The meat’s gone cold now.

  We’ve all finished eating, the cavern quiet again except for the soft rustle of movement—cleaning up bones, stretching limbs, shifting gear back into place. Whatever comfort there was is already slipping away. We’re not relaxing anymore. We’re resetting.

  Gyldis moves between us, methodical and calm, spreading spores like threads of gold. Everyone’s covered in bruises and burns but their healing works. Not perfectly. Not clean. But enough.

  Enough to move.

  Enough to fight again, if we have to.

  I flex one leg, testing the stiffness where Yyshad's fire nearly got me. It still hurts. But I can handle it.

  We look around the prison for a bit—just in case we missed some more myconids or if there’s a surviving member of the Spikeward Mothkin’s colony—we find nothing, except for some freak experiment Orbed did on various monsters, myconids included. Horrible stuff, really, but something in that twisted work might be useful to me…

  After that we regroup near the tunnel’s edge, where the fungus is thinner and the ground’s cooler. That’s where we meet them.

  Sairn and the Phase 1 group.

  Victor steps forward first, all polite posture and observant stillness, his antennae twitching with quiet concern. Behind him, the two Lesser Spiky Caterpillar siblings huddle side by side.

  And then the five Myconid Workers.

  They made it.

  Phase 1 ended.

  They were supposed to intercept Orbed’s communication with the prison. If they’re here now, It also means Orbed most likely knows what happened here.

  Which means—

  It’s time to move.

  Time to go back to Ypal.

  And find out what we’re walking into next.

  Victor approaches with his usual slow grace, each step carefully measured, like he’s about to deliver a speech in a royal court. His bristles are neatly groomed—of course—and he carries himself with all the dignity of someone who never learned how to slouch.

  He stops just short of us, dipping his head politely.

  “I must confess,” he begins, voice smooth and deliberate, every word dipped in that florid, antiquated tone, “that thy return doth fill me with equal measures of gratitude and a foreboding apprehension. I am most relieved to discover thee among the living, yet thy countenance doth indicate that the tidings thou bringest are… far from joyous.”

  Goldy crosses two legs and puffs out her thorax, clearly holding something back. I give her a glance, then speak first.

  “We lost Lypor.”

  Victor’s antennae still. “Ah. That is… deeply unfortunate.”

  A Myconid Pyrocap incinerated them. There wasn’t anything left.”

  He bows his head slightly, one claw against his chest. “May their remains nourish the roots of something brighter.” Then, after a pause, “And the others?”

  “Burned. Bruised. But alive,” I reply. “Thanks to him.”

  I tilt my head toward the tall figure standing just behind us—still silent, still imposing. The Spikeward Mothkin hasn’t moved much since we stopped, wings folded, spine-lined arms crossed, a constant pressure even in stillness.

  Victor studies him carefully. “Ah… yes. I had my suspicions, but to see one here—in this zone, no less—is most intriguing. Mothkins are not so uncommon in the deeper zone, where aberrants and ancients prowl. But in the Third? That borders on the improbable, save the spawning cycle that our dearest Mother doth enact occasionally.”

  Goldy beams. “I know, right? Spiky found him locked up—probably by Orbed’s freak squad. He wrecked Yyshad in one move. Didn’t even look at them.”

  Victor raises a brow, mandibles parting slightly. “Fascinating. And humbling. I would dare say we owe this one our collective survival.”

  “Damn right we do,” Goldy says, giving the Spikeward an enthusiastic nod. “He even knelt to me after. Said I was the royal brood and everything.”

  Victor’s eyes glint with restrained amusement. “Indeed. And thy self-restraint in not carving that title into the stone walls is truly admirable.”

  Goldy snorts. “Give me time.”

  He turns to me again, more serious now. “And you, dear sister? Are you well?”

  I shrug. “Define ‘well.’ We barely got out. Had to fight like hell. Lypor died. Tessa got burned. We pulled Astor back from the edge. And now we’ve got Orbed’s attention.”

  Victor nods slowly. “Then we must assume the window to act is closing.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “We need to regroup with Ypal. Now.”

  Victor turns slightly, glancing down the tunnel ahead. “Then let us not squander the breath we have left in this quiet,” he says smoothly. “We move. The longer we linger, the closer Orbed’s noose draws.”

  Goldy groans, stretching like someone waking from a nap. “Ugh, fine. But I’m not fighting anything else unless it bleeds soup or apologizes first.”

  We begin the march.

  The group falls into a loose formation as we descend into the tunnels. My legs still ache, but I move without limping. We’re all sore, half-healed, burned or cracked in some way—but the kind of tired that comes after surviving something you shouldn’t have.

  Ahead of us, Osterys, Fysteryl, Astor, Gyldis, and the other advanced Myconids walk with eerie synchronicity, their bodies swaying as they emit soft pulses of spores. The air around them hums with a kind of rhythm—low, subtle, almost melodic. Resonance communication. A language not meant for outsiders.

  Goldy glances back at them and mutters under her breath, “I’ll never get used to that. Feels like they’re composing a funeral dirge.”

  I don’t respond.

  Victor, however, takes the opportunity to approach the Spikeward Mothkin, walking alongside them with practiced ease.

  “You have my thanks,” he begins, inclining his head slightly. “It is not often we see one of your standing in these shallower depths, let alone taking interest in the fate of others.”

  The Mothkin responds without turning. “I do not often act for others.”

  Victor hums softly. “And yet, you did indeed. With remarkable precision, I must affirm."

  “I owed the young one,” the Mothkin replies, likely meaning Spiky. “He broke the bindings. Freed me.”

  Victor nods slowly, processing. “Even so, to remain, to fight, and to kneel… you must have sensed more than debt.”

  A pause.

  “I sensed purpose,” the Spikeward says at last. “And the rot festering here. I will not leave it unchecked.”

  Victor smiles faintly. “Then perhaps you are not so different from us as you imagine.”

  They continue walking together, quiet and composed—two very different figures, speaking in measured truths.

  The Spikeward Mothkin turns his head slightly, enough for the faint light to catch on the edge of his facial plating, his multifaceted eyes glinting.

  ““Well,” he says, his voice calm but carrying weight, “we’re of the same species, after all. Just descended from different Queens.”

  Victor raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Indeed we are. Though the deeper zones rarely offer much room for polite conversation.”

  The Mothkin's antennae twitch thoughtfully. “We’re not without order. We simply know where to draw the line.”

  Victor laughs softly. “Yes, that much is clear. But I have to admit, there’s something almost poetic about it—two offshoots of the same design, meeting by chance in a decaying prison.”

  The Spikeward tilts his head, his tone deepening, almost unreadable. “Chance has little to do with it. It’s not fate that brought us here, only what festers in the dark... and what’s drawn to end it.”

  Victor smiles faintly, folding his limbs behind his back. “Then we are both moths drawn to flame, it seems. Let us hope the fire isn’t faster than our wings.”

  They walk on side by side—one cloaked in the elegance of words, the other in silence that speaks louder.

  And behind them, the rest of us follow.

  Moments pass.

  Then hours, at least that's how long I perceived.

  The tunnels twist deeper, darker, then lighter again—breathing with that slow pulse only the lowest zones carry, like the stone itself has a heartbeat. We take long detours, winding under collapsed roots and ducking through cold, wet passages, always listening, always watching.

  Orbed’s forces are out there. We don’t see them. But we feel them. Close. Circling.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  So we move silent. Careful. Even Goldy stops complaining after the third reroute.

  But then—finally—there’s a shift in the air. The walls widen. The gloom lifts.

  And the spores change.

  Not sharp, not hostile.

  Warm.

  Soft bioluminescence pulses ahead, tiny strands of violet and blue dancing along the carved edges of the stone like glowing veins. The air smells cleaner—still fungal, still damp, but not sour. Familiar.

  And then we see it.

  Sporehaven.

  The hidden heart of Ypal’s colony—curved chambers filled with breathing fungus and glowing stalks, nestled into the base of the Third Zone’s last root-bound cliff. Myconid shapes shift through the mist. Workers, soldiers, scouts—watching us. Ready to warn, ready to strike.

  But when they see Astor.

  When they see Fysteryl and Osterys—

  They bow.

  We’ve made it.

  As we step into Sporehaven, the weight that’s been pressing on my chest for hours doesn’t vanish—but it loosens. Just a little.

  The air is thick with spores, but they’re not choking. They’re calm. Rhythmic. The kind that hum through your bones instead of clawing at your lungs.

  The Myconids here part slowly to make way. Not out of fear—out of recognition. Some of them gasp in their own spory way when they see Fysteryl and Osterys—those two barely flinch, just keep walking with quiet dignity, their steps syncing with the pulse of the colony like they never left.

  I glance at Victor. He looks around with quiet analysis, probably already cataloguing how many guards are on watch, which tunnels are new, which old ones collapsed since we left.

  Goldy, on the other hand, immediately stretches all of her limbs out like she’s about to collapse on the floor. “Uuugh, finally. I’m gonna grow mushrooms on my legs if I have to walk more.”

  “You already have,” I mutter, flicking a bit of spore fuzz off her back.

  Ahead of us, the inner sanctum looms—carved from a living wall of mycelial mass that pulses with memory spores, glowing sigils, and interwoven roots thick as tree trunks. The air here buzzes with resonance.

  And standing at the center of it all—half-lit by the glow, arms folded, cap tall and luminous—

  Ypal waits.

  Their presence is unmistakable.

  The Myconid Sage, heart of this resistance, the one trying to thread a needle through war, politics, and a rising god.

  Their glowing filaments twitch as we approach, like they’ve already heard everything before we speak.

  But I stop just a few steps short.

  This time, I’m the one who speaks first.

  “Phase Two complete,” I say, voice even. “Fysteryl and Osterys are with us. We lost Lypor. Barely saved Astor. Yyshad’s dead.”

  A pause.

  Then I add, more grimly, “And Orbed definitely knows.”

  Ypal doesn’t speak. Not yet.

  Just listens.

  Waiting for the rest.

  The silence lingers for a few more seconds, held in the soft buzz of spores and breath.

  Then movement—slow, deliberate.

  Osterys steps forward, heavy-footed but graceful for someone built like a fortress. Their broad arms lower as they sink to one knee before Ypal, cap tilted in deep deference.

  Fysteryl follows, more fluid, their tendrils trailing behind like wisps of memory. They kneel without hesitation, head bowed low, arms folded over their chest.

  “Ypal,” Osterys says, voice rumbling like shifting stone, “we are glad to see you standing.”

  “And gladder still to see you free,” Fysteryl adds, their tone softer, lighter, but no less sincere.

  They both lower their heads fully now—respect, yes, but not submission. Recognition.

  “We thank you,” Osterys continues, “for not forgetting us.”

  Fysteryl’s voice hums low with resonance. “And for sending them.”

  Ypal moves at last.

  Not much—just a step forward, filaments drifting outward like open arms.

  “You were never forgotten,” they say quietly. “Only out of reach.”

  Their voice carries a depth I rarely hear from them. Not just command—but grief. Gratitude. Something older.

  “Now that you are here,” Ypal adds, “we begin again.”

  Then, a streak of violet light flashes through the edge of the chamber.

  A blur.

  Fast. Twitching.

  Familiar.

  Vex.

  He stumbles in like he’s been running for hours—which, knowing him, he probably has.

  And something’s off.

  He’s not swaggering.

  Not smirking.

  He’s not even talking.

  Just… staring.

  And when he sees us—really sees us—he freezes.

  The swagger never comes. No snark, no sharp remark. He just… stares. His eyes flick from Goldy to Victor, then land on me.

  And he walks.

  Slow. Unsteady. Like if he runs, we’ll vanish.

  I try to say something, but he doesn’t wait. Doesn’t give me the chance.

  He leans in and bumps his head against mine—just a soft, brief press.

  Then, barely above a whisper:

  “Thank Syrrath you’re safe.”

  Another breath, shaky. “You’re all… safe.”

  And in that second, I see it.

  He’s not just relieved.

  He’s breaking.

  He’s still pressed against me, breathing too hard, mandibles twitching like he’s trying not to shake.

  So I do the only thing I can do when someone like Vex shows actual emotion in front of everyone.

  I deadpan, “Uhhh… is it the end of the world?”

  Goldy lets out a breathy wheeze that might be a laugh. Victor clears his throat delicately like he’s pretending not to witness a breakdown. Even Tessa perks up behind me, ears twitching with curiosity.

  Vex pulls back just a little, eyes narrowing like he just realized what he’s doing.

  “…Shut up,” he mutters, voice raw.

  But he doesn’t pull away completely.

  Not yet.

  He stays close for a heartbeat longer than I expect. Than anyone expects. Then finally—finally—he pulls back.

  Just enough to breathe.

  “I thought you were gone,” he mutters, voice low and rough. “All of you.”

  His eyes flick to Goldy, to Victor, then back to me. “I saw things. Heard things. Thought it was real. Thought I was too late.”

  I raise a brow. “Yeah, you almost got sappy there. We were all about to die of shock.”

  Goldy snorts. “I liked it. He was all—‘You’re safe, you’re safe’—like a softshell.”

  “Shut up,” Vex hisses, mandibles twitching—but there’s no venom in it. Not this time.

  He straightens, clearing his throat, tension settling back into his frame like armor reattached piece by piece.

  Ypal steps forward then—tall, still, glowing faintly beneath the chamber light.

  Vex stares at them.

  “You were seen entering Sporehaven quite a while ago,” Ypal continues. “You were alone. You carried no artifact. The rest... was clear.”

  Vex’s mandibles clench. He doesn’t argue.

  Goldy glances between them. “So what now? Phase One and Two worked. But Phase Three’s toast.”

  Ypal’s filaments drift outward, slow and pulsing.

  “Now,” they say, “we have to resort to that plan”

  Phase Three failed.

  Vex failed.

  And normally? I’d be all over that.

  Smug. Smirking. Dropping jabs like breadcrumbs just to watch him squirm.

  But right now?

  I glance at him—breathing shallow, eyes duller than I’ve ever seen them—and yeah.

  Maybe not the best idea.

  He already looks like he’s dragging a grave behind him. Like if I said one thing, one, he’d snap—and not in the fun, acid-spitting way.

  So instead of twisting the knife, I just cross my forelegs and lean back a little.

  “...Well. That could’ve gone worse,” I say flatly.

  Goldy turns. “Really?”

  I shrug. “We’re still alive.”

  Vex doesn’t speak. Just lowers his head slightly, like he’s bracing for a blow that didn’t come.

  And for once, I don’t throw it.

  I let him carry what he’s already carrying.

  That’s punishment enough.

  Tessa edges forward, tail swaying awkwardly behind her, still bandaged from the burns but apparently not enough to dull her spirit.

  She nudges up beside Vex, gives a soft huff, and says—completely dead serious—

  “Vexieee no be sad, you’re still bitey and cool and I didn’t die and also I got a really big mushroom chunk during the feast so it’s okay!”

  Vex stares at her. Slowly. Like he’s trying to calculate if what she said is a joke, a threat, or some kind of hallucination.

  Goldy leans over. “Did… did she just say ‘Vexie’?”

  I rub my temples. “Okay, translation for the emotionally fragile: she’s saying… you tried your best, she’s not dead, we’re not dead, and that’s what matters.”

  Tessa nods rapidly, tongue lolling slightly. “Yuh-huh!”

  “She also thinks you’re still ‘bitey and cool,’ for whatever that’s worth,” I add.

  Victor, behind us, chuckles softly. “Ah yes, bitey and cool. A designation of high esteem, I presume.”

  I glance at him, deadpan. “You understood her?”

  Victor shrugs modestly. “After her third word. I find her syntax quite endearing.”

  Of course he did.

  Vex stares at Tessa for a long moment, mandibles tight.

  Then—barely audible—he exhales a faint huff. Not a laugh. Not quite.

  But maybe the start of one.

  Tessa beams like she just won a prize. Her tail thumps the floor once—loud, off rhythm—and she scoots even closer to Vex like personal space is more of a loose suggestion than a rule.

  “See?” she chirps. “You didn’t mess up! You just… uhh… got detoured! Hero detour! That’s a thing.”

  “Hero detour,” Goldy mutters, half laughing. “Is that what we’re calling full mission collapse now?”

  Tessa nods enthusiastically, unaware—or completely uncaring—that she’s probably rubbing salt into the wound. “Yup! Detour! With feelings.”

  Vex looks at her like she’s a walking head injury. His mandibles twitch, then click once. Slowly. He shifts his gaze to me.

  “Translate,” he mutters through gritted fangs.

  “She says it’s okay to fail if you don’t die and you still look cool while doing it,” I say with a shrug. “And that you took the scenic route to emotional vulnerability.”

  Vex groans under his breath. “I hate this brood.”

  Victor, voice smooth as ever: “And yet you keep coming back.”

  Vex shoots him a glare, but it’s thin. Hollow.

  Tessa leans her head against his side with a thud. “I’m still glad you’re here,” she mumbles, already sounding half-asleep.

  He stiffens—then, slowly, relaxes just a little.

  Just enough.

  Goldy steps in beside us, chewing something that probably isn’t food. “Hey,” she says, mouth half-full, “you might’ve failed Phase Three, but at least you came back. I’d rather have you alive and moody than another pile of ash.”

  “Seconded,” I add, without looking at him.

  Vex doesn’t say anything.

  But he doesn’t pull away either.

  And for him?

  That’s enough.

  Vex stays quiet for a few more seconds, then finally speaks—his voice low, strained, like it’s dragging something heavy behind it.

  “Well…”

  He exhales through his mandibles.

  “The two Veilstalkers that were with me… they didn’t make it either.”

  The words hit harder than I expect. Not dramatic. Not mournful. Just fact.

  “They got me out. I got them killed.”

  He doesn’t look at us when he says it. Doesn’t want to. His eyes stay fixed on the ground like it’s safer than facing the rest of us.

  “So yeah,” he mutters, quieter, “it’s all lost on my part.”

  Nobody jumps in right away.

  Even Goldy, who’s always the first to toss in a loud “Nuh-uh!” or crack a joke to lighten the mood—she doesn’t speak.

  And I don’t either.

  Because I know that tone. That particular weight. Like he’s already buried himself under it, decided what it means.

  Victor steps forward, calm and deliberate. “A loss, yes,” he says gently. “But not without meaning.”

  Vex scoffs. “You gonna tell me it was noble?”

  Victor tilts his head. “Nay, I shall impart the truth that it bore great significance. They died protecting you. You returned. We remain steadfast. This alters the course of events to follow. Such is the gravity of the matter. Such is consequences."

  He pauses.

  “And consequence is not the same as failure.”

  Vex says nothing.

  Tessa nuzzles against his side again, like she doesn’t care what failure means. Goldy reaches over and nudges his shoulder with hers.

  Me? I just look at him, quiet, and say:

  “You’re not the only one carrying losses, Vex. Don’t try to turn yours into something special.”

  Not to mock him.

  Just to remind him—

  He’s still part of this brood.

  And none of us made it through clean.

  I shift my weight, glance at the ground, then say it out loud.

  Flat. Honest. No edge to my voice this time.

  “We lost Lypor.”

  Vex looks up—just slightly.

  I keep going. “The Myconid Combatant that came with us. Tried to hold the line when Yyshad unleashed that blast. Got completely engulfed. Nothing left.”

  The words sit heavy in the air, like smoke that doesn’t clear.

  Vex doesn’t respond right away. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes flick—just briefly—to Gyldis, to Astor, then to the Myconids still humming faintly near the chamber edge.

  Then back to me.

  “…So not just mine, huh.”

  “No,” I say. “Not just yours.”

  He nods once. Slow. Like something inside him shifts—not resolved, not fixed, but… leveled.

  Shared.

  And he finally, finally, stops trying to carry it alone.

  Ypal, who’s been silent through all of it—watching, listening, absorbing every word like a root drinking deep—finally steps forward.

  Their filaments drift with a slow, solemn pulse. Their voice hums through the chamber, steady and clear.

  “So we’ve lost two Veilstalkers,” they say. “And one Myconid Combatant.”

  Their tone doesn’t waver, but there’s a weight behind it—like each name has already been etched into their memory.

  “A heavy loss,” they continue, “but not for nothing.”

  Their glow intensifies, just slightly, casting soft light over the room.

  “Thanks to you all—thanks to your pain, your risk, your return—we now have Osterys and Fysteryl.”

  The two advanced Myconids, standing nearby, incline their heads with quiet reverence.

  “And not only them,” Ypal adds, turning toward the rear of the chamber where a small crowd of rescued Buds and Workers stand quietly, many still injured but alive. “You brought back dozens of our kin. Future limbs. Future minds.”

  A beat.

  “We can now proceed with the backup plan,” Ypal says.

  The words seem to vibrate deeper into the air, carried by a resonance even the spores echo.

  “And begin the ritual.”

  Their gaze sharpens, the light in their shelf-cap pulsing with authority.

  “The time for my ascension into Emperor is here.”

  End of Chapter 31