People say tunneling was the nature of all bugs, and there was certainly proof to be found in every front to back that up. The Myrmurs of the Plagueplain Front lurk in the pipelines underneath their capital city. The Titans of the Rampaging Hinterland Front are raised beneath the snow before they burst in geysers of destruction. The Sand-Dwellers—antlions, nervewings, darkling beetles—live almost their entire lives under the desert, never to be seen in the sun.

The ants here breathed under the empire's bones.

Earth settled. Roots shifted. Distant tunnels trembled with unseen movement. Sound bent differently in spaces like these—vast, winding, uneven—and Zora listened to all of it, layers of noise unraveling in his mind and mapping the world in absence of sight.

Ifas' silver ant carriage rattled along the tunnel without hesitation. It was dark, yes, but for Zora, the difference between light and shadow was a matter of resonance and frequency. If he leaned his head back against the cushion and placed one arm on the windowsill, he could hear the depth of the blackness, and the way sound stretched far ahead of them, seemingly without an end.

Then, as if reading his mind, Ifas' voice cut through the quiet.

"Damn. Can't see a thing out 'ere." A pause. Then a rustling as the driver turned slightly, opening a slit in the carriage to grin back at Zora. "Lend me some light, yeah?"

Zora exhaled, fingers tapping idly against the windowsill. "You need only ask," he murmured, "and the Divine Empress will deliver light upon you."

His words curled through the air, and heat stirred, light flaring to life on the three candlewick lanterns hanging around the carriage: two on opposite corners inside the carriage, the last dangling over Ifas' head, illuminating the path ahead.

Ifas whistled, pleased. "That's more like it."

It was more comfortable for Zora to sit close to a warm lantern as well, but he heard the shift across from him. A subtle motion, a slight tension in the air—then Enki grimaced on the opposite seat, waving a hand to fan out a thin cloud of frigid mist.

The flame on the lantern over his head sputtered once before being snuffed out entirely, replaced with a breath of cold.

"You don't like the light?" Zora asked.

"I do not like the heat," Enki replied. A murmur, almost an afterthought.

Zora hummed in understanding. It was a strange aversion, but considering the boy's body was half-metal, maybe there was a legitimate, physical reason why he had to remain cool at all times. Of course, why and how the boy came to be half-metal was another piece of the puzzle Zora had yet to solve, but for now, he didn't press.

They had plenty more time to get used to each other in the following days. He could just rest a little bit for now and catch up on sleep he hadn't had much of the past week.

So the carriage pressed onward, deeper into the underground. Zora half-listened, half-dozed off as he relaxed against his cushion. The walls gradually widened, and the tunnels slowly stretched into larger, vaster openings. Air shifted, growing less dense. Zora could feel it in the way the echoes changed, no longer compressed by narrow passageways.

Ifas clicked his tongue. "Hells. Look at that."

An absence of open air, sound bouncing strangely off massive, uneven surfaces. Zora furrowed his brows. Mineral deposits. Large ones. They jutted from the cavern walls, veins of something old and untouched by empire hands. The tunnels' architecture had changed, too. Reinforcements had been made: root systems, fungi growth, and layered mineral formations meant to stabilise the earth.

Not man-made, of course.

"These grunt Giant-Class bugs really ain't as dumb as most of us think they are, huh?" Ifas let out an impressed huff. "They know how to keep their tunnels standin'."

Zora ran a hand along the windowsill, fingers pressing against the old wood. "They are bugs, after all," he said. "Instinct is instinct, no matter the species. Humans have theirs. Ants have theirs."

His words barely settled before something shifted in the tunnels.

He tensed.

It wasn't a sound, exactly. Not something so tangible. It was… like an absence. A disruption in the natural rhythm of the tunnel. There were his breaths, Ifas' breaths, and none from Enki sitting completely straight as he picked up his rifle leaning against the door, eyes utterly bored and disinterested.

Ifas, ever observant to their every little move, glanced over his shoulder. "Oi. Somethin' up?"

Zora kept his voice even. "Just keep going."

A pause. Ifas made a low noise, unconvinced, but he flicked his reins nevertheless to keep the giant silver ant's pace steady.

Zora reached for his staff.

The tunnels may be broader here—wide enough that their carriage didn't have to worry about scraping the walls—but they weren't so open that anyone lying in wait had many options to set up an ambush. There were two directions: forward or back. Their ambushers were either already in front of them, or were tailing them closely behind.

He exhaled softly and pulled the carriage window up, tilting his head towards the rush of cool air. Indeed, sound bent strangely around the mineral deposits, their metallic surfaces scattering echoes. It made everything sound warped, like listening through layered glass.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Tch.

I don't like this.

He'd already decided he detested fast-moving vehicles, but here he was again, having the finer sounds dulled by speed, the vibrations of the carriage, and the ceaseless rattle of the wheels. They blurred the edges of things he'd otherwise hear with perfect clarity.

But something was assuredly there in front of them, waiting for them to pass by.

His fingers tightened around his staff. He listened, patient, tracking the rhythmic thrum of tarsal claws against rock, the whisper of air shifting past the mineral formations, and then—

Now.

"Strike."

The spell hummed through his bones and into his staff as he flicked his wrist. It lashed out, cutting through the dark to shatter a particularly large mineral chunk as they passed it by. The mineral deposit shattered. Stone split, dust flaring outward in a fractured cloud.

The man with the bated third breath, who'd been hiding behind the mineral deposit, also slammed into the tunnel wall with a cry of pain as the 'strike' hit him in the chest indirectly. Not hard enough to kill, no, but hard enough to take him out of the fight before he could even jump on the carriage.

For a breath, nothing more.

Then movement.

As their carriage continued barreling down the tunnels, the ceiling, the walls, and the ground behind them came alive with a dozen more figures rising from their hiding places, shedding stone and earth off their backs like second skins. Their wings unfolded with a dry, papery snap, and in unison, they leapt—launching into pursuit, gliding fast, sharp, and silent after the three of them.

All of them donned tattered cloaks and needle masks.

Well, then.

So much for a quiet start to a long ride.

Zora sighed.

Assassins, down here? It was almost admirable. The effort. The patience. The sheer logistics of it. It took a special kind of dedication to track someone into a place that, up until an hour ago, he hadn't even known existed.

Outside, Ifas hollered from the driver's seat. "Oi! They wearing mosquito masks or not?"

Zora tilted his head towards the open window, listening again. "Seems like it. They've got some sort of mask over their faces, but I can't really tell what."

"Then they're the elites!" Ifas called back. "Told you about 'em before, yeah? The Divine Capital hired only the best of the best around the continent to claim your head!"

"But they didn't strike up top. Why now?"

"They were waitin'!" Ifas said. "Up there, they'd make a mess! Too many eyes! Down here, though—" He made a vague gesture, somewhere between a shrug and a flick of the wrist. "Ain't no laws underground!"

"Even so, the tunnels are new to all three of us. How were they already ahead of us?"

Ifas made a thoughtful noise. "If they're wearing mosquito masks, that means they're Plague Order assassins from the far northwestern Plagueplain Front!"

Zora gave the driver a pointed look. "Never heard of them."

"Mean bastards!" Ifas said casually, waving his hand. "If they're huntin' you now, it means they've killed all the other assassins the Divine Capital sent after you! They've got a sayin', you know: No patient leaves the ward."

That didn't make a lick of sense outside the northwest, but he supposed it was a fitting motto for killers from the plague lands.

Zora grimaced again.

Twelve of them. That was what he counted. Twelve sets of wings, twelve bodies slipping through the air behind them, moving fast with daggers and guns and claws. Honestly, he should be happy he was in a tunnel—sounds bounced wildly off the walls, overlapping in a way that filled his tympana fully, but his growing dislike of moving vehicles was only getting stronger and stronger. Now, he was even beginning to feel a little sick to his stomach.

Troublesome.

More troublesome: his own rules. He'd spent too long keeping his hands clean, and he wasn't about to break that now. No killing humans. Not even assassins. Not even these particular assassins, who'd gut him like a fish without hesitation.

Men of the Fabre Household are the voice of humanity; we must never slay another man.

The problem was, his usual spells weren't really designed for precision. A full-powered 'strike' amplified by his staff could easily turn a man with less than five in toughness into little more than scattered limbs and regrets. A wide-range spell could easily bring the entire tunnel down behind him. He had to limit himself—keep his spells restrained—but that meant every attack required pinpoint accuracy.

And while he thought himself a pretty accurate chalk-thrower, the first 'strike' he cast had already missed its mark. He hadn't hit the first assassin directly on this carriage. He wasn't going to bet someone's life again on a skill he didn't have, which left him in an unfortunate position.

What to do, what to do…

…

As he mulled over his options, though, Enki moved without a word.

The boy leaned out the window, slotted a pebble into the chamber of his bolt-action rifle, and just as Zora turned his head slightly, frowning and speaking, "Wait—"

Too late.

The rifle cracked, the shot impossibly precise. Somewhere behind them, a body dropped like a stone.

Zora tensed up, listening. No blood. No wet splatter. Just the dull thump of unconscious weight hitting rock.

The rifle… didn't kill?

Metal clicked as Enki pulled back the bolt, loading another pebble. The quiet efficiency of it was almost unsettling. Zora had met his fair share of marksmen in the empire—beat most of them, too—but none of them were quite like this. Whoever had trained the boy had done a frighteningly good job.

Compared to Zora, Enki was a real sharpshooter.

"... What are your abilities, exactly?" Zora asked.

Enki didn't answer. Not at first.

A few more assassins broke away from the swarm, wings flaring as they shot a little bit forward, gaining ground fast. Zora barely had time to register their approach before Enki—without a word—started climbing out the window.

Zora snorted.

Well, whatever.

I'll let you handle this one if you're so keen on fighting.

Making himself comfortable on the cushions, he lay down on his back, one hand over his forehead, his other resting lightly against his chest. He let the movement of the carriage fade from his awareness, let the noise settle, and focused entirely on the boy climbing onto the roof. To most, the sounds would be faint, nearly imperceptible against the rattling wheels and echoing tunnel. To Zora, it was as if the Worm Mage was kneeling right beside him.

In a way, it was like Zora was actually doing something instead of letting a boy fight for him.

And as Enki raised his rifle, lining up another shot, he answered Zora's question.

"Whiteworm Class."

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