The Hall of Cinders was not merely a structure; it was a physical manifestation of the tribe's collective memory. Located on the jagged outskirts of the main settlement, it existed in a liminal space,too far from the warmth of the residential quarters to feel like home, yet too close to the heart of the kingdom to be forgotten. It was a cathedral of shadow, carved into a massive geode-like cavern of obsidian and volcanic rock that had cooled millions of years ago into jagged, natural pillars.
Unlike the rest of the city, which hummed with the constant, vibrant energy of a million souls and glowed with the comforting teal of bioluminescent moss and high-grade light crystals, the Hall was a void. It was dark, silent, and cold. The air here didn't circulate like it did in the upper tiers; it hung heavy with the scent of ancient dust and the metallic tang of cooling stone. This was the place where the members of the Ant Tribe returned to the earth, leaving behind the chitin and bone of their physical existence to be rendered into memory and ash.
As Antares approached the massive, iron-bound doors of the Hall, he felt a distinct tremor in his hands. This was not the tremor of a dying man, nor was it the physical exhaustion that had nearly claimed him when he collapsed into Zarah's arms. It was the weight of a thousand lives pressing against his skin. He was no longer the shy, nervous human who had laughed off the worship in the garden. He was the King, clad in the polished dark iron armor of his ancestors. The metal was cold against his skin, a suit of plate that felt heavier with every step. His royal cape, a deep, flowing crimson, trailed behind him like a river of blood against the gray volcanic floor.
Beside him, Ian walked with a measured, rhythmic pace. His face was a mask of professional mourning—unreadable and steady. He leaned slightly toward his King, his voice a low whisper that barely carried in the hollow hallway.
"The families are already gathered, Your Majesty," Ian said. "One thousand souls lie within. It is the largest single funeral ceremony in three generations. The entire settlement is watching, even those who could not fit inside these walls."
Antares nodded, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line. He could feel the collective aura of the grieving even through the thick metal of the doors. "And they are waiting for a King to tell them it was worth it, Ian. They aren't here for a miracle today; they are here for a reason to let go."
The massive doors ground open with a low, thunderous groan that seemed to vibrate through the very soles of Antares's boots. As the seal broke, a sight revealed itself that stole the breath from his lungs.
The Hall was vast, stretching further than the eye could see in the dim, flickering light. Across the obsidian floor, one thousand stone slabs had been arranged in perfect, clinical military rows. Upon each slab lay a body, wrapped tightly in simple white linen. It was a staggering sea of white against the black stone—a silent army of the fallen. Atop each shrouded form rested their personal weapons: hardened bone spears, serrated stone-bladed daggers, or the notched shields they had used to hold the line during the long, brutal winter.
The silence inside the Hall was heavier than the silence outside. Thousands of family members stood in the shadows of the obsidian pillars, their compound eyes shimmering with reflected light. As Antares stepped onto the central aisle, the sound of his footsteps echoed like a heartbeat. There was no cheering. No shouting. Only the rhythmic, haunting sound of thousands of mandibles clicking—the traditional Antman gesture of profound, bone-deep mourning.
Antares felt the weight of their gaze. In the garden, he had seen fanatic worship; here, he saw something far more dangerous and fragile. This was the silent demand of the grieving. They were handing him their sorrow and asking him to forge it into something they could survive.
He reached the central dais, a raised platform of unpolished volcanic stone that overlooked the sea of white shrouds. From this vantage point, the scale of the loss was visceral. These were the men who had fought while he slept in a coma. These were the warriors who had frozen in the frost and bled in the mud to ensure that their underground civilization remained a sanctuary.
He turned to Yajin Ashfang, who stood at the edge of the dais. The Patriarch was uncharacteristically still, his head bowed, his own grief for his fallen soldiers hidden behind a wall of rigid military discipline.
"The fuel is ready, lord Yajin?" Antares asked quietly.
"The oils of the deep-earth vents have been applied to the linens, Sire," Yajin rumbled, his voice thick with a father's sorrow. "They are dry now, but a single spark... a single touch of heat will ignite the entire hall simultaneously."
Antares looked down at his right wrist. Wrapped around his forearm was the Helios Grip, the golden bracelet he had recovered from the King's Tower. Sensing his intent and the surge of mana in his veins, the artifact began to hum. The gold didn't just shine; it vibrated with an ancient, solar energy that seemed to hunger for release.
Suddenly, the bracelet shifted. Mechanical clicks and the whirring of ancient, microscopic gears filled the silence as the gold expanded. It slid down his hand, forming into a formidable, high-tech golden gauntlet that encased his fingers and palm. It glowed with an internal heat that turned the air around his hand into a shimmering, distorted haze.
Antares raised the gauntlet. The golden metal emitted a heat so intense it felt like he was holding a captive star. But he didn't unleash a destructive blast. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the "gentleness" he wanted to convey. He channeled his mana through the artifact, tempering the solar flame until it was a soft, flowing current.
He sent a wave of golden-red fire flowing outward from the dais.
The fire didn't roar; it flowed across the floor like water, a gentle, consuming warmth that moved from slab to slab. As the flame touched the linen shrouds, they didn't explode into chaos. They were consumed softly, the white fabric turning into a glowing orange as the bodies within began their final transition.
The crowd gasped as one. The red and golden light didn't just illuminate the dark corners of the Hall; it seemed to reach out and touch every grieving mind in the room. Antares wasn't just using fire; he was projecting his pheromones. He saturated the air with the scent of shared sorrow, but underneath it, he layered the pheromones of absolute protection and royal resolve.
"You have lived in the shadow of the surface!" Antares's voice boomed, amplified by the natural acoustics of the volcanic cavern and the power of his own mana. "You have bled in the frost and died in the dark, believing that the world had forgotten you! You believed that your sons and brothers fell in a nameless struggle for a King who was not there to see it!"
He stepped to the very edge of the dais, the flames of a thousand pyres reflecting in his eyes, turning them into twin pools of fire.
"But I say to you now: No Antman dies in the dark no more! Not while I draw breath! Their struggle was the bridge that brought me back to you! Their sacrifice is the foundation upon which we will rebuild our glory!"
The heat in the room rose, but it wasn't oppressive. It felt like a warm embrace, a promise of a spring that had been denied to the tribe for too long.
"They do not return to the dirt!" Antares shouted, his voice reaching a fever pitch as the flames consumed the last of the linen, leaving only glowing outlines of the fallen. "They do not become dust to be stepped upon! They become the fire that warms our hearths! They become the light that guides us back to the surface! From this day forward, we do not mourn the dead as those who are lost—we carry them with us as the stars of our empire, burning forever in the abyss!"
The Hall erupted.
It wasn't a cheer of joy, but a primal, guttural roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the volcanic rock. Thousands of throats cried out in a unified vent of release. The mourning clicks of the mandibles were replaced by a rhythmic, thunderous thudding of feet against the stone floor. It was a war beat, a heartbeat of a nation being reborn.
Antares stood amidst the golden flames, the Helios Grip slowly retracting back into its bracelet form. He watched as the grief of a thousand families was forged into a singular, sharp-edged weapon of nationalistic fervor. They were no longer a mourning tribe; they were a military machine fueled by the memory of their fallen, and the fire of their King.
Ian stood behind him, his eyes wide as he witnessed the transformation of the populace. The grief hadn't disappeared—it had been converted.
"They are no longer looking at the dead, Your Majesty," Ian whispered over the roar of the crowd. "They are looking at you."
Antares looked at the piles of glowing ash, the "stars" he had promised. He felt a profound, heavy sense of duty. He had taken their sorrow and given them a war. He would lead them to the surface, and he would ensure that the next time they gathered in this Hall, it would be to celebrate a victory, not to shroud the fallen.
The ceremony reached its peak as the thousand fires merged into a single, brilliant glow that turned the obsidian hall into a room of glass. Antares stood tall, his crimson cape billowing in the heat, the King of the antmen, ready to lead his people out of the dark.