As the day continued, the thunder in the stone changed.
It was not the centipede anymore. It was rhythm. It was formation. It was a heartbeat multiplied by hundreds until the tunnels carried one idea.
March.
Ants poured from the western passages in lanes three wide. They climbed walls. They flowed across the ceiling. Every turn they split and rejoined like water taught to think. Scent signals flickered in the air, bright as flags. The ants moved as if the tunnels had always belonged to them and the rest of us were only borrowing space.
At the point of the spear walked a commander with one antenna missing.
ScarMandible did not slow. She took the measure of the main chamber, the wrecked stone, the slick shine of venom on the floor. Her eyes found the centipede. Her eyes found us. Calculation finished in a breath.
Orders flashed.
