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.”