to Ze’mer, who still stood upright. She awkwardly shuffled her feet, shifting her weight from one to the other. She was clearly uncomfortable with the eyes of so many upon her while Hegemol kneeled. Though she lost the match, the term “loser” did not apply. She made an excellent showing. Dryya wanted her to know that. “Aspirant Ze’mer, your performance has exceeded my expectations. A well-fought, if ungraceful, defeat. Be proud of what you have accomplished.”

The roach’s eyes widened. Quickly, she threw her attention to Hegemol. She studied his stance for half a second before, just as quickly, she dropped to one knee. It was a janky, hesitant thing, like she wasn’t used to the act or had never done it before. Courtly culture was perhaps different in the Lands Serene, Dryya thought.

After a moment passed, she lifted one hand off an arm of her chair and flicked one of her claws. “The trial is over!” she called, speaking mainly to the assembled aspirants watching from the halls. “Go now and rest. This day’s proceedings may be over, but the Kagath is not.”

The quiet broke. With Dryya’s dismissal, the other aspirants, who had gone silent during and immediately after the fight, began to disperse and talk among themselves. Hegemol and Ze’mer both rose to their feet, paying their fellows very little mind. They watched the Pale Knight as she descended from her dais to stand in front of them.

“When this tournament first began, I thought none of you worth the nails in your hands, let alone my time,” she said.

Hegemol started coughing immediately, bringing a hand up to clutch at the area of his faceplate where his mouth would be. His shoulders were shaking.

Ze’mer blinked once, face blank and confused. “Fierce Dryya has a strange way of encouraging,” she said. “Perhaps things are different in Hallownest than Lands Serene?”

“I was wrong,” Dryya continued. “Or, rather, I’m pleasantly surprised. I think most of Hallownest has met my expectations. Only the two of you have so far surpassed them.”

Ze’mer’s confusion morphed into surprised pleasure. A wide, happy smile brightened her features. “Che’ has tried her best!” she chirped. “An honor, yes, to hear such things from le’hon. Che’ knows her reputation. Such words are rare.”

“Maybe not so rare,” Hegemol said cheekily. There was an easy, happy note to his voice that Dryya hadn’t heard before. She turned her attention away from Ze’mer and looked at him. His shoulders were no longer shaking–had he been laughing at her? Though she couldn’t see his face, their talk just an hour or so ago was still very fresh on her mind. She imagined he was smiling.

“What praise I have handed out was well-earned,” Dryya replied flatly, suppressing a tired smirk. “I will have it known, however, that smartasses tend to receive less.”

“Duly noted,” Hegemol said, dipping his head. The gesture was just a little too fast and a little too exaggerated to be wholly serious, however. Dryya rolled her eyes.

She thought next to shift her focus back to Ze’mer. The foreigner stood there still, silent and eager. It was part of Dryya’s duty as the Kagath’s organizer to improve the skills of its participants. It was her further duty as the Pale Knight to train those selected to join her in knighthood. Ze’mer showed immense promise, but there were a few errors made during her bout which could be addressed. She got too close to Hegemol too often, exposing herself unnecessarily. Her guard was flashy but brittle; when it broke, defeat was quick to follow. She should have kept her distance and done her best to wear her opponent out. There were other issues. She lost her nails. One’s weapon was one’s life. One should never part with it.

As she was about to relay this information, movement at the edge of the courtyard caught her eye. Turning her head, she saw a City Sentinel approaching. His was the stocky and round form of a beetle. His armor glinted in the Palace’s white light; upon his breast he wore the telltale seal of a lieutenant.

“My lady,” he said, coming to a stop and offering a snappy salute. “The Watcher requests your presence.”

She bit down on her impatience. The Watcher? Now? Surely Lurien knew what she was doing down here–could he not wait a few moments more? For the briefest of moments, her control nearly slipped and released those thoughts to the world.

Fortunately, she got a hold of herself. “This had better be important,” she said instead, levelling the Sentinel with a flat stare.

The beetle shifted somewhat uncomfortably under her heavy gaze. “I- er, yes ma’am. There are some potential security risks he wished to discuss with you, ma’am.”

Dryya’s expression became unimpressed. Seeming to sense the further downtick in her mood, the guard offered, “He said it was urgent, ma’am.”

Dryya rolled her eyes. Ever since the Kagath began–even before it began–Lurien had been constantly snipping at her over security. His issues were non-stop and anal. There was certainly a risk factor–it was inevitable, given the nature of the event–but the Watcher was obsessive. Every tiny detail warranted scrutiny, and just for good measure, he scrutinized the scrutinizers.

There should be one extra pair of guards in this corridor–no, actually, make it two pairs–but now there’s an opening over here, so we should reroute these guards from there, and-

It went on. Though she was grateful to Lurien for his encouragement this morning–she hesitated to call it a “pep talk”, considering who it was from–that didn’t mean she would come running just to soothe his constant need to shift around her duty rosters. She had a job to do. Whatever his latest “urgent” security need was, it would have to wait.

“Tell the Watcher that once I have finished with my aspirants, I will gladly see to his latest urgency,” Dryya said, doing her best to project patience she didn’t feel.

The guard hesitated. “My lady, I-”

The Pale Knight’s visage hardened into a glare. The Sentinel, seeing the storm brewing on her face, wisely decided to change course. “Of- of course, ma’am. I’ll… let him know.”

He snapped off another salute and made a hasty retreat. Three sets of eyes watched him go.

With a frustrated snort, Dryya turned her attention back to Hegemol and Ze’mer, who were patiently waiting for her to finish with the guard. Her opinion of the former, already high, had only risen with his victory. She thought him vapid for his mistake in the Welcome Hall two nights previously, but during the battle he had demonstrated his ability to think tactically. He could not have handled Ze’mer any better. She had nothing for him, no critiques–not at present, at least.

“You may go, Hegemol,” she said. “Get some rest. You’ve had a busy morning.”

“Indeed, Lady,” the giant rumbled. “Though I believe a more apt turn of phrase would be that you have kept me busy this morning.”

Dryya made a face. Her large, black eyes narrowed in such a way that the rough, darkened, exhausted ridges which ran along them became even more prominent. The adrenaline of the fight was fading now, carrying away with it what little energy she had left. Combined with the stress of the previous night and this newest frustration with the Watcher, it left her once again acutely aware of the fact that she was exhausted.

“Beat it,” she told him, not unkindly. There was less bite in her tone than there could have been.

Like the Sentinel before him, Hegemol made the wise choice of complying with unspoken signals. Sensing that the Pale Knight was not at present interested in any verbal sparring, he bowed respectfully. “My lady.”

With that, he turned and made his way out of the courtyard, heading back in the direction of the aspirant barracks. She was sure there would be roaring crowds waiting to congratulate him on his victory once he arrived. That was beyond her concern, though. She turned her attention back to Ze’mer. One thing at a time. First the aspirant, then the Watcher, and then, perhaps, sleep.

The foreigner, for her part, tilted her head. She could well see just how tired Dryya was. “Le’hon, perhaps a rest? Che’ shall still be here upon waking.”

Dryya waved her off. The concern was somewhat touching, but both unwarranted and unwanted. She could still perform her duties in her present condition. “Best to do this now, while the fight is still fresh in your memory,” she said. “You performed well, but there were some things I wanted to go over with you…”

She led Ze’mer into the center of the courtyard, where the duel took place, and began to walk her through some of her mistakes. The lesson was not a long one; though a promising candidate, Ze’mer was not yet a Knight. Dryya wasn’t in a position to expend too much time on a mere aspirant. That she was training with this one at all revealed her confidence in the roach’s abilities, fearful or otherwise.

She decided not to focus on acrobatics for the time being. Ze’mer needed little tutoring in that department, though she might perhaps have learned from Isma’s example and avoided trying to conquer Hegemol through flips. Instead, they spent roughly half an hour going through basic nail forms. As it turned out, Hallownest and the Lands Serene developed very differently in that regard. Wherever Ze’mer’s homeland was, it was not as far along in terms of martial thought. Her forms were simple and lacked finesse, overrelying on flash and spectacle while ignoring the basics.

Dryya wondered if the roach’s homeland tended to favor magic, like her frightful aura, over nailplay. It made sense, but then, Ze’mer had made very clear to anyone who would listen that her ability did not affect those from her home. Perhaps they had some kind of resistance to it, innate or learned, and Ze’mer simply didn’t know. Perhaps she did know but knew nothing of how to teach such resistance. And then, of course, there was the fact that Dryya herself had only just taught the foreigner some semblance of control over her own power. Were the Lands Serene full of witches, surely the roach would have learned more of her talent from her own people. Perhaps all her ilk possessed the same power and knew nothing of its existence until exposed to outsiders.

Bah. There were so many questions to be asked. Dryya voiced none of them. There would be time for such things later, she was sure. As fascinating as Ze’mer was, by the end of their twenty minute lesson she was more than ready to retire to the comfort of her own quarters and put the past day behind her.

Naturally, then, it was as she dismissed Ze’mer and prepared to do just that that the next interruption of the hour presented itself.

“Lady Dryya!”

The call came from behind her. It was a male voice, a deep, rich baritone. Dryya grimaced and rolled her eyes, took a moment to compose herself, and then turned around. Must someone always want something?

Ogrim and Isma both stood across from her, the former looking immensely more at ease than the latter. He smiled wide when they made eye contact; it was his voice she heard calling.

“Yes?” she asked, clamping down on her frustration as best she could manage. Better these two than any of the other myriad assembly of grunts, she supposed, but even they had failed to impress her thus far.

“I… I would speak with you, my lady.” It was Isma who answered. She took a tentative step forwards, seemingly nervous. Why was it, Dryya wondered, that every time she saw the green bug she appeared so timid? What kind of warrior could thrash nearly an entire combat bracket’s worth of enemies one second and then fail to hold a conversation the next?

Dryya waited a few moments more for Isma to say something else, but she was not forthcoming. Some of her frustration leaked into her voice. “If you would speak with me, aspirant, then you’d best be getting to it. I’ve much to do.”

Her bite seemed to inspire Isma’s own. The green bug’s features hardened ever so slightly. It was barely noticeable, but it was there. Ogrim placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“We need to talk about the Greenpath, my lady,” Isma said evenly, her voice now with some iron in it.

“Do we, now?” Dryya asked. “I was unaware.”

Isma faltered. She took a deep breath, and then, steeling herself, pressed on. “This matters to me. Deeply. I’ve placed highly enough in the scoring that I deserve a few minutes of your time.”

“Deserve it, do you?”

Dryya’s voice was ice cold. Her glare, now unrestrained, was fixated solely on the aspirant. Most who received such a withering look wilted under its shadow. To her credit, Isma held her ground–if only barely.

“Yes,” she breathed, speaking almost to herself. “Yes, I deserve it. I deserve answers.”

Her expression softened, losing its bite but none of its strength. She looked at Dryya with deep, pleading eyes. “Please. I just… I need to know. My people deserve to know why we were stolen from.”

“What?” Dryya asked, completely bewildered. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“The Queen’s Garden,” Isma said. “You and the King ripped it away from us. Why?”

All the fight had left her voice, like she no longer felt any desire to be combative or argue. She sounded tired, much like Dryya felt. This old burden, so long crushing her under its oppressive weight, could at last be relieved. Now at the finish line, Isma just wanted it gone.

Dryya, for her part, was not expecting to talk about this today–or ever, for that matter. Before Isma turned up for the Kagath, she hadn’t thought of the Greenpath in a long, long time. On the edge of Hallownest’s borders and only loosely under its jurisdiction, the Greenpath was a region often neglected by the powers that be. The arrangement suited both parties. The mosskin kept their autonomy and the Pale Court kept travel rights and peaceful subjects. As a Knight, the lands of Unn were simply too peaceful to be relevant to her.

As for Isma’s accusations…

…no. No, not here. Not out in the open. She wouldn’t have the Pale King’s reputation damaged by idle rumor or misbegotten anger.

“Walk with me,” she said briskly. She pushed past the pair of aspirants and made for the exit, setting a breakneck pace that Isma and Ogrim had to scramble over one another to match. Like with Hegemol just a short time ago, the guards who monitored the connecting hallways to the rest of the White Palace didn’t bat an eye as their captain marched past them with aspirants in tow. This trek, though, was somewhat longer than the one to the Queen’s Glade; Dryya took them to a pair of grand staircases and led them up, up and up until finally they were at the top.

They were faced with an austere white door. Unlike the entrance to the Glade, this one was plain and simple. Its surface was stark white with an etched ring around its edge. Exactly in the middle was the only decoration on its whole surface: an intricate carving of a nail. It was a rough thing but not sloppy, appearing very little like any of the Palace’s other etchings. Its style was simply… different. Foreign. On one side of the nail were two thin straight marks. There was one more on the other.

Dryya spent no time admiring the door as her aspirants were presently doing. She placed two claws against the nail’s grip and her third against the palm of her own hand. The door immediately responded: for just a moment, it flashed white, then it swung open. Dryya stepped inside and gestured for Isma and Ogrim to follow her in.

The aspirants, for their part, were startled by the door’s glow and had both taken uncertain steps back. Once it faded and opened, Isma took a deep breath and followed Dryya in. Ogrim, meanwhile, looked like he would really rather look at the carvings some more, but a pointed look from the Pale Knight brought him scurrying inside. The door swung quickly yet silently shut behind him.

The room they found themselves in was spartan. There was a single clear window in the shape of a rhombus. The walls were a mesmerizing mixture of black and grey with splashes of white, a composite of shell and stone. Large swirl patterns inherent to the material dominated the space, though they were blended in such a way as to be unnoticeable at first glance. There was little else in the way of decoration. Beyond the sculpture in the walls themselves, the room was bare. Along the center back wall, horizontal, was an uncomfortable looking hard slab that only vaguely looked like a bed. Above it hung the room’s only flare: a shellwood rack with a long, old looking lance on it. The lance was the color of steel and had clearly seen extensive use: its blade was dulled and still stained with some kind of unrecognizable blue detritus.

Dryya led the aspirants to the last extant feature of the room: a pure white desk, masterfully crafted and looking as if carved from pure marble. Marvellous carvings ran across its base and the edges of the top, depicting myriad bugs, places, and events. Some were clearly warriors, fighting off what appeared to be invaders; others showed moments of diplomacy or peace, while others still seemed to be almost ceremonial. The Pale Knight herself was visible in many of the carvings in her familiar blazing white armor, as were the equally recognizable forms of the Pale King and the White Lady. Most figures on the desk were carved from materials white or grey, but some, notably towards the bottom, were of abyssal black shell. These figures were tall and slender. Most held no weapons, instead baring their front limbs at their pale-shelled opponents. Only four figures in the front, facing two of the many carvings of Dryya and the Pale King, were armed: each held a lance, one in each hand. Isma and especially Ogrim had no time to study the magnificence on display, though; much like with the door, Dryya demanded their attention.

“Be very careful when next you speak,” she began flatly, voice hard as the marble in her desk. “You were summoned to this Tournament to serve your King, not to air old grievances.”

“Are the Knights not allowed to question their leader?” Isma asked.

Dryya’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You aren’t a Knight yet,” she hissed. “This conversation will determine if you even remain in the running. You aren’t doing well so far.”

“And I am here to serve,” Isma replied quickly. “I- please, listen. That’s all I ask. Just listen.”

Dryya took a deep breath and tried to regulate her mood. She was exhausted and stressed; perhaps Isma wasn’t malicious. Perhaps she was simply a fool. To criticize the Pale King in his own palace… madness. Madness and stupidity.

She did her best to relax into her chair, which was much like the one she left behind in the courtyard: white and simple, with two arms and a high back. The aspirants across from her were seated on a pair of stark black ottomans.

“Make it quick,” she said flatly.

Isma let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She took a moment to compose herself and then began. “Years ago, when I was just a girl, you and the Pale King came to the Greenpath. You spoke with Unn. I saw you: a magnificent sight. The two of you were the brightest things I had ever seen. I didn’t know who you were, what you were… all I knew was that you were powerful, and that after you left, my family was upset. A lot of mosskin were. Not long after that, new faces arrived in the Greenpath. Mosskin from somewhere else, they said. Somewhere lost to us. It was only later, once I was older, that I learned what you did.”

Isma’s voice was calm and mostly even, aided perhaps by the steady presence of Ogrim’s hand on her shoulder. If the occasional shake entered her tone, no one said anything.

“You stole from us,” she continued quietly. “You, the honorable Pale Knight, and your beloved King. He who raised the rest of Hallownest from the dirt to civility. Is that where his care ends? Because we mosskin weren't his creations, we aren't worthy of respect? Your Court ripped land away from us and handed it away to your Queen. There was no negotiation. No barter. Just a diktat. Are we worth so little to you?”

Dryya waited a moment, letting all of that soak in. Ultimately, there was one aspect of Isma’s speech she was more concerned about than any other.

“‘My Court,’” she said softly. “‘My Queen.’ ’My beloved King’.’”

Isma looked pointedly at her. “Is that not true?” she asked. She had a remarkable way of phrasing her words to sound right. Her voice lacked judgement completely, but she spoke in such a way that would make anyone who disagreed sound a fool.

Dryya chuckled mirthlessly. The sound was almost sad. “Were you less composed, we may well be crossing blades by now.”

Isma swiftly pulled back from the desk, as if subconsciously putting distance between herself and the Pale Knight without actually leaving her seat. A shadow passed over her face. At her side, Ogrim looked increasingly desperate.

“I see,” she said quietly. She put her hands in her lap and stared down at them, her mind retreating in on itself as she chewed on Dryya’s words. When she looked back up, she seemed… resigned. “Is that what your Knights are going to be, then? Armed thugs who prey on the weak?”

“Careful, girl,” Dryya warned. “I’ve let you get away with much this conversation, but I won’t sit here and listen to you besmirch the King.”

“Then explain yourself!”

The outburst was Ogrim’s and was completely unexpected. Dryya and Isma both looked at him, surprised. He had thus far remained silent. It seemed he could manage that no longer.

The dung beetle, for his part, looked absolutely heartbroken. He looked at the Pale Knight with pleading eyes. “Lady, please. You are a benign and just warrior. The King is honorable. We… we have come before you with genuine questions and good intent. We want to serve. We want to aid the people of Hallownest and the King. Why do you talk in circles? Why do you threaten those who wish you peace?”

Dryya pressed her claws tightly against her forehead. She’d been nursing a headache for at least the past hour, roughly since Ze’mer surprised everyone with her frightful scream. The pair of aspirants now interrogating her weren’t making things any better.

She took another deep breath, trying to balance out her pain, her weariness, and her frustration. She needed to focus. Despite herself, Ogrim’s words struck a chord within her soul. Isma spoke improperly with complete disregard for protocol. She should not speak of the King–or Dryya herself, for that matter–in such a disdainful, familiar way. And yet… did she have a point?

For the good of Hallownest, the Garden had to be taken. Still, she supposed it made sense for the other side of such an arrangement to be upset about it. Talk was not her forte, but if it would smooth things over then talk she would.

She lowered her hand and placed both of them on the desk in front of her. Took a deep breath. Released it. In, out. In, out. Focus.

Wyrm, she needed a nap.

“Let me make something very clear to you,” she said finally. “This conversation is highly irregular. You should not be talking to me about this. You shouldn’t be in this room. It is not your place to question the King–not yet, at least.”

Isma and Ogrim both perked up in their seats at that.

“However,” Dryya continued, “since you are here, and since I have entertained you thus far, I will answer your questions as best I can.”

It was very specifically not an apology, but it was a start.

She raised a claw into the air upon the suddenly hopeful expressions on the aspirants’ faces. “There will be ground rules. One: you will give the King the respect he is due. Whether or not you agree with some of his actions, he is the Creator. The Mind-Giver. Your kind may predate Hallownest, Mosskin, but your memory does not go as far back as mine. You were wild things once, too.”

Isma pursed her lips, but after a moment’s pause she nodded curtly.

Dryya continued, raising a second claw. “Two: whatever we discuss will not leave this room. You will hear from me what you will and no more. This topic will not come up again unless by writ of the Monarchs. If anything I tell you leaks out to your kind or mine, to Hallownest or beyond, I will find you. Do I make myself clear?”

Isma offered a slower nod this time. “Yes,” she agreed. “I understand.” Ogrim stayed quiet, but Dryya wasn’t worried about him. She got the feeling that saying something bad about the King would probably make him physically ill.

“Good,” she said. “Now: the Garden. You’ve told your side of the story. I will tell mine.

Long ago, before your time, the City of Tears was little more than an idea in the head of a few bugs and a man who called himself King. Urbanism was a foreign concept to this land which we now call Hallownest. There were cultures which predated this King: the mantises, the moths, the Hive, the mosskin. None existed on such a scale as what we now have. The City of Tears was constructed to house his new subjects, of which there are thousands. They needed homes. More pressingly, they needed sustenance.”

“We could have traded-” Isma began, but Dryya held up a claw again.

“Let me finish,” she said. “You may disagree with me once my story is complete, but not before.”

Isma nodded tersely, after which the Pale Knight continued. “Water was easily supplied from the Blue Lake, but food was another matter altogether. The citizenry which once feasted upon itself as little more than savage bestiary now needed a reliable, sustainable source of nutrition. There are no lands more suitable to such a task than your own, Mosskin, and in particular the Garden. The Garden was needed. The Garden was taken.”

“By diktat!” Isma exclaimed angrily. Ogrim squeezed her shoulder in a bid to calm her down; she paused, took a deep breath, then continued. “I know well why you seized our land. My issue is not that you needed it, Lady, but that you took it. It might have been granted freely. Equal rights to the land might have been arranged. We offered ourselves to Hallownest as good neighbors. What sort of neighbor steals from another?”

Dryya hesitated, but only for a moment. She steeled herself for what she was about to say.

“I know your pain, Isma of the Greenpath,” she admitted quietly. “To have land and people stolen away, uprooted, supplanted. It feels wrong. You might think to cry out for justice, but you would be mistaken to do so. There is no justice here. Not of the kind you want. You ask what sort of neighbor steals from another. I ask you this: what sort of neighbor can you make of a god?”

“He may be powerful, but that doesn’t give him the right to just do as he pleases,” Isma said fiercely.

“Doesn’t it?” Dryya asked, still quiet.

Isma puffed out her chest, passions aflame. “Strength of arms is no way to run a kingdom,” she declared.

“The strong dominate the weak,” Dryya said.

“The strong should protect the weak,” Isma countered.

“Agreed,” Dryya replied, quick and easy. “But that protection comes at the cost of control. The King hasn't the time to explain his decisions to everyone they affect. His judgement must simply be trusted. Has he not earned it? Did he not raise Hallownest from the dirt and offer them the stars?”

“Has he given them the stars?” Isma asked, “or has he given them submission?”

“No great endeavor ever started without sacrifice,” Dryya said simply. “Progress requires resources. Resources have to come from somewhere.”

“And so they should be seized without negotiation, without debate?” Isma demanded. “Because he has the strength to do so, he should lord over all? I respect his prerogative as King of Hallownest. I admire what he did for the bugs he elevated. That was a wonderful thing. But power has to be tempered by morality. Justice must be the right hand of rulership.”

“Agreed,” Dryya said again. “I will not dispute that.”

“Was it just, then, to unilaterally seize the lands which Unn’s children had cultivated for generations?” Isma pressed.

It was then, as that question was pondered, that something clicked inside Dryya’s mind. She thought back again to her first conversation with the Pale King about his ideal Knights. He had very specific parameters in mind for the selection process. They could not all be Guards, as she originally wanted, and invitations must be sent to those from all walks of life. He didn’t want simple yes-men, he told her, nor did he simply need yet more mighty warriors. His hosts were impressive enough as is. What he needed were different sorts of people with different points of view who could come together and aid the realm in ways that even he could not. Advisors, she posited, a term which her liege did not much care for. What use did a Wyrm have for the advice of common bugs?

Advisors, the Queen confirmed, smiling gently as her husband pouted up at her from his throne.

Wise enough to see the need, but not so wise as to see past his pride. The Knights, then, would act as a sort of release valve: militaristic enough to satiate the Wyrm who demanded fealty and lorded over thousands, but kind enough to please the bug who brought life to those thousands and strove tirelessly to care for and protect them.

“Perhaps not,” Dryya said, quietly awed as the grand scope of her master’s vision slowly unveiled itself to her. If she was right… no. Certainly not. The Pale King possessed incredible foresight, but surely this series of events was beyond even his godly abilities.

He was a Wyrm who took what he wanted from those beneath him.

He was a bug who wanted kinder souls than he in positions of power to better care for the direct needs of his people.

Could those two viewpoints, opposite in so many ways, be one in the same?

“My lady?” Ogrim asked hesitantly, speaking up again for the first time in several minutes.

“The King is unknowable,” she said slowly, talking as much to herself as the aspirants. “His mind is ancient beyond time. In a way, we are as specks of dust to him. I must admit that he did not engage with your kind as equals, but his view is grand. He sees things beyond what you and I can see. He acts based on things which have not yet come to pass. He took from you not maliciously, or because he could, but because he had to. Perhaps talk would simply have slowed him down.”

Isma shifted restlessly. “If I join you, if I am selected to become a Knight… that stops. No matter how strong the King is, we as representatives of his Court must strive to improve the lives and world around us.”

“I think that’s the point, yes,” Dryya said softly. Ogrim looked at her curiously, but Isma was on a roll.

“No one else should be made to feel weak because of the strong. If what the King did helped people, then good. Simply engaging with us as equals, though, would have solved my problems before they formed.”

“But then you wouldn’t be here, now, where you’re needed,” Dryya murmured. This was so quiet that neither of the aspirants heard her, but that didn’t matter to her. Was this all a grand plan or a series of coincidences? Both answers were equally plausible, which was somewhat infuriating. She doubted even the Queen would know if she asked.

Recovering her wits, she said, louder, “Your idealism is admirable, but remember: the Knights of Hallownest will be rulers unto themselves. Should you be selected, and such is not guaranteed, you would be forced to make decisions which will not come easily. That is the price of ruling.”

Isma went quiet for a moment. It was Ogrim who spoke up. “And the people who pay for our decisions? What do you call that?” he asked.

“The sacrifice of the ruled,” Dryya replied. “A good ruler pays that heavy price willingly. A bad one pays not at all.”

“Did the King feel for the mosskin?” Isma asked, sounding genuinely curious. “Did you?”

“I did,” Dryya admitted. “Perhaps not to the degree that you would like, but I did feel some sympathy. Ultimately, though, I agreed with the King’s decision. The Gardens were needed; the Gardens were taken. For one as mighty as he, little further explanation was needed. But with you, and the others…”

She trailed off. The aspirants let her think.

“The strong dominate the weak,” she repeated after a moment. “Hallownest ought to be–is–grateful that the Pale Court, powerful as it is, remains largely benevolent. But perhaps, with that power, comes… disconnection. None of us are normal bugs anymore. Fresh eyes may be needed–different perspectives.”

She remembered back to her conversation with Hegemol that morning. Did the King mean for his Knights to become a people? Was he collecting outcasts? Between Hegemol, Ze’mer, and Dryya herself, such seemed… possible, if not likely. And now, here, with Isma, she believed yet further elements of her master’s plan were revealed. How could any of the Court as it was, from Lurien to the Queen, truly know how best to serve the common bug when all of them were anything but common? They were good and kind, yes, and they tried, of course, but perhaps therein lay another function of the Knights: in equal measure, they would serve the commoners and remind the Court how better to do so in turn.

Dryya looked Isma in the eye, this new perspective allowing her to see the green bug in a new light. Perhaps her idealism and her insolence might prove useful after all. “I cannot apologize for what happened with the Queen’s Garden, Isma of the Greenpath. The King’s decisions are final. What I can do is promise that, in the future, we will be better.”

Isma went quiet for a long moment. “I suppose that is all I can ask for,” she eventually said. It seemed clear that there was more she wished to say, but it was equally clear that there would be no further concessions. The conversation was, in effect, over. Isma wasn’t exactly sure what she came here for, or expecting. An explanation, yes, but to what end? An apology? That was not forthcoming. Dryya in fact had said both very little and very much. Did she regret what she had done? Isma wasn’t sure. More importantly, though, she felt that her own position had received some form of tacit support from the Pale Knight. If she could qualify for knighthood, prove herself worthy, it seemed that Dryya might be on-side when it came to protecting the rights of smaller communities and individuals. That was a huge concession, though the way it was conveyed made it seem like nothing at all.

Or maybe she was overthinking it. She supposed she would just have to wait and see. Her overall goal hadn't changed, after all.

Dryya rose to her feet. “If we’re done here, then,” she said. She extended one hand to the door.

Ogrim and Isma rose as one. The former bowed, the latter curtsied, and then they both turned to leave. Ogrim had a soft smile on his face. “I told you,” he whispered. “That went well!”

“I think I’ve aged five years in the past five minutes,” Isma whispered back. Both of them giggled.

The door slammed open–but it wasn't the aspirants who did it. Startled, they both leapt backwards at the sudden and unexpected appearance of Lurien the Watcher.

“Hand!” he barked, his usual calm completely absent. He paid the pair of aspirants absolutely no mind. “I have been trying to reach you for an hour!”

At her desk, Dryya returned a hand to her forehead, massaging her temple. “Watcher-”

“Three patrols have gone missing in the Deepnest caves!” Lurien thundered. “Three!”

Dryya’s hand dropped from her forehead. “What?” she breathed.

“Something is very wrong on the perimeter,” the Watcher continued. “I dispatched couriers after our talk this morning but none have returned. I-”

He wasn’t given the chance to finish. A soft ‘thud’ echoed through the room–a deep, dreadful sound. All four of its occupants heard it. It was coming from outside. Each of them turned their attention towards the window. Dryya cautiously rose to her feet, one hand instinctively dropping to her nail. Another ‘thud’ sounded, louder this time. No one said a word.

Something giant was moving.

A third ‘thud’ sounded, this time followed by a deafening series of roars and clicks. The walls shook. Dust and loose pebbles fell from the ceiling. Isma and Ogrim shook on their feet, gait unsteady, while the two more seasoned bugs kept their footing. At the same time, a distant black shape appeared through the rhombus-shaped window. It was grey and tiny but rapidly growing larger–so rapidly, in fact, that most bugs would have been unable to keep pace with it.

Dryya was not most bugs. “Down!” she thundered, drawing her nail and slicing clean through the air just as the shape shattered through her window and arced towards Lurien’s head. It was fast, but the Pale Knight was faster: her nail batted the flying object aside before it made contact. Another shape appeared in the newly opened hole in the wall, but the Watcher, seemingly not at all bothered by his near-death experience, uttered a quiet word of power. A glowing silver shield appeared instantaneously where the window once was, intercepting this new weapon before it could enter the room. It fizzled out moments later, dropping the object to the ground far below.

The aspirants gawked, having never seen such a display of power and skill before, but Dryya paid it no mind. She was down on one knee, inspecting the weapon she had knocked from the sky.

It was a steel lance. She knew well the make.

In the distance, screams could be heard. The sound of clashing blades and shouted curses followed soon thereafter, and through it all, a horrible shriek and the shaking of earth. Dryya dropped the lance and raced to the former window, Lurien, Isma, and Ogrim hot on her heels. She gazed down at the courtyard far below them, eyes wide with horror. Her worst fears had been realized.

There, on the distant ground, tiny blue and green figures dueled with those clad in white and steel. Some flew through the air, nimble and fast, lobbing projectiles and spinning blades. Most fought on the ground, engaging with and overpowering one another with claw and nail. There were other shapes: as Dryya watched, one of the white-armored figures was suddenly stabbed in the back by one of the steel ones and brought low.

The Mantis Tribe had come.

The White Palace was under attack.

Chapter Text

Kin.

Her kin were here.

For a different bug, such information might have been welcome–joyous, even. But Dryya did not feel those things. Instead, she was overcome by a feeling of revulsion like she had never known. It flooded her mind, blocking her synapses and silencing her thoughts. She was drowning in her own head, adrift alone in an impossible storm. An all-consuming, deafening roar began filling her ears, quiet at first until it became louder and louder and louder and louder until all she could think to do was scream back.

She had nothing in her heart for these creatures other than purest, unadulterated hate. That was the contrivance which would sustain her until this crisis passed.

The Mantis Tribe, her begotten people, dared to trespass in the Ancient Basin, dared to invade the White Palace itself. How dare they? Was her punishment not sufficient? Did those wretches not feel it enough that she was barred from her ancient home and family? They had come to destroy her–and certainly, they were there for her. There was no doubt whatsoever in Dryya’s mind. These despicable, dissolute creatures, anathema to all that was just and righteous–how dare they?

“Worms,” she snarled, clenching her fists as she stared down at the fighting below. “Beasts! Impudent children! I’ll string the lot of them up by their feet! I’ll cast their whole tribe into the Abyss! Wretched, miserable creatures! How dare they come here?!”

“They must have come in through the Deepnest tunnels,” Lurien said quickly. He sounded as frantic as Dryya had ever heard him. He was no longer watching the battle, instead now looking up at her. “This is catastrophic. Today, of all days… we’re barely equipped to handle this. We’re spread too thin.”

In an instant, much of Dryya’s anger cooled. Rage underpinned her every thought, but she did her best to force it down. She had to keep a level head. If the Watcher was faltering, then the numbers were against them–or at least weren't favorable. She had to keep herself together for the sake of everyone else. The defense of the Palace was up to her–unless the King himself got involved.

“Stow that talk. We can handle it,” she said fiercely, steel in her voice. “Keep your chin up, Watcher. This Palace falls over my dead body, and I’ll have a mountain of their corpses at my side first.”

Lurien stilled. “An inadvisable outcome,” he said quietly. Still, his posture straightened and some of his usual control came back to his voice. “What, then, is the plan?”

Dryya didn’t hesitate. There was one issue which trumped all others. She spoke with such conviction that it was as if nothing else in the world mattered. “We keep them away from the inner chambers. The Monarchs are to be defended at all costs. We’ll engage the mantises on every front, always, relentlessly. Their forces must have no room to breathe. I'll rally the Guard and the Sentinels and make for where the fighting is thickest. This is no time for meekness. A full-frontal assault with overwhelming ferocity will put these bastards to flight.”

Lurien nodded slowly. “...yes. Yes, of course. That could work. As always, I leave the strategizing to you.”

“What about us, Lady?” Ogrim asked. He and Isma were also now facing away from the window-hole. He looked determined and almost eager, while Isma seemed more hesitant. She was twirling a short vine between her fingers–a nervous tick? “You must let us aid you. We won't stand for this attack on the King!”

Dryya looked at him–really looked at him. Ogrim was a spirited thing, and unlike his partner there was not a trace of fear on his person. This was an aspirant whom she was yet to witness in combat, yet to have a spirited discussion with, and yet to really understand. She knew very little of his capabilities, only that he was a finalist on the first day’s combat bracket and was soundly defeated by Ze’mer. Thus far, she had spared him very little thought.

She had taken notice throughout her discussion with the pair of aspirants–mostly with Isma, really–that Ogrim seemed to have a stabilizing effect on his friend. She was more confident when he was close. Physical proximity: a touch on the shoulder, a squeeze of the hand.

It wasn't a good thing. No true warrior should be so reliant on another to function at their best. Still, for now they were what Dryya had. At the very least they were dedicated, and besides, a trial by fire might well serve better than any Tournament to properly gauge their skill.

“The two of you will stay with me,” she told them. “It’s about time that I see what you can really do.”

Ogrim smiled wide. “It will be an honor, Lady, to fight at your side!” Isma said nothing, but she looked determined. Some of that fear vanished from her face. Both of them seemed ready to fight.

Dryya nodded curtly and turned for the door. Lurien, Isma, and Ogrim followed at her heels. She said nothing else: nothing to inspire, direct, or soothe. Perhaps she should have, but she’d voiced all she was able. As the large shell door swung open and the four of them rushed out of her room, the red began to return to her vision. The roaring in her ears grew louder. All she wanted was…

Was…

…

…

…

Out. Gone. She wanted the Mantis Tribe out of the Palace. She wanted answers for why they dared to invade in the first place. She wanted to drive her nail through the heart of each and every one of the Mantis Lords and put the fear of Hallownest back into the Tribe’s collective psyche. She wanted them to hurt, like they had hurt her.

She wanted justice.

The four bugs moved through a series of halls until they re-entered the room with the two grand staircases. They raced down their length as quickly as they were able. Dryya was practically flying at this point, fast as she was, and the others were struggling to keep up. Thoughts of defense and protection raced through her mind, faster even than her feet. Her life was her charge. Her duty was everything. Her oath was unbreakable. For King and Creator, for her dearest Queen, she would safeguard this Palace til her last breath.

She saw something down below. There were three figures at the bottom of the stairs. There should only have been two. She leapt off the upper staircase and sailed towards the ground, performing a graceful flip and landing on her feet with her nail drawn. At the bottom, right in front of her, were a trio of mantis warriors. Each of them took a hasty step backwards. They were staring at her, shocked, antennae twitching, claws sharp and dripping with ichor. They stood over the bodies of two guards: the pair Dryya, Isma, and Ogrim had passed earlier.

Dryya said nothing. She made not a sound; indeed, the only recognition she offered at all was a narrowing of her eyes. For an impossibly long second, she held absolutely still. Then that second passed and she charged at the invaders with blinding speed, so quick that if one blinked they would lose track of her.

One of the mantises lost her head before she had a chance to fight back.

The other two leapt backwards, putting some distance between themselves and the Pale Knight. This was a classic mantis tactic: they would draw back and then rapidly lunge forwards, faster than most bugs could react to, and catch their foes in a devastating counterattack. These warriors were skilled and evidently aged, given the dark coloration of their shells and the patchwork of scars covering them. There were few things more dangerous than an elder in a profession wherein most died young.

That expression being true, they never stood a chance.

Their lunge was indeed blisteringly fast, but Dryya saw it coming. She knew how mantises fought. She knew every move they could make before they made it. As they shot forth, she held her ground. This was what they wanted; it made them complacent. They attacked with their claws, leaving themselves exposed. Dryya’s nail flashed and drank, stained but not sated.

By the time Lurien and the aspirants made it down the stairs, two more headless corpses had joined the first.

“Efficient,” Lurien said approvingly.

“Very impressive!” Ogrim exclaimed giddily. Isma rolled her eyes at her friend, but she looked a little more green than usual at the sight of the bodies and averted her gaze.

“Keep moving,” Dryya ordered, unphased by her companions. She was already making for the exit and back towards the courtyard. The other three fell in behind her. She thought nothing of the mantis lives she had just claimed. She instead thought of the disemboweled corpses of her guards and let cold rage fuel her actions. The Palace Guard was hers. She knew them all by name, had trained them personally. This tribal filth would pay dearly for each and every one of them they took from her.

It was then that a new problem made itself violently known. Just before she could leave, a shrieking lance tore from the darkness and impaled itself in the ground directly before her feet. Dryya stopped immediately, already turning around to try and locate the attacker. She didn’t have to look far. From the top of the room far above, a new pair of mantises presented themselves. They launched themselves down the room’s many staircases, leapfrogging entire sections of the structure. Their acrobatics were similar to Dryya’s own. She narrowed her eyes as they drew near, but did not yet raise her nail. These two were different. She recognized their armor.

Lictor Guards. They were coming from the direction of her quarters. These creatures were here for her.

The armor of a Lictor was a sacred thing. It was made of red and gold shells, interlocked and woven together to create a shining protective tapestry. Its splendor reflected the majesty of the Mantis Tribe in olden days, in distant times which memory forgot. Those memories yet extant were grains of sand in the dwindling palms of a scant few. The light of the past grew ever dimmer, now casting its warmth only upon the aged and the weary.

These Lictors did not shine. Their armor, meant to be resplendent and beautiful, was dull and muted. The Guards wore it awkwardly, their natural agility being hampered by what was, on their forms, a cumbersome set of equipment. Their rapid descent from the top of the stairwell was hesitant at places and sloppy in others. One of them stumbled halfway down. Few would notice. Dryya did.

Dryya stepped forwards, towards the staircase, the exit to the Main Hall at her back. She positioned herself in front of Lurien, Isma, and Ogrim, ensuring that the Lictors couldn’t get to them without first going through her.

When they finally touched down, no one said a word. Dryya and the Lictors stared each other down, a trio of predators waiting to see which would make the first move.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, one of the Lictors spoke first. Her voice was raspy and bitter, full of impudence and hate. She uttered only two words. They hit Dryya harder than her claws ever could have.

“Pale Dreamer.”

“What?” Ogrim asked, confused.

Dryya barely heard him. She recoiled at the name, taking a step backwards. Her previously perfect defensive stance faltered. She closed her eyes for a moment, attempting to steady herself. When she opened them again, they were glassy and distant. “She is talking to me,” she said. Her voice came from far away: another place and another time, long, long ago, one whose light shined no longer.

“We have come to take you home,” the other Lictor rasped. Her voice was cold and scraping, like a bitter wind in a frozen cavern. It cut to the bone.

Seeing all this, all at once… too much. The Lictors were a symbol of the Mantis Lords themselves. They went nowhere their masters did not command. If these bodyguards were here, speaking to her, uttering such wretched phrases, where were their masters? “I will go nowhere my King does not command, imp,” Dryya replied mechanically, still reeling. She fell back on duty and discipline to sustain herself, as she always had.

“So it is true, then,” the first Lictor derided, baring her teeth. Her mandibles were a pleasant blue-green, like the rest of her body. They ordinarily would pair quite delightfully with her armor, were it not so degraded. “Dryya the Traitor is slaved to the Pale Warlord.”

These words, these insults, they were things Dryya had not heard in years beyond years. In her earliest days in the Pale Court, they haunted her dreams. That was decades ago. These Lictors were children compared to her. What did these creatures know? How did they know? Did her begotten kin truly remember her so? Did her past sins still echo in the once-great halls of the Claw?

She steeled herself. The insult to her King could not go unchallenged; it cut through the fog which enveloped her. She was sworn to her master. She would do her duty. Fire returned to her visage and she let out a bitter laugh, allowing the absurdity of it all to really sink in. Here she was, in her King’s palace, being insulted with terms older than their users. “Foolish child. You know nothing of what you speak. Mind your tongue before I cut it out.”

“You truly would attack your own kind for the foreign monarch?” the second Lictor demanded. It was more of a jeer than a question.

“We are not kin, wretch,” Dryya said, raising her nail and entering into a combat stance. “That was made apparent to me long ago. You are owed nothing, and for your transgressions here you will pay in blood.” She still felt unsteady, but she was able to focus on her task, on the moment, and keep her past at bay. Her nail still dripped blue blood from the three mantises she already killed. What were two more?

Across from her, the Lictors reciprocated her aggression. Their antennae twitched and they bared their teeth, hissing and snapping at her. Their claws were held before them in a painfully familiar stance, traditional for the most elite members of the Tribe. A modified version of that form was the foundation of her Palace Guard’s combat training.

She looked over her shoulder. “Go,” she ordered. “I will heal this old wound. The rest of the Palace still needs defending.”

Ogrim and Isma were both standing perfectly still, shocked by what they’d heard. Were the circumstances different, Dryya would have been panicked by what they now knew. So much energy expended fretting over the idea of Hegemol exposing her secret only for the Mantis Tribe to come and do it for him. These two aspirants now knew something of her Great Shame.

Dryya’s orders snapped them out of their stupor. Ogrim immediately resisted: “My lady, we can help you!”

“No need to do this alone,” Isma chimed in, a determined look on her face.

She felt something warm stir in her chest at their earnest desire to help. Through all the emotional turbulence of the past day, through all the stress and exhaustion and pain, even after the rather fierce argument they had just had, these two still wanted only to do what was right. Perhaps she truly had judged them too harshly.

“No,” she said. “This is my fight. Go now. The rest of the palace needs your aid. Rally the other aspirants. Link up with my guards. I will join you soon.”

She never once looked back to see their faces. She kept her attention focused solely on the enemies before her. Still, she could feel their hesitance as if it were radiating off of them. It was Isma who broke first.

“Yes, Lady,” she said. “We won’t let you down.”

She grabbed her partner by the arm. Reluctantly, Ogrim stepped away.

“I promise you, we will hold,” he vowed. “As you inspire, so shall we!”

There was no more dispute. She heard two pairs of footsteps dart off, slowly getting quieter in the distance–but only two.

“Watcher,” she said, voice severe.

“You do not command me, Hand,” Lurien replied stiffly. “These ruffians have invaded the Palace under our joint watch. I share the responsibility to expel them.”

“There are others who need your help right now,” Dryya insisted. The mantises were her problem. Her shame. She couldn’t fight the whole tribe herself, but she could at least dispatch its most dangerous warriors.

Lurien’s voice, monotonous as ever, still somehow managed to sound tender. “I think the one who needs my help is right here.”

Despite herself, Dryya’s heart further warmed. The past twenty-four hours had shown her sides of the Watcher she never thought she’d see. Even now, he continued to surprise her. She never would have called him “friend” before the Kagath. Perhaps the closest thing to it, other than her Lady, but not friend. Now, though… this moment, his refusal to follow her command and leave her, made true that invisible bond.

“Very well, then,” she said. “Be warned: I expect this shall be messy.”

“It always is with you,” Lurien replied.

Her allies secured, Dryya now felt comfortable engaging the Lictors. The other mantises, for their part, hadn’t moved from their position in front of the stairs. They watched as Dryya gave out her orders, watched as Ogrim and Isma left, and watched as Lurien refused to do the same. They did not take advantage of their enemy’s conversation. They did not try to provoke Dryya by attacking the weaker members of her party. They simply stood there, waiting.

Dryya leveled her nail at them. “Do you hesitate, children? Those who cross blades with me do not often survive. Of all the stories your elders have evidently told you about me, they surely passed some of my prowess along as well.”

The first Lictor smiled thinly. “Hesitate? No. We simply wait, Treacherous One.”

“On what?” Dryya demanded.

She got her answer quickly. Two more shapes appeared overhead: far bulkier yet more graceful than the average mantis, another pair of Lictors dropped from the top of the room. They landed on either side of Dryya and Lurien with barely a sound.

The first Lictor’s smile grew wider. “Will you now come home, Pale Dreamer? We have you two to one. Hardly a fair fight.”

Dryya narrowed her black eyes. The act highlighted the rough chiton around them, demonstrating her exhaustion; it was adrenaline which carried her through. Adrenaline and commitment. She would not fail in her task. For King and Creator, she would give her all.

“You’re right,” she said. “You would need twice that to make it fair.”

The Lictor snarled and snapped her claws. “Drosa!” she thundered. As one, all four of them descended on the Pale King’s servants.

–-----------

Ogrim led Isma away from the grand staircase and Dryya the Fierce. It felt wrong, deeply so, to leave someone he admired so dearly behind with those who sought to do her harm. Even with the Watcher as support, it seemed that it would be a tough fight. Dryya was a mighty warrior and he did not doubt her ability to triumph, but still he fretted. There were only two of those strange mantises, true, but what if more came? Could she triumph over foes who seemed to know so much about her in greater numbers?

Seeming to sense his distress, Isma nudged him as they ran. “She’ll be alright,” she assured.

“I know,” Ogrim replied quickly. “I know, of course. Nevertheless, I hope all this is sorted quickly. It does me ill to leave a sibling-in-arms behind.”

“I would hardly consider it ‘leaving her behind’, considering where we’re going,” Isma quipped. “It's more that she sent us forwards.”

Despite himself, Ogrim grinned. “Ha! Maybe so, Lady. Perhaps, if we really wish to ingratiate ourselves with the Pale Knight, we should throw this invasion back ourselves! I reckon we would be in good standing for knighthood then.”

The sounds of battle grew nearer. Most bugs with any sense would run away from such noise, not towards it. Ogrim knew that. He also knew that perhaps he did not have much sense. He supposed that meant Isma didn’t either.

The pair of aspirants navigated through twisting halls as they did just an hour or so ago, but this time they were alone. Dryya’s quarters were not far from the courtyard, considering the grand scale of the White Palace, but there was still more than one occasion whence either Ogrim or Isma got lost. Fortunately for them, the other always remembered the way.

They began to see signs of carnage. Bodies from both sides were strewn about haphazardly in more or less equal numbers. Blood and hemolymph stained the otherwise pristine white, grey, and black stones of the Palace floor. There was little to see deeper in the complex, where they had started–the only mantises to be found were the three Dryya killed and the pair which had come from her quarters. Ogrim supposed that meant they were there specifically for her.

It was a strange thought, that Dryya was a mantis, but the more it settled the more it made sense. Her warrior code, her strong sense of duty and honor, these were all traits her tribe was meant to share. Those were the stories which filtered down to Hallownest’s populace since the first day of Ascension. From his own admittedly limited interactions with the Tribe in decades past, the old stories seemed true.

Still, how honorable could a foe that attacked the White Palace be? The Pale King was Hallownest’s uplifting, its past and its future. An attack on the font of his power was an attack on every good bug throughout the Kingdom. It was disgraceful.

They were in the main hall now. The courtyard was near. Screams and curses grew louder in the distance, as well as a single terrifying roar and the shaking of earth. Just before they came into visual range, though, they were intercepted by a trio of their fellow aspirants: two beetles and an ant. Considering the environment and the situation, they looked clean and conspicuously non-panicked.

“Ogrim!” the lead one, one of the beetles, called. “Isma! So good to see you!”

They jogged towards the newcomers, who met them in the middle.

Ogrim didn’t recognize them, and a shared look with Isma told him that she didn’t either. “Do we know you?” he asked. “What are you doing back here, away from the battle? There are mantises that need slaying!”

The lead aspirant nodded eagerly. “Apologies, friends. You don’t know us, but everyone knows you. We watched your fights with the first placers. We were only looking for the Pale Knight. Have you seen her? We could really use her help out here.”

Isma stepped forwards, making for the courtyard. Ogrim lagged behind, frowning. Something felt off. “She’s fighting mantises deeper in the Palace,” the mosskin told them. “But we don’t have time to worry about her. We need to take care of ourselves. Haven’t you been helping the Guards? We need to get out there!”

The lead aspirant’s face broke out in a crooked grin. “Of course,” he said soothingly. “We don't mean to tarry. How about we get going?” He stepped aside to let Isma by. She passed through the three aspirants without a second glance.

What happened next occurred practically in slow motion for Ogrim. As he watched, stunned, the leader reached for something on his belt, behind his back. It was a dagger, glinting hungrily in the white light of the Palace. Both the ant and the other beetle reached for weapons as well.

Ogrim reacted on pure instinct. Isma was in danger. He had no ranged weapons or tools of any kind and was too far away to stop his fellow aspirants with his hands, so he reached into a small pouch on his own belt and grabbed the largest thing he had. With little fanfare, he hurled his carved statue of Isma at the lead aspirant’s face.

The impact came just in the knick of time. Just as the leader was about to stab Isma, her likeness clocked him in the head. Taken completely by surprise as he was struck by a fist-sized chunk of hardened clay, he crumpled to the ground in a silent heap. Isma turned around, surprised, and was immediately faced by the equally shocked visages of the other beetle and the ant, each of whom had their own weapons pointed at her. They clearly weren’t expecting to be found out.

Ogrim, meanwhile, was already on the move. He charged at the two aspirants still armed and launched himself off the ground, curling up into a ball and slamming into the ant’s chest. The traitor had no time to react as she was thrown backwards into the wall, impacting with a sickening crunch and going still. The other beetle turned to meet this new foe, leaving himself exposed to Isma–a mistake he wasn’t afforded the opportunity to regret, for seconds later a vine was wrapped around his neck. He choked and sputtered, clawing at the unexpected growth until he could no longer. Deprived of air, he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

“What- what just happened?” Isma demanded, eyes wild. “They- those were supposed to be our allies! Why did they attack us?!”

“I… I don’t know,” Ogrim said, equally stunned. His heart raced in his chest. The idea that any in Hallownest could enter into the Pale King’s household and betray his faith as those aspirants just had was shocking beyond words. There were those in the general populace who killed and died just to catch a glimpse of the White Palace. How could their fellows, afforded such an unprecedented opportunity, forsake the Mind-Giver? And to support the Mantis Tribe, of all groups… why? What was happening?

He needed to focus. Draw himself in. His thoughts, racing, couldn’t escape that encounter, so they centered on the one part of it which remained independent. Ogrim cast his eyes down at the shattered remains of his carving. He’d been working on it for two days now and had nearly been finished.

“My statue,” he pouted, genuine sadness on his face.

Isma, surprised by his sudden change in tone and topic, looked down at the broken carving. Its face–her face–which had been crafted so intricately was diagonally split in twain. Despite herself and the situation they were in, her spirits partially lifted. She walked over and patted her friend on the arm. “I don’t think I’ve ever looked better,” she said, smiling.

Ogrim didn’t respond, but he did feel a little better. He knelt down next to his broken statue, but did not touch it. He instead rolled the lead aspirant, who was in a heap on his side, onto his back. The beetle wasn’t breathing; his head was stained with blue blood. That knock to his head seemed fatal. Ogrim frowned.

“There will be no answers from this one, I think,” he said. He looked at the other two, the ant and the second beetle, both of whom were out cold. “Nor from them. We have not the time to wait.”

“What do we do, then?” Isma asked.

“We continue on to the courtyard,” Ogrim said firmly. “Nothing has changed. We must link up with the Palace Guard–surely they have not turned. We will have to be wary of any aspirants we run into.”

Isma nodded. “Right,” she said. “That makes sense. Let’s get to it.”

The two friends dusted themselves off and got back to running. The courtyard was close. Very close. They could still hear sounds of combat, even despite their brief delay. As they rounded a final corner, they were finally greeted to the source of those sounds.

The courtyard was a complete disaster. The floor was ruptured; chunks of marble and shell were strewn about like tiny mountains. Bodies lay haphazardly around them like orbiting moons, their viscera staining the once beautiful room blue. There were about as many mantis corpses as Palace Guards, but it was clear that Dryya’s chosen didn't go down easily. Each of their fallen siblings were surrounded by an ensemble of corpses–mostly treacherous aspirants, but there were plenty of mantises mixed in.

Just from the amount of bodies, it seemed clear that the Palace Guards and City Sentinels were taken off-guard and overrun. Ogrim didn't think even the legendary Mantis Tribe was skilled enough to lay all of the Palace’s defenders low. The shock of betrayal was a deadly thing. The casualty numbers were a testament to deceit and treachery, plain and simple. It was deplorable.

Currently, what was left of the courtyard’s defenders were huddled up in the center of the room in an improvised shield wall. There were only four of them: three Palace Guards and one City Sentinel. Their attackers were much greater: there were perhaps twenty of them, an even split between mantises and treacherous aspirants.

None of them were watching the doors. That was their last mistake.

Ogrim and Isma wasted no time. They didn’t stop to strategize or plan. They took in the scene before them, looked one another in the eye, and nodded. Then, they charged.

Isma leapt into the air, soaring like the most graceful of maskflies. Vines sprouted from her body and shot down towards the attacking mantises and aspirants, taking them completely by surprise. They tore into their back line, ripping and tearing at their formation and immediately taking pressure off the defending guards. The mantises were quickest to react, turning to face this new threat, but before they could engage, Ogrim was there. He had waited for Isma to make the first move, but now that the element of surprise was theirs his time had come. He was not nearly so quiet as she.

“Fafoonda!” he bellowed, tucking himself into a ball and launching at the nearest mantis. He barrelled over her and continued onwards, rolling through several more of the attackers before unfurling and leaping into the air. He spun gracefully, even as he drew the attention of yet more of the mantises, and landed on one of their allied aspirants, a beetle. Ogrim hit the man so hard with his claws that they punctured his throat. He fell to the ground, dead.

The four guards, seeing their enemies thrown into chaos, seized the opportunity provided. In perfect discipline, they lowered their shields, took aim with their weapons, and charged in all directions into the confused attackers. They were met with immediate success. The untrained and undisciplined aspirants fell into a rout, and the mantis warriors were caught up in the chaos of their retreat. Even that was stopped: with Isma practically flying through the air, raining thorny projectiles and lashing out with vines, there was no escape. She cut off those who made it to the exits. Ogrim and the guards wiped out whoever was left.

As the last mantis crumpled to the ground, a gaping hole in her torso, one of the Palace Guards turned towards their rescuers. He was a ladybug with three pins on his breast, indicating the rank of sergeant.

“I take it you two aren’t on the payroll, then,” he grunted.

“No, sir, we are not,” Ogrim promised.

“Mm,” the guard replied. He looked down at an aspirant corpse next to his feet and kicked it in the side. Then, just for good measure, he spit on it.

“What happened?” Isma asked, having come from across the room to stand at Ogrim’s side. “Why did these bugs betray us? How many have gone over?”

“Don’t know,” the sergeant said. “Not all of them. I reckon not even most. After the big fight this morning, a bunch were headin’ home. Their families were camped outside the Wyrm's Gate. I figure the ones that turned were waitin’ on them to start leavin’ to cause as much trouble as they could. Seems that these ingrates were loiterin’ in the courtyard exactly for this attack.”

Despite the situation, he chuckled. It was a grizzled, morbid sound. “Lotta good it did ‘em. These lowlifes weren’t ever gonna be Knights of Hallownest. They had it comin’.”

“Where is the fighting thickest, then?” Ogrim pressed. Upon receiving a quizzical look from the sergeant, he quickly clarified, “We were tasked to defend the Palace by Lady Dryya, and that is what we shall do.”

The guard kept his strange look. Ogrim, now slightly confused, added, “She is still alive.” Perhaps he thought his captain lost?

The ladybug snorted, immediately dispelling that thought. “‘Course she is. That was never in doubt. I just… wasn’t expectin’ the two of you to stick around. Most of the ones who didn’t join the mantises took off. ‘Course, they had their families with ‘em, so I suppose I can’t hold ‘em at fault.”

“We are not yet sworn to duty, but we carry that conviction all the same,” Ogrim vowed. Isma, at his side, nodded in silent agreement.

The sergeant tilted his head, stared for another moment, then slowly nodded. “Alright, then. I’ll remember this. We’ll see if the two of you survive.”

He pointed behind him, towards the front of the White Palace. The aspirants had all been bunked there. “There’s still heavy fightin’ goin’ on near the Gate. For whatever reason, the mantises are pushin’ hard. They’re scattered all over the rest of the Palace doin’ hit-and-runs, but they want that entrance hall. I sent a few squads to help, but I haven’t heard anythin’ back. You wanna help, go lock that place down.”

He gestured to his three remaining men. All were weary and supporting wounds of some kind, including the sergeant himself. “We four’ll stay here. Ain’t much that can get through to the rest of the Palace without comin’ by this way. The mantises get past us only if they crawl over our corpses.”

The other two guards banged their nails against their shields in voiceless agreement. The City Sentinel, clearly unversed in Palace ritual, slammed her lance against the hard ground a moment later in solidarity.

Isma nodded. “Best of luck to you, sir.”

“Aye, girl, you as well,” the sergeant replied.

She took off, Ogrim right behind her. An earthshaking roar rose to meet them.

Chapter Text

The enemy was upon them.

Dryya’s nail was faster than conscious thought. She moved on pure instinct, sinking into the flow of battle and letting time-honed ability carry her through. She deflected attacks from every single one of the Lictor Guards before Lurien had time to so much as blink.

High. Low. Low. Middle. High.

Hers was skill honed over generations, but it was more than that. It was so much more.

Low. Low. Middle. Jump. High.

She was fighting for a cause. She was fighting for the cause. Her blade sang with righteous fury as it sliced through the air.

High. High. Middle. Middle.

Through force of conviction and sheer will, Dryya threw back four of the Mantis Tribe’s most elite at once.

Low. High. Low. Middle. Strike!

Her nail tasted Lictor blood for the first time as it slashed across one of their chests. It was mostly a superficial wound, having been blunted by the armor, but it still broke skin.

All that happened over the span of a few seconds. Dryya wasn’t even breathing heavily. The four Lictors leapt back as one, reassessing their foes. One of them clutched at her torso.

“Impressive,” their leader begrudged. “It is no honor to duel with a traitor, but I will acknowledge your skill.”

“Where are your masters, imp?” Dryya demanded, shrugging off the backhanded compliment. She wanted nothing from the creatures who invaded her King’s palace, killed her guards, and dug up her past. Theirs was the facsimile of honor, nothing more.

The Lictor smiled. “You will see her soon.”

Without warning, the two guards behind her charged at Dryya’s back. She felt a rush of air against her armor, the movement so subtle and so fast that even she might not have reacted in time. She was spared the opportunity to find out, though, as a silver shield flashed into being. Lurien stood, his back to hers, hands raised and glowing with ethereal power. The two Lictors were caught in the barrier, their claws stuck but slowly pushing through.

“This really is not my forte,” the Watcher said, voice strained.

Dryya grinned. Adrenaline roared in her ears. The sound of her heartbeat was a drum in the deep. “I did tell you to leave.”

Lurien didn’t reply and she didn’t wait for him to. While he struggled with his task, she seized the opportunity he provided her. The original pair of guards were eyeing her warily, uncertain without their numbers after her demonstration of skill. They held unnaturally still and waited for her to attack. They didn't have to wait long: it was their turn to be on the backfoot as Dryya charged and ferociously drove them with her nail.

Back. Back. Up against the stairs! Dryya and the Lictors fought with both grace and intensity. Every time a gap opened in the guard of one of her enemies, the other was there to fill it. Their duel was more like a fatal dance, a glorious ballet, with Dryya leading her opponents on a magnificent deathly spiral.

The Lictors had a decision to make. If they kept up their current pace, the whirlwind of steel and fury that Dryya had become would force them up the stairs. Taking the high ground in a duel like this would be catastrophic: their footing would be uneven and it would become far easier for the Pale Knight to hit them than for them to hit her. Conversely, they could attempt to dart away simultaneously and outflank her, again putting her in a position wherein she was surrounded. Such a move had inherent risk, though: were either of them too slow, death for both was all but certain. Such a flight would mean lowering their guard. Were Dryya to capitalize on the opportunity, the remaining Lictor would be left to face her alone. All three combatants knew how that would end. Each of them was a trained warrior. They understood their positioning and what they had to do. Even as the Lictors wearied under Dryya’s onslaught, they kept their wits. And then, just as the backs of their forelegs made contact with the stairs, they dashed.

The mantis tribals were fast. Blisteringly fast. Any outside their number would have lost track of them as they practically teleported from one spot to the next. One darted left while the other raced to the right.

But Dryya was a mantis too, and the split second the Lictors were vulnerable were all that she needed. Like a lightning bolt, she honed in on the more dangerous of her enemies, the leader, and plunged her nail into her armored shoulder.

The Lictor gasped in pain as Dryya’s masterfully crafted pale steel nail tore through her sacred armor as if it were simply another layer of skin. She lashed out frantically with her claws, but each of her strikes was effortlessly batted away. The Pale Knight put all her weight behind her blade and toppled the other mantis to the ground, pinning her to the marble floor.

An intense feeling of otherworldly wrongness flooded Dryya’s mind mere seconds later, overwhelming her with the base desire to move. Her eyes flashed. Acting on pure impulse, and with one hand still on the hilt of her nail to keep the chief of the Lictors pinned, she rose, twisted her body a full ninety degrees, and threw out a blind back kick that connected perfectly with the torso of the other guard. She, who had charged while Dryya's back was turned, now stumbled away, staggered by the force of the kick. Her armor absorbed the damage.

Momentarily relieved, Dryya returned her focus to the pinned Lictor. Her enemy snarled up at her, eyes full of hate and–buried there beneath layers of bravado–fear. This was a base creature, the Knight decided, and she made ready to deal with her as one. She pulled her nail out of the Lictor Chief’s shoulder, an act accompanied by a great deal of spilled blue hemolymph, and made ready to finish the job.

“Hand!”

The cry was Lurien’s. Dryya abandoned her execution and turned quickly to her ally. It was a good thing, too: the Watcher was clearly failing in his task. His arms and legs were shaking with strain. His silver shield, which had thus far contained the other two Lictors, was shimmering, losing intensity. Just as she realized the severity of his situation, it shattered. The barrier dissolved into a mist of silver sheen and Lurien stumbled back. The two Lictors, now freed, raised their claws and leapt at him.

A rush of fear, rising in turn with another adrenaline surge, flooded the Pale Knight’s brain: just before they could make contact with him, they were intercepted. Dryya’s nail soared across the room, singing with proud dignity, and made itself at home in one of the Lictor’s faces.

The guard dropped immediately, the thing that was once her head an unrecognizable mass of gore and viscera. Her sister Lictor recoiled in shock, the sudden, unexpected, and violent death of her partner throwing her off-kilter just enough to allow Lurien to roll out of the way.

Trusting that the Watcher could now handle himself for the time being, Dryya shifted focus back to her original duelling partners. The Lictor whom she had kicked away was now helping her leader to her feet. The chief of the Lictors was in bad shape; her left arm hung limply at her side. Still, her right claw was raised in a defensive posture and her subordinate was fully capable. Dryya had no nail.

She did not need one.

It had been a long time since she engaged a foe with naught but her claws. Some practice was overdue.

Dryya raised her claws and stared the pair down. None of the three moved for a long moment.

“You fight well, children,” she eventually acquiesced. These creatures were honorless and crass, but she was not. She could respect their ability, if not their conduct. “Tis a shame that you waste yourselves in such a manner.”

“You would know well of shame, traitor,” the leader spat.

Dryya shook her head. She nearly pitied them. Nearly. “Small things. You understand very little. You will pay for your ignorance with your lives, lest your cowardly Lords come forth.”

The challenge was issued, but no one came. The two Lictors looked around the room uncertainly before their eyes returned to Dryya.

“As I said,” she huffed. “Wasted.”

She lunged. The Lictors, evidently unwilling to return to the defensive, met her halfway.

The three engaged in a ferocious bout, claws on claws. It was combat in the truest sense of the word. Mantis tradition could have held nothing higher than the ability one possessed with naught but the weapons bestowed at birth.

Combat between claws was different from combat between blades. Claws were smaller, faster, and demanded maneuverability. They were part of the body; any mantis warrior was immediately placing themselves more at risk by using their own natural blades than one who used a nail. There was less opportunity to disengage. It was akin to a fistfight, though with considerably more fatal results.

Dryya opened by dodging beneath the leader’s strike and honing in on her subordinate. A series of quick jabs managed to break her guard. She followed with an elbow to the face and a sweep to the legs, knocking the Lictor down flat. She turned immediately to the one she had ignored and tried to stab at her bad arm. The chief saw it coming and narrowly dodged to the side, tucking her wounded limb in tight. She retaliated with a claw-strike that very nearly caught Dryya in the head. The Pale Knight dropped to the ground, ducking underneath the chief’s attack, and landed on her back. She twisted her body to conserve momentum and lashed out with her feet, delivering a devastating kick to her enemy’s sternum and throwing her down.

It was a short but intense fight. Dryya was now breathing heavily. The first Lictor she downed, the one who took the elbow to the face, rose again on shaky legs.

It was a brave act–stubborn and incredibly stupid, but brave. Dryya found herself briefly admiring the spirit of these Lictors, though it was soured by their dishonorable conduct during battle. An attack from behind like the one Lurien had prevented was the epitome of cowardice. And yet, here this one was–and her leader, too, who had risen from her back to her knees–fighting to the bitter end, just like a true mantis should.

An unexpected feeling of pity welled up within her. It was a strange thing to mix anger with pity. The two were opposites in so many ways yet they melded all the same. She still intended to kill these creatures, but she wished suddenly that she did not have to.

Dryya moved in slowly. The Lictor Guard mirrored her, approaching in silence, and then threw a wild strike at Dryya’s head.

It was telegraphed. Easy to foresee, even for one less skilled than the Pale Knight. This one was battered, beaten; if she wanted to die in battle, Dryya would grant her the honor.

She moved swiftly. With her left claw she effortlessly batted aside her opponent’s strike. With the other she clamped around the back of the Lictor’s neck and forced her to her knees. With one claw now free, she made ready to slit her opponent's throat.

“Stop!”

It was the Lictor Chief. Surprised, Dryya wordlessly turned her steely gaze to the other mantis, who was down on her knees. Stop? Now? Now that victory was within sight? What could this creature possibly want? Off to her side, she heard Lurien and the third Lictor stop fighting, with the latter unquestioningly obeying her mistress’ commands and the former clearly appreciating the break. The Watcher was no fighter, that was certain. His command over certain mystic arts and his opponent's bleeding torso were all that kept them on even a tentatively even footing. Given the opportunity, he warily slunk back towards Dryya while the Lictor darted to her Chief’s side.

“We surrender,” the Chief said impassively.

Dryya narrowed her eyes. Something was off.

“Mantises do not surrender,” she said suspiciously. Her grip tightened around her captive’s throat. A trickle of blood ran down her claws. The prisoner held so still that she hardly breathed.

“Things change,” the Chief said. Her voice gave nothing away even as her subordinate’s life dripped through Dryya’s hand. “Do we not, Traitor? Have you not changed? You have long been absent from the fold.”

“I know you,” Dryya hissed, incensed. “I know my own kind. Ours is not a people of fluidity. Am I so different? I am the same as I always have been. The Tribe has become stricter in its teachings, not more lenient. You are reactionaries, all of you. Crusaders against truth. A good mantis does not surrender. She would sooner die, or be killed. Shall you be disarmed? Shall I take your weapons away from you? The day such things become possible is the day I accept your so-called ‘Lords’ have entertained the concept of surrender.”

“It has been decades, Pale One,” the Lictor said, her eyes narrowed. “And… and we are not in the Tribe, are we? I am here, speaking to you. Did you not shake off the shackles of tradition? Can I not plead for my sisters’ lives?”

“A Lictor Guard sits before me and speaks of shucking tradition?” Dryya asked incredulously. The very notion of it was comical to an absurd degree. It was audacious. It was insulting. The Lictors were the living embodiment of mantis culture and heritage. This one must think her a fool if she believed her word would be taken at face value.

And yet…

Yet.

Stupidly, foolishly, Dryya hoped.

If ever she had a weakness, it was this. A mantis warrior seeing past their flawed ways and accepting the greater truth, that peace and prosperity could be shared across all Hallownest instead of just their tiny holding at the bottom of the Wastes… that outsiders needn’t be feared, but understood… that Dryya herself needn’t be… be…

…

Wretched, accursed hope blossomed in her heart.

Lurien seemed to sense it.

“Cut her down,” he hissed. “Kill her and be done with it.”

A mantis warrior could not be effectively taken prisoner. Their weapons were grafted into their forelimbs before birth by ancient gods. They were trained to fight as soon as they could walk. There was no method of holding them captive which they could not eventually overcome.

Sparing their lives would be a tactical error. A mistake. A dereliction of duty to her King. Mantises did not surrender because they did not take captives.

But the Lictor Chief was right about one thing, if nothing else: they were not in the Tribe. And the Pale Knight was hardly a mantis.

She kept her honor.

She was silent for a few long moments. None of the three Lictors moved, all watching her with a quiet thrum of desperation behind their eyes. Desperation… excitement? Anticipation? Dryya wasn’t sure.

“I will not kill a surrendered foe,” she said finally. She felt a weight settle in her heart at her decision. It was the wrong one, she was sure–but it was also right. It was right and it was the only choice she could have made. “You are beaten. I am not like your masters, children. I will let you live.”

She released her grip on her captive and pushed her towards her leader. The Lictor fell to her knees and quickly crawled away from the Pale Knight. Lurien said nothing, but she could feel his disapproval as if it were radiating off of him. Across from her, the Lictor Chief’s eyes widened in hastily concealed surprise.

“You… accept?” she asked.

Dryya nodded rigidly, the movement so small and so controlled that one might easily have missed it. “I do.”

A mistake, perhaps. She wasn’t afforded time to regret it.

A new gust of wind rolled over her back. Dryya turned, fast as she could, but for the first time that day she was too slow. Something hit her in the back of the head–hard. The Pale Knight crumpled to her knees, catching herself before she could collapse fully to the floor. She thought she might have heard Lurien shouting, but she couldn’t be sure. Her head throbbed, her previous headache compounded. Her vision swam. The floor beneath her moved to and fro so that she could not possibly rise to her feet. Her ears rang with the sound of a thousand bells.

And even through all of that, she still managed to prop herself up. Dryya pushed herself up on her right knee, slipped and nearly fell over, and caught herself on her left. No further blows came. She turned herself past the pensive gaze of the Lictor Chief and towards her attacker. Recognition shot through her like a lightning bolt.

This new mantis was not a Lictor. She wore no armor. Her shell was a mottled blue-green, darker than most of her kind and blackened with age. She was covered in scars. Her eyes were hard and bitter and absolutely overflowing with sadistic glee. She had four horns on her head, with the extra two growing out at an upwards angle from her primary pair. She wore a ragged black cloak which trailed down her back. Her claws were long and sharp beyond nature, intentionally cut to make them more deadly. She held an ancient steel lance, simple but elegant in design. From its long hilt hung a hundred trophies from a hundred defeated foes. Most of them were mantis claws.

“You…” Dryya managed, her head and her eyes and her ears all conspiring together to steal her consciousness away. She trailed off as they nearly succeeded.

“Me,” the mantis said, smiling wide. It looked wrong on her, like the lines of her face were rebelling. It strained and ran lateral to the wrinkles and marks already present, bisecting the natural order of things. Hers was an expression accustomed to frowns and snarls.

“You… coward,” Dryya finished, spitting the word with all the vitriol she could muster. She spoke with such force that she again stumbled forwards, falling back to her hands and knees.

The towering mantis’ smile instantly evaporated, pure rage twisting her features. The stress lines on her face disappeared, her muscles no longer straining. She raised her lance like an executioner’s axe and brought the hilt down on Dryya’s head.

------------------

Ogrim expected to enter the aspirant barracks as they made their way towards the Wyrm’s Gate and the Welcome Hall. They found a warzone instead.

Entire walls of the Palace had been torn down. Rubble and corpses, overwhelmingly those of aspirants and City Sentinels, were everywhere. The Wyrm’s Gate, that mighty bastion, was thrown open–but from the inside. Ogrim recalled the sergeant saying that most of the aspirants had fled with their families. They must have gone through the Gate, but that meant the invasion hadn’t come in that way. Instead, like in the courtyard, the floor was ruptured. Unlike in the courtyard, this rupture was shallow enough that one could see down them. It was like a ramp. The terrain at first matched the Palace’s, being made of marble, granite, and shell, but it went deeper, down past even the foundations, and into the bedrock of the Ancient Basin itself. Dusty footprints covered the entire length of it as far as the eye could see.

This must have been the invasion route. The mantises must have come in from the tunnel and spread out into the Palace.

But, just like the sergeant said, Ogrim could still hear sounds of combat and animalistic shrieks coming from where the barracks used to be. The walls were all knocked out from the Welcome Hall to the former bunks. Between the debris and the dust cloud it caused it was hard to see into them.

Why would the Mantis Tribe push so hard on such an irrelevant area?

He nudged Isma on the shoulder. The pair of them had both come to a stop to take in the carnage that the Welcome Hall had become. Wide-eyed, she met his gaze. Neither said a word. They knew what they had to do, what they were here for. As one, they cast their gazes towards the distant sound of combat. As one, they ran towards it.

For the King, for Dryya, for Hallownest, Ogrim vowed that he would throw the mantises back or be cast down with them.

As they drew closer, the din of battle was split between voices, the clang of weapons, and strange, hissing shrieks. Ogrim considered himself to be quite well-travelled, but he had never heard anything like it. It sounded as only the most untamed and savage of monsters could: hungry, angry, desperate. Ogrim and Isma pushed through the rubble of what was only a few hours ago their place of residence, their temporary home, for the second time that day rushing towards something which any sane bug would have fled from.

His heart ran a marathon; his legs struggled to keep up. They passed by the destroyed tents and flattened bunks which had once housed a legion of aspirants. Some had fled, some were traitors, and some were lying face-down on the floor. Ogrim took care not to look any of his fallen siblings in the face; he surely knew some of them, and he could not afford their weight. Not now. Later, there would be time to grieve. Later, there would be justice for this egregious betrayal.

Another roar came. The ground itself shook, rattling piles of glass shards which once were windows. They were close. Ogrim’s claws curled into fists. At his side, Isma had wrapped a small vine around one of her fists and was quietly muttering what sounded like a prayer. She again seemed nervous. She twirled the vine between her fingers, round and round, round and round.

Up ahead was a wide, black and grey hallway. They were deeper in the Palace than ever they had been before, save for their impromptu visit to Dryya’s quarters. Neither of them had any idea where it led. It was clear, though, that their quarry was just ahead, through the towering hall; the noises of combat had paradoxically dimmed as they drew nearer, with the clinking of weapons and shouting growing quieter. In front of the hall and leading up to it, where Ogrim and Isma now found themselves, were at least a dozen City Sentinels. All of them were dead.

They must have been what was left of the sergeant’s reinforcements, Ogrim figured. They were in a bad way. Their armor was compressed and crunched, pressed against their sternums like molds. Some of them looked like they’d been stepped on. Others were collapsed in heaps beneath bug-sized indentions in still-standing sections of sturdy black wall. Their faces were bloodied, still dripping blue hemolymph. Gore leaked from whichever parts of their bodies were still intact enough to hold it. Shells were crushed and rolled over, covered in scratches and ugly purple bruises. This wing of the Palace, between the Sentinels and the aspirants, had become a true Danse Macabre; the brutality of it all was revolting.

There was one final corner to round before they came face to face with the war. Ogrim grabbed Isma by the shoulder before they entered. She turned to meet his eyes, looking sick. The sight of all those mangled corpses didn’t seem to agree with her. One of them, his chest caved in, decorated the ground at their feet.

“We can do this,” he said quietly. “We are the righteous. The noble. Our cause gives us strength.”

“I've never done this before,” Isma whispered. “I- I’m not a warrior. I've just done… I've fought in duels! Not this. Never this. I've never seen death like this…”

Ogrim blinked, silent and surprised. Isma was an excellent fighter. He never suspected that she was any less of a warrior than himself or Hegemol.

“I'm not like Dryya,” the mosskin continued softly. “I don't know if I… if I…”

“You can,” Ogrim swore, “because I'll be right there with you. Ever and always, as long as I am able, my arms are yours.”

Isma sputtered, her face flushing dark. Her nervousness fused with an onset of embarrassment that left her a mess. “N-no! No, it- it isn't that I'm- oh, gods.”

She pressed her hands to her eyes, rubbing them raw as if it would change reality to better suit her. All that accomplished was making her eyes hurt. “I… I'm not worried about me. I just don't know that I can handle… this.” She gestured to the Sentinel corpses around them.

Understanding sunk in. Ogrim had been a warrior for much of his life. He travelled the Kingdom, righting wrongs and smiting evil-doers just as he always imagined that Dryya or the King would. He was well used to combat, though even he had never fought a battle of this scale. He knew death like an old friend. He also knew that no amount of training could prepare someone unversed to confront it.

He leaned in close, placing a reassuring hand on Isma’s shoulder. “You must,” he said simply. It was a dichotomy: yes or no. “There is no choice in it. If you falter now, we may all be lost. Remember what you told me about your decision to become a Knight? You said you wanted to stop injustice. You are braver than you think and stronger than you know. Help me stop this. Help me save lives.”

Isma shut her eyes. She took a deep breath, then another, and then another. She squeezed Ogrim’s arm, then nodded sharply and saw again. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, okay. Let’s do it.” She still sounded frightened, but some steel now mixed with her fears.

Ogrim smiled wide but said nothing. There was nothing left to say. Not now. Perhaps his friend truly wasn’t ready for a fight like this, but he had faith in her. She would not let him down. Full of faith, he turned and led Isma into the hall.

Another roar caught them off-guard, so loud and so close that it may well have come from their own heads. They braced against it, seeing a flurry of activity at the end of the hall, and then kept running.

It was the next sound, a familiar shriek, which stopped them dead in their tracks. Each of them suddenly found it impossibly hard to move, fear crawling up their spines and latching its tendrils into their minds. It was a horrible, wonderful thing, for they knew to whom that shriek belonged and there was no doubt in their minds as to which side she was on.

Isma managed to shake off the worst of the effects first and ran ahead. Ogrim used her as a focus and charged after her. Another shriek, another roar. Neither slowed them now. They burst into the room at the end of the hallway with fire and fury and the inherent need to defend.

The room was clearly, at one point, quite beautiful. There had been a fountain in the middle that was now nothing but a pile of debris. Stained glass windows lined the entire structure, though almost all of them had been reduced to so many colorful shards on the ground. The ones yet extant were far, far removed from the fighting, several stories in the air, and portrayed various scenes involving the Pale King. One of them depicted him in the Kingdom’s Edge as he first assumed the form of a bug. Another less intact window showed him in front of the site which would one day be the White Palace, a kneeling figure too damaged to identify at his feet. Yet another seemed to show him in the Fungal Wastes standing passively before a three-horned bug with a lance. Higher up, the room culminated in a magnificent dome.

The room was the opposite of much of the rest of the Palace. Instead of being composed primarily of marble, it was built of black shell. There were white patterns in ninety degree angles on the floor to act as contrast. There were also a series of blue stones embedded which must once have shined and glittered. The structure of the room was cylindrical, though the edges were as waves, rising and falling in a series of smooth curves.

None of that beauty could be appreciated anymore. The blue stones were dulled, covered in dust and corpses and blood. More fallen City Sentinels, as well as some aspirants, dotted the ground like tiny islands.The windows were broken or damaged, now little more than a lovely pile of makeshift daggers on the floor. And in the center, atop the crushed remnants of the fountain and the benches, roared the largest creature Ogrim had ever seen.

It was massive in every sense of the word. It was as wide as any hall in the White Palace and when it veered up on its hind legs, of which it had many, it was nearly half as tall as the great domed room. It had two giant mandibles , well-suited for burrowing, crowning either side of its brutish face like swords. Its dark, dusty grey shell was thick and nigh-impenetrable, born as it was with natural armor like tenfold shields. Its frighteningly long black mandibles were swords, its nigh endless amount of legs spears, the shock of its tail a thunderbolt, and the sound of its earth-shattering roar a hurricane. It was a ka'lor from Deepnest, somehow wrangled by the mantis tribe but never controlled, and it was Death.

But Death was not opposed.

As Isma and Ogrim burst on to the scene, they were greeted with the sight of Ze’mer practically flying through the air, twin nails flashing like fire in her hands. She soared and twisted and turned with lovely, hypnotic grace. She struck out twice at the Great Beast, both times striking at its eyes. She barely missed her mark. The ka'lor drew back with a frustrated shriek and snapped at her with its mandibles, but it was much too slow. Ze’mer dropped down towards the ground and landed perfectly at the side of another familiar bug: Hegemol. As the ka'lor shot downwards to punish the roach for her efforts, the Grand Champion of the Kagath reached out with his mighty arms and seized a firm hold of its mandibles. He held it in place as best he was able, but even he could only do so much. The beast pushed forwards with all its might, slowly overpowering its herculean adversary with raw animalistic strength.

“Ze’mer! On high!” Hegemol shouted, voice strained with effort. His partner seemingly understood what he meant, for she darted to one side and latched on to the creature’s side. She dodged its myriad legs and scaled its great length, using her nails like climbing spikes to dig into gaps in its armor wherever they presented themselves. Her barbed feet provided purchase when her weapons could not.

“Nahlo, nahlo! Awful creature! So rude and foul! Release Mighty Hegemol!”

She poked at its head with one of her nails, using the other to hold on as best she could when the ka'lor roared again and started flailing, pulling away from Hegemol and thrashing its head in a bid to dislodge her. Ze’mer shrieked right back, the awful sound sinking into the very souls of all who heard it. This only seemed to further agitate the Great Beast, which bellowed in fury and slammed itself into one of the walls to rid itself of her. Ze’mer barely tucked her lanky body out of the way, swinging off the top of its head and on to its side once more as it made impact.

While Ze’mer was keeping the monster busy, Hegemol turned to take in the new arrivals. He didn’t miss a beat, taking no time to question if they were truly allies or even to greet them. He acted with absolute conviction and clarity, as if anything contrary to his way of things would be so out of tune that reality simply couldn’t countenance it.

“Ogrim!” he exclaimed. “Can you fly?”

“What?” Ogrim asked, confused. Delighted as he was to see his friend–even more to know for certain that he had remained faithful–he was not expecting such a strange question. “No.”

“Well, you’re about to learn!” Hegemol replied. He leaned in, plucked his friend off the ground, and reared his arm back. “Ready yourself!”

Ogim caught on quickly. “W-wait, Hegemol, hold on a moment-”

Hegemol didn’t. There was no time to talk, and besides, he trusted his friend to catch on. The giant bug let loose all his strength and hurled Ogrim like a comet at the ka'lor’s head.

He did not shriek because that would be undignified and a knight is always dignified. What he did do was yelp in surprise, and if that yelp continued for longer and ran louder than might ordinarily be considered then the others pretended not to notice. With no other choice, he fell back on instinct, pure and true. The dung beetle tucked himself into a ball, picking up speed and velocity until finally he slammed into the Great Beast’s head with all the force of an artillery shell.

The ka'lor let loose its loudest roar yet and began beating its many legs on the ground as if in the throes of a tantrum. Its shaking and thrashing finally grew to be too much for Ze’mer, who was thrown from its body. She toppled head over heels, atypically ungraceful, but she didn’t get far before something wrapped around her waist and stopped her fall. Isma, still at Hegemol’s side, further destroyed the once glorious room they fought in by shooting a pair of vines out from below the Palace’s foundations. They burst through the black shell floor to catch the falling aspirant, wrapping around her body and pulling her quickly but gently back to where her fellows stood waiting. Ogrim, for his part, had already made groundfall and scurried back over to join them as well.

“Don’t do that again!” he demanded, unable to glare at Hegemol as he may have wished due to the monster staring them down. He kept his focus squarely on the beast, lest it make any sudden moves.

“But it worked so well,” Hegemol said.

“Perhaps a warning, next time,” Isma suggested.

“Oh! Che’ would like to throw! Le’mer is very aerodynamic!” Ze’mer chimed in.

“You already got yours, my lady!” Ogrim replied, indignant.

“Does that mean I get one?” Isma asked, a grin in her voice.

“No!” Ogrim exclaimed.

The ka'lor didn’t give them the chance to further discuss it. With an enraged shriek it dove forwards, scuttling across the ground like a basilisk. With its endless legs it was a stampede unto itself. Its mouth was wide-open; through its mandibles was visible an endless array of gnashing, cutting teeth, longer and sharper than the claws of any mantis. All four of the aspirants braced themselves.

“Isma, Ze’mer, go high!” Hegemol called, demeanor snapping from humorous to serious in an instant. His voice was steady even as he was charged by a beast many orders of magnitude larger than him. “Ogrim and I will stay on the ground and keep it busy. See if the two of you can’t find a way to do some damage.”

“How wonderful that I shall get to remain on the ground this time,” Ogrim said dryly.

“Le’ne is weak on its head,” Ze’mer advised. “Le’ne is not invulnerable. Chalce! Gaps exist in such armor so thick. Very… painful, che’ believes?”

“Gaps in the armor and vulnerable up top,” Isma summarized, stepping forward. She was letting adrenaline carry her now, just like everyone else was. “Shall we get to it, then?”

Ze’mer nodded excitedly. “Le’meri shall make it squeal!”

Hegemol slammed his fists together. “Let’s tear it down!” he exclaimed, and then he charged. Isma was the first to move after him, launching herself into the air with a vine. Ogrim followed after Hegemol, albeit with some trepidation; he was not the behemoth his friend was and to run directly at a creature so massive tested even his dauntless courage. Ze’mer, meanwhile, shot up parallel to Isma; though she was not as acrobatic and indeed slower, she was still graceful in her movements. She had no vines to assist her and so was more direct in her approach to the monster, while Isma tried to flank it. She was still armed with both her nails even after being so violently dislodged from the ka'lor; she had clearly taken both her defeat in the Tournament and Dryya’s lessons to heart.

They struck in sequence.

The ka'lor was focused near exclusively on Hegemol, giving the other three a chance to move in close. The giant delivered the first blow, deflecting the Great Beast’s innumerable claws off his resplendent steel armor and countering with a slug to the jaw. It drew back and hissed, rearing up to slam its full weight down on its enemy, but then Ogrim rammed it in the side at full speed. He latched on to the monster and, seeing a small gap in its plate, stabbed it with his claws. He was no mantis, so the blow was far from deadly, but it still hurt. The ka'lor roared and threw the dung beetle from its body, but then Ze’mer was there. She stabbed her nails into the beast’s flesh and scaled it until she was atop its head. The ka'lor roared again but this time couldn’t react as Ogrim returned and hit it square in the eye. He was launched by Isma, who was also coming in hot. The mosskin had caught her friend before he hit the ground and acted as a living slingshot, using her vines to fire the both of them at their target. She landed next to Ze’mer on top of the beast and channelled all her strength into a pair of thick, thorny brambles which sprouted from her arms. They immediately wrapped themselves around the ka'lor’s head.

The beast, now effectively blind in one eye and bleeding all over from a dozen wounds, screeched in agony–or at least it tried to. Muzzled as it was by Isma’s brambles, it could hardly open its mouth. Its massive mandibles, each of them a battle axe, were not so flexible as to cut it free. It howled and quaked and shook the earth, but nothing it did could shake its attackers loose. Ze’mer continued to pry away at plates on its head while Isma, with great effort, kept it restrained. On the ground, Ogrim and Hegemol each pounded away at its center, taking care to stay out of the way of its lacerating legs.

All of this was very nearly too much. The ka’lor entered into a frenzy that it had never known. With unquantifiable strength, its jaws snapped open and shredded Isma’s brambles. Thorns launched in all directions as their containers burst to pieces. Isma, who had been pouring all her energy into keeping the constraints together, lost her footing. She stumbled off the side of the beast’s head and would have plummeted to the ground if Ze’mer had not ceased her attacks to catch her. The ka’lor, smelling blood in the water, jerked its head again. The two women had nothing holding them in place anymore. With little fanfare, they were thrown from their posts and fell.

Ogrim noticed. “Hegemol!” he shouted.

“Go!” Hegemol ordered.

Ogrim didn’t need to be told twice. He raced towards his falling friends as fast as he was able, desperately trying to get close enough to catch them. It was a doomed effort. Even were he fast enough, Ze’mer was much too large. Overhead, the roach held tightly to Isma and flipped over on her back, shielding the struggling mosskin against her chest.

Just before they could hit the ground, though, Ogrim leapt into the air and barrelled into Ze’mer’s side in a bid to neutralize their momentum. All three tumbled to the floor, some of their kinetic energy neutralized, but it was an imperfect solution. Ze’mer, the largest of the trio, still made a hard impact. She landed at an angle, her left arm twisting in an unnatural way. She let out a brief scream of pain. Isma and Ogrim were sprawled out beside her, groggy and dazed but otherwise unhurt.

The ka’lor hissed, ready to close in for the kill, but found its way blocked by Hegemol. The herculean aspirant stood protectively before his friends, fists raised and resolve unbroken.

The creature, seeing victory in sight, was not willing to countenance such an obstacle. Its beady red eyes flared. Its nail-like mandibles, sharper perhaps than its resemblance, snapped on either side of its face. Somewhere within its primitive mind, it had decided that this fight was now over. It made a final lunge at Hegemol, mouth open wide and mandibles ready to shred him to pieces.

Armor or not, such things would have killed him. Neither his metal shell or his exoshell would have saved him from the beast’s spiral array of pointed teeth. Its mandibles would have cut him in half. It bared down on him, determined to do just that.

But those things did not happen. Instead, Hegemol sidestepped the ka’lor’s ferocious attack, grabbed hold of its right mandible, and with all his might he strained and pulled until finally he tore it from the monster’s face.

And this, finally, was too much. Shrieking in agony, the ka’lor found that it no longer had the will to continue the fight. With purple elixir draining from its face, the beast cowered away from its enemies, turned its focus downwards, and dove headfirst into the floor. Its remaining mandible, giant mouth, and eviscerating teeth were now turned towards rock instead of bug and in no time at all it had carved a new gigantic hole in the floor. With no further fuss, it vanished into its new pit and was gone. The sounds of its digging, at first deafening, became quieter and quieter until at last they faded away completely.

Hegemol immediately sagged to the floor, breathing heavily. He dropped the ka’lor’s bloody mandible and had to fight back the urge to collapse. Even his strength had its limits.

Ogrim and Isma approached, supporting a wounded Ze’mer as best they were able. The roach’s left arm hung limply at her side.

“Well done,” the former said quietly. “Thank you.”

Isma nodded her agreement. “She’s hurt,” she added.

“Che’ is fine,” Ze’mer rasped. “Is nothing. In Lands Serene it is called a ‘flesh wound’.”

“I would hate to see what your people would call a broken neck, then,” Hegemol replied. He sounded strained and weary, more so than any of the others ever heard him.

“That is something che’s kind calls death,” Ze’mer said.

“Mm,” Hegemol said. He looked down at the hole left behind by the ka’lor. “We have failed today.”

Isma looked at him incredulously. “What? How? We’re all alive and the Palace has one less monster in it. That seems like a win to me.”

“For now,” Ogrim chimed in. “A great victory for now, yes, but that beast is now on the loose in the Ancient Basin. By failing to kill it, we may have left the King’s domain open to future peril. It seemed to me a creature of Deepnest, and I have doubts that it will find its way all the way back to such a dark and distant place.”

His words were somber and ominous. None of the others responded to them. No one said anything at all, in fact, sitting there and breathing in deep the succor of life which for so much effort they had fought.

Their collective silence lasted no more than a few minutes before the distant sounds of many footsteps made themselves known. All four of the aspirants looked wearily to the hall they’d come in through. None of them had the energy for another fight, but they made themselves ready regardless. Ze’mer brandished one of her nails. Hegemol forced himself to his feet on her left. Ogrim and Isma took up positions encircling the pair.

Fortunately, their efforts were unwarranted. The footsteps belonged to a cohort of Palace Guards, who burst into the room in a mesmerizing display of glimmering discipline. Their white armor was grimy and damaged, but none who wore it displayed any weakness. They maintained a perfect shield wall for a moment as they took in the scene. Once they realized there was no danger, they stood down. The bug at their head, a tall wasp with a sharp white mask and the four rank pins of a lieutenant, stepped forwards.

“You are a bit late to join in the fighting, friends,” Hegemol called.

The wasp ignored him. “You four,” she said. “You are the victors of the Tournament?”

The other three aspirants looked to Hegemol. The big bug hesitantly stepped out of their ad-hoc formation and in front of his peers. “In a sense,” he said.

The wasp nodded, satisfied. “Ket-har! Good. You will come with me at once.”

“We won’t be of much help to you in battle right now,” Isma said.

“Battle? No. The mantises have gone. That is the issue,” the wasp said. Her voice was mostly even but her expression was angry and her posture was rigid. She carried a terrible weight with her.

“The Pale King demands your presence. Dryya the Fierce is gone.”