The black smoke from the sinkhole rose in a thick and oily column against the grey sky. It smelled of burnt resin and charred chitin. It was a heavy scent that clung to the back of the throat.
Vane stood at the edge of the woods. He cleaned the blue blood from his spear with a rag. His movements were slow and methodical. The adrenaline of the fight was fading. It was replaced by the dull ache of bruised ribs and the deep muscle fatigue that came from channeling the [Silver Fang] for too long.
Isole sat on a mossy rock nearby. She held a canteen in her hands. She stared at the smoke rising from the pit. Her face was smudged with soot. Her white hair was tangled. But her eyes were bright.
"We did it," she whispered. She sounded like she was afraid to say it too loud. "The Queen is dead. The eggs are gone."
