Far too little activity. Illigar floats above the northern hive, staring down at the meandering termites climbing up and down its exterior walls. The north tribe of monsters is different in that they never leave the bounds of the hive. Even those climbing the outside of the structure only venture out for short periods; there is some kind of rotation present in the hive that cycles them through.

  Ironically, the army understood the most about this hive due to seeing so many individuals over their period of observation. The northern hive, the strongest hive, had some connection to the mana of iron, their bodies covered in chitin scales that weighed more than some houses. They are slow creatures, but their movement is unstoppable.

  The break in the pattern gave away the game to the man floating above the tower of dirt and stone. Half as many of the monsters crawled over the exterior of the hive as did yesterday, and those that did stayed out far too long. Something else was going on.

  Illigar spreads wide his hands, an aura of white energy bleeding off his skin and encompassing him and the air immediately around him. Even with how durable the creatures below may be, he felt no pressure from the rank two beasts. Gathered together in a horde, there may be a minimal risk, and Illigar isn’t the kind of man to take risks lightly. From his back, two more pairs of arms, translucent and shining with golden light, appear in the air–his regalia.

  Like a meteor, the man begins to fall from the sky, his body accelerating downward toward the highest peak of the hive. In the blink of an eye, he makes the distance. The entire structure shudders as his feet collide with the stone, chambers and tunnels throughout collapsing as the force of a falling mountain lands on the apex of the hive. The tower shudders, groaning for a moment as the shock roils down its slopes. Then it is falling too, hollow passages collapsing one on top of the other, falling inward. Illigar drops through it all, passages of stone ten feet thick cracking beneath his plummeting strike, the structure collapsing behind him.

  Then, he is through. The hive continues to collapse above him, but the tunnels running beneath the earth are sturdy, their structure supported by the world itself. Illigar continues to plummet, his falls slowing as the increasing durability of the hive fights against him. One hundred feet, two hundred, five hundred. He forces more mana into his interminable descent. The world screams against him, attempting to deny him his right of direction, but he has long ago proven that mundane matter cannot change his self-determination. Hundreds of feet of stone pass by him before it all falls away, a massive chamber opening beneath him, the center of the hive.

  Illigar arrests his movement, moving to the side as a cascade of rock and dirt rains down from the hole he just punched in the earth. The wide chamber is a dome, a cavern so massive beneath the earth that it could house a city, and it very nearly does. The totality of darkness is no impediment to his eyes. As he stares down, he sees them, hundreds of termites shifting over one another, but they are all the drones, none even coming close to surpassing the third threshold. Where could the commanders be? Where was the bug his army was here to kill?

  What the termites are doing puzzles him for a moment. The hundreds of drones fight with one another, ripping each other apart, feasting on their brethren. It is another point of strangeness in his growing understanding. No, this beast tide is different. He needs to understand the mystery, needs it like a gashead needs their next hit.

  He descends once more, falling into the madness of termites. The chaos of the cannibalistic feast falters for a moment, new prey falling into the roiling mass of monsters. Not even a second passes after Illigar lands on the icho-strewn surface before a claw races out of the dark to try and cut him in half.

  The man called the sage catches the tip of the claw on an outstretched finger, total stillness replacing the crashing strike of the beast. It may never have moved in the first place. Illigar pinches the claw between his fingers, lazily tossing the monster to the side, its body losing all weight for half a second. The instant his grip releases, the iron termite rips through the air faster than a lightning bolt, the unfortunate creatures between Illigar and the new blood splatter on the far-off wall rendered to splintered bits by the flight of the very dead monster.

  The battle lasts thirty seconds. As a horde of cannibalistic monsters fling themselves at the man standing among them, their bodies are used as weapons against the others. There isn’t even long enough for the beasts to cry out.

  The decimated room lies still. Illigar floats above the viscera, searching, eventually finding an answer that brings more questions. A tunnel, big enough to fit a small ship through, hides behind fallen boulders in the southern part of the chamber. He drops to the floor of the tunnel, running his fingers over the scratches in the stone. The floor here is smooth, trampled down by innumerable feet, but a single groove runs down the center.

  “Heavy enough to leave a sign in the stone,” Illigar mutters. The tunnel stretching off into the dark, far past where his vision grows blurry, continues perfectly straight. Another question comes to him despite his desire to race down the path with all speed. This tunnel is not how these monsters would dig.

  It takes an effort for him to push down the indecision. Too many questions, always too many questions. But he can have answers now. He isn’t that boy standing on the bridge anymore, unable to choose which way to jump.

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  Illigar shudders out a sigh, centering his mind and sitting on the cold stone. Behind the man stretches a field of carnage, and before him loom unseen obstacles in the dark. He turns outside himself for answers.

  The power summoned comes as a small spark, the potency of magic so minute most would be unable to detect it. However, something does.

  “I approach the Throne of Tomorrows,” Illigar intones. His voice echoes out and down the tunnel, resounding endlessly until it comes back to him, a question in its intonation.

  He is forced to hone his words, to muster the full weight of his will behind the syllables as a force presses into his mind, the providence so heavy that it tries to annihilate thought. The stone he sits upon shakes and cracks as he is pressed down by an angry hand. Illigar resists, he controls his own movement, not even this opposition can violate that tenet. At least, not without its full attention brought to bear.

  “Someone plots behind these creatures. Who are they, and what are their intentions?”

  The words fly away from him, the echo of the tunnel collapsed into utter silence. Then, from the dark, comes the sound of feet slapping against stone. It is impossible to say the exact moment the entity appears in Illigar’s perception, but he understands it as a gradual thing, the being walking out of some other realm rather than the darkness. The sound becomes a shadow, the shadow an outline, and finally, a creature of ethereal nightmare stops its barefoot stride just a few paces away.

  It might be a man if it did not stand ten feet tall. It might stare down with malice at the mortal before it if it weren’t for the white cloth bound around its eyes. The creature is made of light dyed a dull gray by a permanent shade sticking to it. Sixteen drills of rusted iron bore into its skull, twisting in ways that both follow each of its movements while also giving off an aura of unrestrained chaos. Before its gray robes, it clasps hands too long and thin to be useful, sneering down at Illigar with a face so desiccated the lips have long since retreated from the gums.

  “The thief approaches the seat of the Monarch of Minutes, looking to steal a glimpse of insight. Insolance. Your kind never grow weary of it,” it says.

  “I have a right to the question,” Illigar replies.

  A rattle creaks from inside the creature's chest as it bends low. The drills piercing its skull turn, grinding against bone in a whine before stilling once more. “Never. There is no such thing as a right.” Despite the rictus grin hovering a bare inch from Illigar’s shoulder, he smells something unsavorably sweet on the creature’s breath. “A thief has no right. You exist tied to the Throne of Tomorrow by my mistress’s allowance. With but a spark of intent I would…” It pauses, cocking its head to the side, listening for a sound calling from outside this world.

  “I have been granted leave of my question,” Illigar guesses, unable to hear what this creature can.

  “Lucky for you that I am but a dog bound to the court. I am bid to heel. Today you receive reply, your gamble fulfilled, but it will not always be so. When the blinding flash strikes your eyes, I will be there to usher you on. I conspire with the sun.”

  “What?” Illigar’s cool demeanor breaks at the words. They smelled of prophecy and fate, but not the one he sought, not the one he asked for. “What do you mean by that, specter?”

  “My Mistress bids me depart so that her proclamation might resound.” The creature before him bows, gliding away despite standing motionless.

  “What did you mean?!” Illigar yells, on his feet and staring into the void of the dark. But he is alone once more, the creature departed.

  At his toe, a rock shakes at the rumbling of the earth. Far away, the void of the tunnel before him grows darker than black, a doorway of oblivion racing forward, growing as it proceeds down the passage toward him until it encompasses his entire vision. A gale from deep beneath the earth, from the very depths of the planet’s soul, crashes over him, pushing him back a step further than even a powerful monster can these days. The wind cries as it blows over his ears, a shearing cry like that of a woman murdered. Inside the scream of the wind, the voice of another woman speaks over the noise, her words punctuated by the realm shuddering at the authority carried in the voice.

  The gate to the realm Annihilation loosens a quarter turn

  From her prison, the Mother stirs.

  Begotten of her follower, authority is sought

  The bone is the fabric and the soul the power

  Blood rises overhead

  Its rise will mark the time of desperation

  Beware the heart that gives way to question

  Steel it against hesitation

  Steel it against blades

  Disaster follows assent

  The servant need only be made to bleed

  Then, as suddenly as it came, the rush of the wind vanishes. Illigar pulls in a breath, slowly dropping his arms from defending his face. The words stick in his mind, his considerable attention brought to the vagaries of prophecy. There were names there, names he had never heard before, but he didn’t have time to see to that now.

  One thing was clear in the message. Some malignant force moves against him; those who are behind this beast tide the children of some servant. It confirmed what he most feared. The enemy was intelligent.

  Staring down the passage before him, it was not difficult for Illigar to imagine what an intelligent enemy might do with an army of monsters, strike an undefended city. The thought had been the only thing he could think about since a few hours before when that girl confirmed someone was moving against him, against the operation. Stone flew past as Illigar raced down the tunnel before him, pushing his considerable speed for all it was worth. The tunnel led south, straight toward Maidenlake. He prayed that he might make it in time.

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