The air still smells of scorched flesh and burnt spores.

  Yyshad’s flames are gone, but the heat lingers—soaking into my skin, clinging to the back of my throat like ash. The stone beneath us crackles in places, molten edges cooling into twisted glass. Nothing moves.

  I try to shift and immediately regret it. My carapace is seared in patches—burned through where the flame licked too close. It hurts to breathe. Hurts to think. But I’m alive.

  Goldy’s beside me, panting hard. Her armor plating is blackened around the edges, smoke still curling off some of her spines. Of all of us, she probably took the least damage—but even she looks shaken, her glow flickering dim.

  Tessa—

  She's groaning behind me, limbs twitching as she tries to get up. Her fur is singed, especially down one flank, and patches are mottled with bruises—some deep, purple-black, already swelling. Fire isn’t her weakness, but that blast... the shockwave alone must’ve thrown her like a ragdoll. She’ll live, I think, but not without pain.

  Then there’s Astor.

  A huge section of their body is scorched—burnt down to raw, cracked bark, the inner mycelium exposed and steaming. They’re trying to stay upright, but even I can see it: they’re one step from collapse.

  And Lypor...

  Nothing left but ash.

  The fire took them whole. No body. No limbs. Just a mound of dark dust, shaped vaguely like a Myconid if you squint and pretend hard enough. But it’s not them. Not anymore.

  Gyldis is kneeling beside Astor now, hands glowing with faint green spores. Their healing’s slow—halting—but it’s something. They weren’t on the frontlines, but Yyshad’s fire reached wide. Even from the edges, they’re scorched. A line of blisters marks their left side, and their shoulders shake as they concentrate.

  None of us speak.

  We just breathe. Smoke. Dust. Pain.

  And somewhere behind it all—the cold, quiet presence of the Spikeward Mothkin, standing motionless where the Pyrocap fell, like a judge who already passed sentence and sees no reason to stay.

  From behind us, a low scrabbling echoes off the walls—quick, cautious steps. I twist, wincing, just in time to see Spiky creeping into view.

  He halts as soon as he sees the wreckage. His antennae lower. The usual spark in his voice is gone.

  "...I’m sorry," he says quietly, eyes flicking from the ashes of Lypor to Astor’s charred frame. "I should’ve been here. I—I didn’t make it in time."

  He steps forward. His gaze lands on the Spikeward Mothkin, still silent, still unmoving.

  "I found them in a containment cell—whoever set it up didn’t want them loose. I couldn’t leave them."

  He exhales, mandibles twitching. "Didn’t know things were already this bad."

  The Mothkin turns their head slightly at his voice, the faintest acknowledgment. No words.

  Spiky swallows hard, then kneels beside Tessa and checks her breathing. He doesn’t say anything more. Doesn’t need to.

  The damage speaks for itself.

  Goldy shifts, her voice raspy but still carrying that odd, stubborn brightness she always manages to find—even now.

  “It’s alright, Spiky,” she says, exhaling smoke through her mandibles. “If you hadn’t brought them… we’d all be dead.”

  She doesn’t sugarcoat it. Doesn’t need to.

  She tries to straighten up, wincing as her back spasms around a half-melted spine. “Yyshad was too much. I thought I had it. Thought we had it. But that last burst—”

  Her eyes flick toward the Spikeward Mothkin, who hasn’t moved since the fight ended. “They saved us. You saved us. Don’t apologize for that.”

  Spiky lowers his head, his voice barely audible. “…Thanks.”

  He doesn’t argue. Just sits there, hands folded tight, watching the ashes cool.

  The Spikeward Mothkin turns.

  Their movement is deliberate—elegant, even—but there’s weight behind each step, like they’ve been standing still too long and the world hasn’t caught up.

  And now I see them—really see them.

  Four arms, each plated in smooth, gray chitin, ending in fine-tipped fingers. A thick collar of pale fluff rings their neck, soft and wind-tousled, contrasting the sharp ridges of their armored body. Two long, feathery antennae sway gently as they move, reading the air.

  Their eyes are massive, multifaceted—deep pools of violet and dusk—and beneath them, curled close to their chest, rests a proboscis, folded like a question they haven't asked yet.

  They walk forward—not fast, not aggressive—just… present. Focused.

  They stop in front of Goldy.

  "You must be the Royal Brood,” they say, voice low and clear, tinged with something that sounds like reverence. Their gaze flicks briefly toward me, then back to her. “Of this young caterpillar.”

  Then, without hesitation, they kneel.

  Their upper arms fold behind their back. Their lower pair cross gently over their chest.

  “Thank you,” they say. “For freeing me from that cell.”

  Goldy freezes.

  Her spines twitch and retract slightly, and a bright flush of glowing purple pulses beneath her plating—subtle, but unmistakable.

  “W-well, I mean—yeah, you're welcome,” she stammers, trying to puff herself up but clearly flustered. “But if you’re gonna thank anyone, it should be Spiky here! He’s the one who found you!”

  She gestures with one of her smaller legs in Spiky’s direction, avoiding eye contact with the Mothkin entirely now.

  The Spikeward tilts their head slightly, antennae curling in thought. “Spiky?” they echo. Their voice is calm, but there’s a faint trace of amusement behind it. “Is that what you refer to him as?”

  They glance toward Spiky, who fidgets under the attention.

  “What a strange concept,” the Mothkin murmurs, more to themselves. “To name your brood as individuals.”

  The Mothkin straightens, arms folding behind their back with calm precision. “Naming your kin is unheard of for our species,” he say. “Such a concept is usually reserved for humans. But no matter.”

  Well. Of course.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Right. Naming. I keep forgetting that’s a me-thing. They probably don’t go around calling each other “Fluffy” or “Pointy” or “Greg.” They just sort of… exist. Recognize. Understand without all the labels.

  I glance at Spiky—still Spiky, always Spiky—and smirk. Good luck explaining nicknames to a species that probably communicates in psychic glances and soul-deep vibes.

  Then something tugs at the back of my mind.

  Wait.

  Did I just think he?

  I squint at the Spikeward Mothkin again. Tall. Silent. Regal as hell. Since when do I know he’s a he?

  ...Oh. Right. Just like with Goldy. No one told me she was a she. I just knew. Like the knowledge slotted itself into my brain while I wasn’t looking.

  Psychic weirdness. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.

  Some kind of subconscious ripple, maybe—like their presence brushes against your instincts and gently nudges you in the right direction. “This one’s male,” your brain whispers, smug and unprovoked.

  At this point, I’ve stopped fighting it.

  Yup. Definitely psychic nonsense.

  Add it to the list.

  As the Mothkin continues speaking with Goldy—low, respectful tones that make her puff up with flustered pride again—I let myself zone out just a little. My burns still sting like hell, and my legs feel like they’ve been tenderized with a rock.

  Then—

  “Uuughhnn…”

  A groan bubbles up from directly behind me.

  “GAH!” I jolt so hard I nearly faceplant. My spines twitch up in panic. “Tessa—!”

  Of course. Of course it’s her.

  There she is, half-limp and twitching, squished against a rock like a very sad, slightly crispy pancake. One ear flops sideways. Her tail thumps once against the floor, then droops again.

  “Nurrrr,” she whines, voice thick with dramatic suffering. “I’m hurrrtingggg…”

  I stare at her.

  Then sigh. “No kidding.”

  I stare at her, utterly deadpan.

  “Why are you telling me?” I snap back, wings drooping from exhaustion. “It’s not like I can carry you to the sick room like we’re back in school or something.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Tessa blinks at me, lips wobbling like I just told her recess was canceled forever.

  “You used to help me…”

  “That was because I didn’t want to hear you whining all day.”

  She lets out a pitiful little groan and rolls onto her side with all the grace of a dropped sack of potatoes.

  “Unbelievable,” I mutter, turning away before she tries to guilt-trip me with those watery silver eyes again. “One fireball and suddenly it’s Nurrr carry meee…”

  I swear, some things never change.

  Alright, maybe I’m being a bit too harsh.

  It wasn’t just a fireball.

  It was a shockwave that burst in flames. The kind that turns solid rock into glass and makes your insides feel like scrambled eggs. So… yeah. Fair.

  I sigh and glance back at her, slumped dramatically like the world’s saddest fur rug. “Tessa, go ask Gyldis. They’re the healer here, not me.”

  She squints at me like I’ve just betrayed her.

  Then, with the most exaggerated groan I’ve heard all day, she pushes herself up onto wobbly legs and stumbles forward. “Gggyyyylldissss… healllll meee…”

  Her voice echoes off the cavern walls like a ghost with a limp and a grudge.

  I bury my face in my legs.

  “Why she's my best friends again?”

  Goldy’s voice cuts back in, firm and bright—like she never even noticed Tessa’s dramatic meltdown happening five feet away.

  “—and that’s basically the situation,” she finishes, lifting her chin with a huff of authority. “We came in, got ambushed, everything caught on fire, and now we’re down one Myco and half a healer. Oh, and Nur got almost roasted again.”

  She glances back at me with a proud little nod, like she’s just delivered a flawless mission report to a commanding officer.

  The Spikeward Mothkin gives a slow, solemn nod. Their antennae twitch slightly, brushing against the stale air. “You’ve done well,” they say simply. “All of you.”

  Goldy practically glows.

  I groan. “She’s never gonna shut up about

  The Spikeward Mothkin shifts his stance, his gaze settling on me now—steady and sharp, like he’s weighing something beneath the surface.

  “So your goal,” he says, voice low and even, “is to release the others trapped here. The advanced ones.”

  I nod, slowly. “Yeah. That’s right. We’re here to rescue everyone.”

  I force myself not to wince as I straighten up. “What we need is a Myconid Sporecaster and a Myconid Warden. With those two, Ypal can perform the ritual—he can ascend into a Myconid Emperor.”

  His antennae drift forward, thoughtful.

  “And once that happens,” I continue, “the contract for our colony gets renewed.”

  He studies me for a breath longer, then nods once.

  “I see,” he murmurs. “Then this prison holds more than just chains. It holds your future.”

  He pauses, the glow in his eyes dimming slightly—less intensity, more weight.

  “…And also mine,” he adds, quieter now. “My colony’s future as well.”

  There’s something in his voice. Not regret exactly, but a kind of weariness—like someone who’s seen too much rot fester under stone and stayed quiet for too long.

  His gaze lifts, meeting mine again.

  “I will help you,” he says. “If there are Myconids still trapped, then we must not leave them behind. Not if there’s still a chance.”

  Heavy footsteps drag softly across the stone.

  I turn and see Astor approaching, their movements stiff and uneven—like bark trying to remember how to bend. Their scorched side still smolders faintly, blackened mycelium knitting itself together under Gyldis’s faint glow. It’s slow, but they’re upright. And moving. That’s more than I expected.

  They stop beside me, exhaling through a cracked chestplate. “Still here,” they rasp, voice hoarse but steady. “Barely.”

  Their gaze shifts toward the Spikeward Mothkin, eyes narrowing just slightly. “So. You’re the one they locked away.”

  The Mothkin inclines his head respectfully. “I am.”

  Astor grunts. “Then you know what’s at stake.”

  The Mothkin’s antennae stir gently. “I do. More than ever.”

  Astor straightens with a wince, placing a hand over the worst of the burns. Their voice is low but firm.

  “Then let’s release every Myconid trapped here,” they say. “Before Orbed notices… and sends reinforcements.”

  A hush follows the words.

  Even Tessa stops groaning for half a second.

  The Mothkin nods once, the motion sharp and decisive. “Agreed. We move quickly. Stealth is no longer an option.”

  Goldy’s spines twitch with excitement. “Finally,” she mutters. “Something I’m good at.”

  Spiky gives a tiny, tired nod.

  And me?

  I sigh, dragging my half-cooked body upright.

  “Alright then,” I mutter. “Let’s go break open some doors.”

  The sound of cracking shell and splintering growth echoes through the corridor as Goldy rams her body into another fungal door, the tough fibers groaning before snapping apart. Behind her, Spiky starts pulling the remains aside while Tessa limps dramatically in circles pretending to help.

  I walk alongside the Spikeward Mothkin, keeping pace with his long, deliberate strides. His presence is… still intense. Quiet, but heavy, like walking next to a blade that hasn’t decided what it wants to cut yet.

  I glance up at him. “You’re not from our colony, are you?”

  He doesn’t look at me when he answers. “That much is obvious.”

  I wait, expecting the conversation to die there—but then he glances down, antennae curling slightly.

  “And you,” he says. “I know your Queen Moth.”

  My legs almost lock mid-step.

  He keeps walking, voice smooth and measured. “The Moth Queen of the North. In the Fifth Zone. The strongest, most feared Moth Queen in this entire labyrinth.”

  He finally turns his head, eyes gleaming in the dim light.

  “She’s your mother, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” I reply, quietly. Not sure why it feels like admitting something dangerous.

  The Mothkin hums, low and thoughtful. “I’ve heard many things about her,” he says. “Stories passed from wanderers and those who fled her reach. They say she’s not originally from this labyrinth—that she carries knowledge from outside. From the humans. All kinds of knowledge.”

  I blink. That... lines up disturbingly well.

  Well, I think, that explains the weird amount of random knowledge Mother keeps casually dropping like it’s normal. Gods, evolution and all of that stuff.

  Still. That’s vague. Vague in a way that makes me uncomfortable.

  Where exactly did she come from?

  And why do I feel like I’ve only seen a sliver of who she really is?

  Well, no matter for now. I tuck the uncomfortable thought away—shove it into that mental box labeled “Mother Mysteries” and seal it tight for later.

  I glance back up at the Mothkin, changing the subject. “So… how’d you get captured anyway?”

  His steps don’t falter, but there’s a slight pause—barely a flicker in his stride.

  “With the way you fought earlier,” I add, “you could’ve taken on three or four advanced Myconids easily.”

  He exhales slowly. “I could have.”

  Then his gaze darkens.

  “But that thing—the artifact the Warden carries—it caught me off guard. A green core, laced with rot. It doesn’t just attack the body. It decays it. Weakens you from the inside out.”

  He touches his side briefly, where the chitin plates are dulled and cracked. “Even now, my body is still fighting it. The damage is slow. Persistent.”

  I glance at him more carefully.

  His wings droop ever so slightly, the feathery edges frayed. His antennae move slower now, barely responding to the air. His eyes, once sharp as blades, look… tired.

  And his pace—just a bit too sluggish for someone who erased a Pyrocap without turning around.

  Wait…

  Are you telling me…

  You weren’t even fighting at full power earlier?

  Well—I know that Mothkin is supposed to be our peak evolution and all, I think, staring at him like he just casually mentioned he jogs with a boulder tied to his back.

  But that strong!?

  He erased Yyshad. With one hand. While debilitated. While rotting. And now he’s walking around like it’s just a bad weather day and he needs a nap.

  My spines twitch.

  If that was him weakened… then what’s he like at full power?

  A part of me is terrified.

  The other part—quiet and traitorous—kind of wants to see it.

  “Something the matter?” the Spikeward Mothkin asks, his voice breaking through my spiral of thoughts like a knife through silk.

  I blink up at him, caught mid-stare, my mouth slightly open like an idiot.

  “Oh—uh. No. Nothing.” I look away too quickly. “Just thinking.”

  He raises one browplate—barely. “You were staring.”

  “I wasn’t staring,” I lie immediately. “I was… observing. There's a difference.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but the way his antennae tilt slightly sideways feels like he’s judging me in stereo.

  I clear my throat, trying to salvage some dignity. “Anyway, we should probably keep moving. Doors aren’t gonna break themselves.”

  A few doors later—after a lot of pushing, smashing, and Goldy trying to act like she wasn’t enjoying it way too much—we finally reach the last row of cells.

  And inside them—seven in total—stand the advanced Myconids.

  They're weak. Disoriented. Covered in growths that look like they’ve been feeding off their strength. But alive.

  One of them, tall and thin with delicate frond-like arms, lifts their head the moment we break the barrier. The spore-laced patterns around their skull pulse gently—Sporecaster, Osterys no doubt.

  The other, broad-shouldered with horn-like ridges flaring from their cap and glowing mycelial veins carved deep into their frame—Warden named Fysteryl.

  Exactly as Ypal said.

  Goldy lets out a triumphant, “Ha! Called it!”

  I can’t help but let out a small breath of relief. One step closer.

  One step away from disaster.

  Fysteryl steps forward, slow but purposeful, the soft trail of spores drifting from their arms like mist clinging to memory.

  They stop just ahead of Astor, voice low—so quiet it almost gets lost in the echoing ruin of this place.

  “…So he still remembers.”

  Their tone is hard to read—somewhere between relief and guilt. Maybe both.

  “We thought… after what happened, after we were taken…” Their glowing eyes dim slightly, lashes of spore-light curling at the edges. “We thought they would abandon the rite. That they'd choose survival instead.”

  They lift their head, meeting Astor’s gaze.

  “But they waited.”

  A pause.

  “They believed we’d return.”

  Osterys steps forward with heavy certainty, their voice a low rumble that resonates through the chamber like distant thunder.

  “Then we go back to Ypal,” they says. “At once.”

  But before they can take another step, Goldy throws a leg in front of him and plants herself squarely in his path.

  “Whoa whoa whoa, hang on there, buddy,” she says, puffing out her chest with all the authority of someone who’s definitely not bleeding internally. “I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re all clearly injured and very tired.”

  She points a claw behind her with a dramatic flourish. “And you all? Yeah, not exactly looking fresh either. So first thing’s first—we eat.”

  She jabs her claw toward the corner of the chamber, where—

  Oh. Of course.

  There’s a whole heap of dead Myconid Workers piled up like leftovers at a creepy mushroom buffet. Apparently Tessa and Spiky have been collecting bodies while the rest of us were busting open cells and nearly dying.

  Tessa waves weakly from the top of the pile, one paw half-raised like she’s just finished setting the table.

  Spiky stands beside her, mandibles tight but proud, dusted in soot and spores.

  I sigh, rubbing my temples.

  Of course it’s Goldy.

  Always thinking with her stomach first, diplomacy second.

  Well… I’m also starting to get really hungry.

  Burns or no burns, adrenaline only goes so far—and apparently, so does dignity.

  So yeah. Might as well.

  With that unspoken agreement, we all gather around the heaped corpses of fallen Myconids, and the feast begins.

  Fysteryl and Ostyres move without hesitation. Along with the other five advanced Myconids, they lower themselves beside the bodies and begin absorbing what remains—tendrils of mycelium reaching out, merging with the fallen like roots drinking deep. It’s not violent. Not exactly. But it’s… unsettling. Quiet. Intimate. Like they’re reclaiming something lost.

  Meanwhile, above us, the Spikeward Mothkin spreads his wings and lifts into the air. He lands at the top platform, where Yyshad’s split corpse still lies smoldering. He lowers his head, uncurls his long, coiled proboscis—

  And begins sucking.

  I stare.

  Hard.

  Yikes.

  Is that how I’m supposed to eat in the future?

  Because… no offense to the guy, but that looks way too close to slurping juice out of a fleshy meat sponge.

  I glance at Goldy.

  She’s too busy chomping off a chunk of myconid arm to care.

  Great.

  Just something else to look forward to.

  Tessa is crouched beside the pile, chewing with her mouth open like she’s auditioning for a horror story. There's a strand of something stretchy and fibrous dangling from her fangs, and she makes the most contented little growls between bites, tail wagging in a lazy circle like she’s at an all-you-can-eat meat buffet.

  Every now and then, she pauses mid-bite to wince or yelp from a sore bruise, then immediately goes back to tearing into the next piece like a possessed plush toy.

  Spiky, on the other hand, is much more... unsettling.

  He’s quiet. Polite, even. But the way he eats—methodical, careful—makes it worse. He delicately peels layers from the dead Myconids like he’s inspecting the texture, then folds them over his mandibles and sucks them in with a soft, wet click. Over and over. No mess. No waste. No talking.

  Just efficient digestion and the dead, glassy stares of fungal bodies getting smaller.

  I glance around at this lovely group of unhinged survivors and sigh.

  Tessa’s gnawing bones, Spiky’s unraveling corpses like lettuce wraps, the Spikeward up top is drinking Yyshad like a smoothie—

  …and me?

  I'm just sitting here, trying to psych myself up to bite into someone’s leg.

  Again.

  Gods, I miss cafeteria noodles.

  Well… at least our part of the plan is done.

  I lean back against a cracked wall, mandibles still twitching from the aftertaste of lightly singed Myconid. My legs ache, my burns sting, Tessa’s still making obnoxiously happy chewing sounds, and Goldy’s humming to herself while stripping meat off a bone like she’s on a picnic.

  But it’s done.

  Phase Two: Rescue the Advanced Myconids—check.

  Which means…

  Phase Three.

  Vex’s group.

  I stare up at the dark cavern ceiling, the heat from Yyshad’s corpse still radiating faintly above.

  And yeah—there it is. That twist in my gut.

  The bad feeling.

  I don’t know why.

  I just know Vex. I know his temper. His recklessness. His gleeful violence.

  And if we barely got through this in one piece…

  Then whatever he’s facing?

  It’s going to be worse.

  End of Chapter 28