Behind it, the younger warriors beat their armored limbs against the ground in a thunderous cadence—an ancient rhythm of acknowledgment, but twisted with uncertainty. For ants, a throne was always singular, a monarch absolute. What Leon and his team had done defied the order of things.
Roselia clutched Leon's sleeve, her voice low but taut with nerves. "They… they aren't angry, are they?"
"No," Liliana whispered, still staring at the faint glow in her hands. "They're unsettled. We changed something older than memory."
Naval's trident pulsed in his grip, drawing the Elder Ant's attention. "If the hive remembers this as rupture," he said grimly, "then what will the other Thrones call it?"
The Elder Ant's mandibles spread, releasing a chittering sound that echoed across the chamber—half laugh, half lament.
"They will call it heresy. They will call it weapon. They will call it doom. And yet… they will not ignore it."
