Yanrid cut through the stale underground air like a streak of sapphire lightning.
His translucent wings, veined with glowing blue, shimmered with an almost mystical light that no other Antman in the tribe possessed. From high above, he gazed down at the sprawling settlement of the Scarlet Ant Tribe. What he saw made his jaw tighten. The tunnels and chambers looked worn, the clay walls cracked in places, the bioluminescent crystals dimmer than he remembered. The tribe was surviving, but barely. Thousands depended on him and his Winter's Bane unit to bring back food, wood, and resources from the deadly surface. He could not afford to fail them.
First things first, he thought, wings beating steadily. I need to see if this new Ant King is truly capable… or just a sickly child playing at being sovereign.
The ground far below stirred as Antmen spotted him. A young Antwoman pointed upward, eyes wide. "I see Commander Yanrid is back!"
"So the surface expedition is finally over," an old Antman murmured to the cluster of children gathered around him for story time. "Winter has ended at last."
Yanrid ignored the murmurs. He had flown for nearly an hour, the weight of the lost souls still heavy on his shoulders. The frozen corpse of the Terror Fowl lashed to a sled below was a hard-won trophy, but the cost had been too high.
Eventually the towering silhouette of Emberhive Castle came into view — the only clan fortress in the entire underground settlement. While not as grand as the royal palace, it was a statement of raw power: thick black-stone walls reinforced with red clay, spiked battlements, and braziers burning with eternal flame. Smaller houses and barracks clustered around it like loyal retainers.
Yanrid descended gracefully, folding his wings as his boots touched the ground before the massive thirty-foot gates. He placed a hand on the plastered red-clay wall, fingers tracing old scars from childhood climbs. Memories flooded him — him and his siblings racing up these walls, laughing, competing. He had always been the slowest, the weakest in pure strength, but the fastest in the air.
"It's good to be home," he whispered.
With a grunt he pushed the heavy gates open. Warm air rushed out, carrying the familiar scent of smoke, roasted meat, and forge-fire. Two guards inside immediately dropped to one knee.
"We have been waiting for your return, Lord Yanrid," they said in unison.
Yanrid strode past them, already unclasping his blood-stained cloak. "Where is my father?"
"He is in the courtyard, my lord."
"Then I will go meet him right away."
He moved with purpose through the inner corridors, the weight of his great iron sword a comforting presence on his back. When he stepped into the courtyard, the temperature seemed to drop.
A towering figure waited for him.
Azir Ashfang — 7'8" of pure muscle and malice — stood with a thick round wooden shield on one arm and an iron spear strapped across his back. His red skin gleamed under the torchlight, golden eyes burning with the signature fury of the Ashfang bloodline. The moment he saw Yanrid, a cruel smirk twisted his lips.
Without warning, Azir ripped the spear from his back and hurled it with terrifying force.
Yanrid sidestepped effortlessly. The spear slammed into the fortified wall behind him, embedding itself halfway through solid stone as if it were paper.
Azir charged like a red avalanche, throwing a punch that could shatter boulders.
Yanrid blocked with both arms, the impact sending a shockwave through the courtyard.
"I've come to speak with Father," Yanrid said coldly, clearly exhausted by this familiar dance. "I have no business with you… Azir."
"I will not hear words from a weak bastard," Azir snarled, pressing harder, trying to force Yanrid to his knees.
Yanrid's expression remained calm, almost bored. He was smaller than his brother — only 6'0" — but his aura was sharper, colder.
"If it's a fight you want," he said, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "then I'll give it to you."
An icy blue aura exploded outward from Yanrid's body — the unmistakable power of am orcish antman. The temperature in the courtyard plummeted.
Azir laughed mockingly and swung again.
Yanrid moved like lightning. His fist connected with Azir's jaw in a brutal uppercut that lifted the larger man off his feet and sent him crashing into the far wall. Stone cracked. Blood sprayed from Azir's mouth; his jaw hung at a sickening angle.
Yanrid drew his great iron sword in one smooth motion, frost curling along the blade. He walked forward, ready to end it.
"That's enough, Yanrid."
The voice cut through the courtyard like a blade.
A mature version of Azir stepped into view — 8 feet tall, long silver-white dreadlocks reaching his lower back, tribal tattoos covering his red skin, and a black robe with red trim that left one powerful shoulder bare. Amir Ashfang, Yanrid's elder brother, radiated quiet authority.
Yanrid lowered his sword and bowed his head respectfully. "Amir."
Amir walked over and pulled Yanrid into a tight hug. "Go. Father is expecting you. He would like to speak with you in private."
He gestured to the warriors behind him. "Take Azir to the shaman on duty."
"Sorry," Yanrid said, tone flat. "I lost control, I did not mean to add more work for you brother."
Azir, still coughing blood, could only glare.
Amir chuckled. "It's alright little brother but for now I suggest you go. Father is still waiting for you."
Yanrid nodded and planted his great sword into the ground before heading toward the throne room.
The Hall of Fire — the throne room of Emberhive Castle — lived up to its name.
Thick stone pillars rose like the fangs of some ancient beast. The floor was covered in the pelts of slain monsters. Two massive braziers roared with resinous wood, filling the cavernous space with flickering orange light and the sharp scent of smoke and pine. On the raised dais sat a throne carved from volcanic black stone, decorated with bones and furs.
Seated upon it was Yajin Ashfang — Lord of Emberhive, Patriarch of the Ashfang Clan, and the strongest warrior in the entire Scarlet Ant Tribe.
He was an imposing eight-foot figure wrapped in a white wolf-fur cloak. His skin was deep red, his long silver-white hair cascading over broad shoulders, and his golden eyes burned with the intensity of a predator that had survived countless battles.
The family heads of the Ashfang Clan lined the walls, their expressions cold as they stared at the bastard son who had just entered.
Yanrid walked forward and knelt several paces from the throne, head bowed.
Yajin's voice rolled through the hall like distant thunder. "I am glad to see you are unharmed, my son."
He paused, golden eyes softening for the briefest moment. "Any trouble on the surface?"
Yanrid handed over the sealed expedition report without rising. "The routes to Stagfall Forest and Boarback Meadow are secure. We have successfully stockpiled the required amounts of wood and meat and even more."
"Casualties?" Yajin asked, the single word heavy.
Yanrid's voice remained steady. "Two hundred warriors died during beast attacks. Six hundred foragers were lost in Stagfall Forest. A total of one thousand souls."
The throne room fell deathly silent.
Yajin rose slowly, his massive frame casting a long shadow. "You have done well, my son. Many leaders would have failed where you succeeded."
He swept his gaze across the assembled clan leaders. "We will organize a cremation ceremony for the dead. Console their families with whatever they lack. It is the least we can do."
The family heads bowed in unison. "It will be done."
"Anything else?" Yajin asked, returning to his seat.
"Demon wolf attacks have increased sharply, but nothing else of note."
Yajin studied his son for a long moment, pride and frustration warring in his golden eyes. He sighed, the sound like grinding stone, then dismissed the others with a wave.
"Leave us. I wish to speak with my son privately."
The clan leaders filed out silently. When the great stone doors closed, only father and son remained in the flickering firelight.
Yajin descended from the throne and stopped before Yanrid. For a moment, the cold mask of the patriarch slipped, revealing a father who still saw the ghost of Yanrid's mother in his son's features.
"You have done well, Yanrid," he said quietly. "Many pure-blood leaders could not have accomplished what you did."
A faint, almost invisible smile touched Yanrid's lips before vanishing.
Yajin turned to one of the braziers and added more wood, staring into the flames. "We have been called."
Yanrid waited.
"His Majesty the King is awake," Yajin continued, voice grave. "And he summons us."
Yanrid's blue-veined wings twitched slightly. "What will you do?"
Yajin did not turn from the fire. He had fought beside the previous king during the goblin wars. He had returned with a broken army while his lord died on the battlefield. The shame had haunted him for years.
But now…
Yajin turned, golden eyes blazing with renewed fire. His voice rang with absolute finality.
"We have been called. We must answer."