Chapter 41: Chapter 41: A BREWING CAULDRON
The forest didn’t smell like life anymore. It smelled like aftermath—wet ash, burned moss, blood drying on bark. The survivors had begun to rebuild in fragments, but Buzz could tell it was temporary. Threads hung between trees like nervous thoughts, unfinished, uncertain.
He stood at the edge of the new encampment, watching as Scarabs dragged cracked shells into a pile for burial. Glowbeetles hovered above the dead, their lights dim and flickering. Centipedes dug shallow trenches through the mud, silent. No songs. No rhythm. Just work.
Zza approached from behind, her claws wrapped in gauze-silk. "They’re scared," she said. "Not of dying. Of waiting."
Buzz turned to her. "They’ve been waiting since the Queen fell."
"Now they’re waiting again. For the next thing to kill them."
He didn’t argue. She was right.
The coalition wasn’t built on loyalty anymore. It was survival stitched together with exhaustion. The Elder had been weaving plans all morning, pulling survivors from the shadows to rebuild the net. But every thread stretched thinner than it should have. The forest was tired.
Buzz’s chest ached. The gold inside him had quieted, but it never slept. Every now and then it twitched, like something turning over in its sleep. He pressed a claw against his ribs, trying to ignore it.
Zza caught the motion. "Still burning?"
"Still there," he said. "Like it’s waiting for me to stop pretending."
She didn’t smile. "Don’t let it talk."
He looked away. "It doesn’t have to. It listens."
Zza sat beside him, silk brushing against his shoulder. "You’re not the only one carrying it," she said softly. "Some of the nests cracked before we found them. A few Scarabs touched the residue. Their shells are turning gold."
Buzz’s stomach dropped. "You should’ve told me sooner."
"They begged me not to," she said. "They think it’s power. They think if they learn to control it, they can fight better next time."
He laughed once, bitter. "That’s what she thought too."
Zza lowered her voice. "Then stop them before it spreads."
Buzz pushed himself up. "Where?"
She pointed toward the far ridge, where a faint golden haze hung between the trees. "They’re building something. They said it’s a shrine. Said they can hear her voice when they pray."
He stared at the glow. His claws clenched. "Then it’s not a shrine. It’s a signal."
They moved fast. The ridge was higher than the valley, covered in moss that burned faintly under their steps. As they climbed, the smell of gold thickened—sweet, heavy, wrong. The closer they got, the clearer the sound became. A hum. Low and steady. Familiar.
When they reached the top, Buzz froze.
Dozens of Scarabs stood in a circle, their shells streaked with gold. Their claws pressed to the ground, their eyes half-closed. Between them, a pit glowed with molten light. Gold ran through it like veins in living flesh, pulsing with rhythm.
Buzz recognized the sound. The heartbeat of the heartwood nest. The same rhythm that had tried to take him.
Zza whispered, "It’s calling through them."
He took a step forward. "Step away from the pit."
None of them moved. One Scarab lifted his head, eyes glowing faintly. "She’s speaking again. She forgives us. She says we can become more."
Buzz’s claws dug into the dirt. "She’s using you. That’s not forgiveness, it’s control."
The Scarab smiled. "Then control is all we ever needed."
Before Buzz could answer, the pit erupted. Gold sprayed upward, splashing across the circle. Every Scarab caught in it convulsed, their shells cracking open. Their bodies glowed from within, their voices twisting into screams that weren’t their own.
Zza threw silk, wrapping one before it could rise. The cocoon sizzled, burning away from the inside. The air filled with the smell of melting chitin.
Buzz lunged at another, slamming his claws through its chest. The creature didn’t bleed—it burst, spraying gold across his arms. His veins lit up instantly, the Queen’s blood inside him reacting.
He staggered back, choking. The hum grew louder. In his head, her voice coiled again.
*You can’t kill what you carry.*
Buzz roared, slamming his claws into the dirt. The gold flared through his veins, trying to take hold. For a moment, his vision went white. Zza grabbed his face, forcing him to meet her eyes.
"Listen to me!" she shouted. "You’re not her! You’re not it!"
He gritted his teeth, fighting the tremor in his arms. "Then what am I?"
"You’re the one it fears. That’s why it keeps coming for you."
Her voice cut through the noise. The glow in his chest flickered, dimmed. He pulled free of her grip, claws still shaking. Around them, the last of the Scarabs crumbled into ash.
Zza’s silk smoldered at her sides. "If this keeps happening, there won’t be a forest left to save."
Buzz looked at the pit. The molten gold still shimmered, waiting. "Then we stop waiting."
He walked to the edge, ignoring Zza’s shout, and drove his claws into the ground. The gold responded instantly, flaring up his arms, wrapping around him like flame. He didn’t fight it. He pulled.
The gold screamed.
The ground split open, throwing them both back. The pit collapsed inward, dragging the molten light down until the ridge shook. When the glow finally dimmed, only smoke rose from the crater.
Zza coughed, crawling toward him. "Buzz—"
He rolled over, blood dripping from his mouth. "Still alive."
"You burned half your shell off!"
He laughed weakly. "She’ll hate that."
Zza pressed her forehead to his, breathing fast. "Next time, warn me before you try to kill yourself."
Buzz’s smile was tired but real. "Next time, don’t follow me."
"Too late for that."
They sat there until the smoke cleared. The air smelled cleaner now. For the first time in weeks, the forest felt quiet.
Zza looked toward the valley. "What do we tell them?"
Buzz stared at the crater. "That the Queen’s voice isn’t dead. It’s hiding. And it’s trying to speak through us."
She nodded slowly. "Then we teach them to listen without obeying."
He looked at her, surprised. "You’ve been listening."
She smiled faintly. "I’ve had a good teacher."
They started back down the ridge together, stepping over the cracks the gold had left behind. The wind carried the faintest hum—far away, deeper than the roots.