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His furious screech mingled with the rising hum of other mantid as he carved a path through the chaos. Kyparite blades sliced through flesh, severed limbs, while his hind legs shattered chitin. The frenzy of war consumed Kil’ruk entirely—bones splintered, black blood painted the walls in grotesque strokes, and the echo of strangled cries reverberated through the vaulted tunnels.
Again and again, in those fleeting moments when he fought himself free, he hurled his weight against the golden barrier—slamming, driving, throwing himself at it—only to rebound like a pitiful insect against glass. No breach. No passage through that seal of light.
His mandibles clicked in rage as the Wind-Reaver recoiled once more, his gaze locking for a heartbeat on the Awakener, staggering to her feet after the fall.
Why could she cross the barrier when he could not? What logic allowed her to slip through, while he failed again and again.
She had been flung from his back straight into its glow—while he was cast aside.
He hated it. Every fiber of his being recoiled at the thought. Yet he had no choice but to trust her—to trust that she could handle the lesser creatures beyond the wall while he dealt with the Kor’vess invaders.
Kil’ruk would clear the way when the shield fell.
More mantid fell beneath his swift, brutal strikes. The floor of the vaulted tunnels piled high with remains, slick with blood.
Battle was the breath of his kind, yet to fight his own felt hollow—futile.
And he was so tired…
He shook the thought away and dove, blades flashing.
“Give that back!” The Awakener’s sharp cry cut through the hum behind the barrier as he split a mantid’s skull, its death-rattle choking in the dark.
“What are you doing?! Stop!”
Kil’ruk turned—too late. A shape peeled through the barrier as if it were water. A great cat lunged onto a Kor’vess mantid’s back, claws raking chitin like knives.
His mandibles clicked. Instinct urged him to strike the beast, but with the Awakener in the hands of other lesser creatures, he dared not risk her life.
Few invaders remained. Kil’ruk hissed as he dodged the predator’s swipe, casting a glance toward the barrier—but the Awakener was gone.
After one last savage attempt to cling to his legs, Kil’ruk burst from the tunnels, leaving the lesser creatures to finish the stragglers. He soared into open sky, climbing toward the first roots of Kypari’Kor.
Heavy with exhaustion, he sank onto the massive roots of the palace tree. Muscles dragged like lead as he folded his wings tight and crouched low. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the Paragon allowed his eyes to close—just for a breath.
Air rasped hollow through his mandibles as he exhaled, then opened his jade eyes, sharp and watchful on the tunnel mouth below.
Patience was not his strength.
Nor was trust—especially in one beyond the Klaxxi council.
Not that he doubted her skill in awakening a Paragon. She had done it often enough to leave no room for error. Nor did he suspect her of fleeing or harming the new Paragon while he was weak.
No—the danger lay in the other lesser creatures now with her.
Kil’ruk studied his kyparite blades, slick with black blood, and began to clean them in restless strokes as he waited.
The assault on Klaxxi’Vess had come at the worst possible time—or perhaps the best. In recent weeks, never fewer than two Paragons had remained in the sacred chamber, and never for long. The Empress would not have gambled her swarm-born legions without certainty.
She had sent three of her closest advisors and warlords—her Voice, that wretched Blade Lord, and her supreme general, the Wind Lord.
Had the others not returned in time to join the fight, this might have been his last battle.
Not that Kil’ruk feared a final fight. Death in combat was honor—and those two lords were worthy foes.
But with the Klaxxi’s will unfulfilled, his death would have been meaningless. As meaningless as the Bloodcaller’s.
His mandibles clicked softly as his gaze drifted back to the amber chamber’s entrance.
The strike had been too precise, too deliberate. His suspicion hardened: a spy lurked among the Klaxxi.
Treachery was not unknown in the long mantid history—not since he was gone—but their hierarchy had always been rigid, their order absolute. Especially within the Klaxxi.
Identifying a traitor among them was a perilous task. No one in their right mind would even dare to imagine defying the Klaxxi—or the Cycle. The Cycle that set them apart from the rest of their kind, that made them superior. None of the other empires practiced anything so ingenious; they hid in shadows instead.
But not the Mantid. Every hatchling knew this truth instinctively, even before thought.
To stand against the Cycle was to stand against their supremacy—their progress, their power to evolve.
Kil’ruk tried to recall when it might have begun, whether there had been signs of betrayal he had overlooked. To voice such an accusation within the Klaxxi could carry consequences beyond reckoning.
To name a traitor was perilous. A false accusation would just warn the true one.
In truth, anyone in Klaxxi’Vess could be the betrayer—a guard, a Klaxxi’va, even a Paragon.
Kil’ruk could not claim certainty about any of them. The Manipulator, with his insidious talents, would make a perfect spy.
Unease crawled through him as the thought rooted deep. He would guard his mind against that one.
A faint hum stirred below, growing louder. Kil’ruk’s eyes narrowed as a figure emerged—newly awakened, staggering from the amber chamber into the air. No weapons, only the ornate war-robes of a Paragon, the Klaxxi emblem gleaming on his forearm.
He drifted onward, slow and aimless.
Kil’ruk watched him for a moment, then flicked his gaze back to the tunnel mouth. No Awakener. His eyes narrowed, impatience gnawing as the seconds stretched.
With a hiss of frustration, he launched from the root, wings slicing the air as he pursued the Paragon.
It was no challenge to catch him. Fresh from aeons of amber, the Paragon was frail—Kil’ruk marveled he could even hold the sky. After his own awakening, he had been so pitifully weak that three swarm-born could have ended him. The Awakener had fed him on sapflies to restore his strength.
Even without that weakness, Kil’ruk’s flight was unmatched.
Between the hum of wings came murmured words—fragmented, lost to thought. The Paragon drifted like one half-asleep.
Kil’ruk called out, voice harsh:
“Hold, Paragon!”
The mantid wheeled, losing height in a dangerous lurch. His eyes narrowed to slits, mandibles clacking in hostility.
“Who are you?”
Dark shadows rippled over his golden chitin, pooling like living mist. Kil’ruk knew that taint—the same that had claimed the Deathcaller. His mandibles clicked softly.
“I am Kil’ruk the Wind-Reaver,” he rasped, calm and steady.
“A Paragon, as you are.”
The newly awakened studied him—helm to horned feet—eyes sharp as blades probing his guts. Shadows danced over his carapace, curling like waves.
At last, he nodded—slow, reluctant, as if convincing himself. His facets blinked unevenly.
“I see the crest upon you, Wind-Reaver. I am named Iyyokuk the Lucid.”
Kil’ruk dipped his head in respect. He knew he cut no noble figure—armor battered, helm dented, stinking of blood.
But the Lucid seemed unmoved by appearances. His voice pressed, urgent:
“I cannot hear the Klaxxi, Wind-Reaver. Why? Why does Manti’Vess look as if ruin has devoured it? And why was I freed only now?!”
The last question cracked like a cry of anguish—echoing a rising fury. Shadows flared across his shell.
Kil’ruk marked the shift. This was no weakness—it was the taint’s whisper. Yet his own thoughts had once burned the same.
“The Klaxxi are blind and deaf for now, Lucid,” Kil’ruk answered first what mattered most.
“Their sonar was sabotaged. In the last battle, their main signaler was destroyed.”
Iyyokuk hissed disbelief.
“A battle in Klaxxi’Vess? What happened?!”
Kil’ruk held his gaze, voice low, steady as stone.
“I will answer all when we return. But know this—you have been touched by the Breath of the Old.”
The Lucid’s antennae twitched. His claws lifted, staring as if to deny it—until his eyes narrowed, catching the shadows crawling his own shell.
“I did not feel it—but now it seems… logical. It explains this disorder in my mind,” he hissed.
“The Awakener can cleanse it,” Kil’ruk said—and wondered why she had not done so before he emerged.
A sudden screech tore from Iyyokuk, emerald sparks flaring in his eyes.
“That vile scrap of flesh! A worthless lesser! To be bound to such filth—how could the Klaxxi allow it?!”
Kil’ruk stared, wary. The taint twisted him—but not yet as deep as the Deathcaller. And Kil’ruk understood the revulsion. He had felt it too.
“An unfortunate necessity,” Kil’ruk rasped, mandibles clicking.
“The cycle is imperiled—the swarm loosed too soon. The Klaxxi had but one tuning fork, and the Awakener wielded it. You know its nature—it binds to its first user. She is still needed.”
Iyyokuk hissed, eyes narrowing as he sank toward the scorched earth below. Kil’ruk followed, landing beside him as he collapsed among brittle grass.
“I am not myself,” the Lucid whispered, shame rasping in his mandibles.
“I am hungry—and so tired, Wind-Reaver. My time in amber was cruel, endless, full of torment. I would not wish it on our enemies.”
“Torment?” Kil’ruk’s antennae twitched as he loomed over him.
“Did you dream?”
Iyyokuk laughed—a harsh, hollow sound that broke into coughing.
“No, Wind-Reaver. A dream would have been mercy beside what I endured.”
His eyes burned.
“I did not sleep. Not for a moment. Illogical, is it not?”
He fixed Kil’ruk with a piercing emerald glare.
“I counted the minutes. The days. Then the years.”
He drew a ragged breath, as if air alone could soothe him.
“What a pitiful sight I am—mind clouded, body weak,” he spat bitterly.
Kil’ruk watched him long, silent. He could not fathom it. His own amber-sleep had been instant, dreamless—time erased. Only weakness bore witness to his slumber.
And weakness was death.
He knew the shame—the hollow rage of a warrior reduced to frailty. And worse—the crushing truth of being awakened by a lesser. Bound to what embodied their oldest enemy.
“Your name, Lucid—why was it given?” Kil’ruk asked—and saw Iyyokuk stiffen.
His eyes flared, old fury rekindled.
“Not for sleeplessness, Wind-Reaver,” he snapped, venom sharp. Shadows rippled, darkening gold before they stilled.
“You may bear blades—but you are unarmed beside of me.”
Kil’ruk hissed, refusing to admit his misstep. Why were spell-weavers always so difficult?
“You need to feed,” he rasped, turning toward the Kypari roots.
“I will hunt. When you have eaten, and the Awakener has purged the taint, your mind will clear.”
Iyyokuk hissed, antennae curling tight.
“The Awakener is useless now, Wind-Reaver.”
Kil’ruk swung his gaze back as he continued:
“She cannot awaken another. The tuning fork that freed me is gone—destroyed by an outsider.”
The words struck like a blade. For a breath, Kil’ruk could not move. Then the storm broke in his thoughts.
If the fork was gone, the Awakener’s role was ended. And the Empress’s strike had proved—they needed more Paragons. At least one more. And that was not the only truth that made his heart falter.
“You seem troubled, Wind-Reaver.” Iyyokuk’s voice was calm, but his eyes cut deep. Kil’ruk knew evasion was futile.
“The Klaxxi’s will is unfulfilled,” he rasped.
“One more Paragon is required. And—”
He choked. The words clawed his throat, shame burning like acid.
“My awakening was weeks ago.”
“My condolences,” Iyyokuk hissed dryly, dragging himself upright with a harsh rasp. His forelegs braced his weight as he steadied.
“I knew of the bond—a Paragon’s tie to its Awakener. Natural. Logical, given our state,” he clicked bitterly.
“But I underestimated its strength. I forgot what it was to be swarm-born.”
Kil’ruk hissed, mandibles clacking in protest. To liken Paragons to hatchlings was an insult too far.
“Can you fly?” he snapped, eager to sever the thread.
“Not far,” Iyyokuk hissed back.
Kil’ruk nodded toward the towering roots.
“Take cover there, Lucid. I will fetch the Awakener—and hunt—before we return to Klaxxi’Vess.”
Iyyokuk dipped his head faintly in assent. His wings stirred, rising to a hum as he lifted—slow, unsteady—toward the roots.
Kil’ruk watched until he was sure the Lucid would reach shelter. Then, with a rasping breath and a coil of unease, he launched skyward—back toward the distant cliff that kissed the sea.
His gut knotted at the thought of the Awakener. Without the fork, the Klaxxi would order her death. The thought chilled him to the core.
It was not his fault that this wretched loyalty to the Awakener coiled through him like a parasite. Not his fault that the bond felt like hatching—like the Empress’s song in his mind.
The longer they breathed the same air, the tighter it wove. He hated it—and could no longer deny it.
He had to prolong her use. Perhaps the Blade Lord’s stolen fork was the key to her survival.
As the sea-cliff loomed, his searching gaze found her—and relief surged through his aching frame.
Until his eyes narrowed.
She was casting something into the waves. It glittered in the pallid light, tumbling end over end.
Kil’ruk folded his wings and plunged—diving to catch it.