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Click-click-click-click-click. The frantic drumming echoed down the obsidian corridor, sharp and urgent against the hive's low, constant hum. It wasn't the measured pace of a guard or the shuffle of a worker. This was the sound of claws hitting polished basalt clay at a dead run. Someone was racing towards the throne chamber, fast.
Queen Ichneumon didn't stir. She remained draped sideways across the ancient throne carved from solidified amber resin, her massive, obsidian-black form a stark silhouette against the faint bioluminescent glow emanating from the walls. Her head rested heavily on one clawed fist, her dark, coal-black eyes fixed on nothing. The frantic clicking grew louder, closer. Hatred radiated from her like heat shimmering off desert stone – a deep, corrosive bitterness that seemed to thicken the air itself. It wasn't directed at the approaching runner, not yet. It was a constant simmer, a poison she cultivated, fed by countless slights, real and imagined, stretching back centuries. The throne felt cold beneath her scales, its familiar contours offering no comfort, only a reminder of the isolation its height enforced.
The runner skidded to a halt before the dais, chest heaving, wings plastered tight against his dusty brown flank. He was young, barely out of the larval nurseries, his chitin still soft-looking. His antennae trembled violently. "M-Majesty!" he gasped, voice cracking. He dared not look up, fixing his gaze instead on the polished basalt floor between his trembling claws. Ichneumon’s gaze slid over him slowly, dismissively. No smoke rose from his scales. No claw marks marred his hide. Just dust. Disappointment settled over her like a shroud. Another triviality. Another waste of her time. She traced the intricate, near-invisible pattern of gold iridescence shimmering faintly beneath the black scale on her foreleg, her claw-tip moving with deliberate, languid precision. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the runner's ragged breaths and the omnipresent, low thrum of the hive itself.
"My Queen!" hissed the midwife, skidding to a halt beside the trembling messenger. She was older, her chitin scarred and dulled from countless hatchings, her movements sharp despite her age. Ichneumon didn't bother shifting her gaze fully. She looked contemptuously down at the short insectoid-dragon, her lip curling into a silent snarl that bared the gleaming points of her fangs. The midwife flinched almost imperceptibly but held her ground. Clinging to the midwife's back, nestled awkwardly between her wing-joints, was a tiny dragonet. Its scales were a sickly, translucent grey, lacking the vibrant hues of a healthy Hivewing grub. Its muzzle was twisted into a permanent, upside-down frown – a grotesque parody of contentment. Normal dragonets wore that expression only when defecating or regurgitating spoiled grub-paste. On this… *thing*… it was etched permanently. A sign. Defective. Useless. Ichneumon felt a fresh wave of irritation prickle along her spine. More incompetence. More burdens thrust upon her throne.
Queen Ichneumon snorted. "This had better be good, midwife," she said, her voice a low, grating rasp that echoed faintly in the chamber. Her eyes narrowed as she glowered down at her expendable servant. The midwife's knees trembled and her tube-like ears lay flat against her jet-black carapace. She swallowed hard, antennae twitching nervously.
The midwife took in an empty gulp of air before speaking. "I come from the nursery, my Queen," she said, her voice thin and reedy. She shifted her weight, causing the deformed dragonet clinging to her back to whimper softly.
Ichneumon rolled her eyes. "I can see that, idiot!" she hissed, venom dripping from each word. Her claws dug into the amber throne, leaving faint scratches. "What in blazes is a newly-hatched dragonet doing in my throne room?" She leaned forward, her coal-black eyes boring into the midwife. "Speak plainly or I'll have your antennae fed to the larvae pits."
The midwife flinched, her compound eyes darting sideways. "It... it's a..." she stammered, wincing as the deformed grub shifted against her carapace. Her voice dropped to a terrified whisper. "It hatched last night, Majesty. But... it's different. Wrong."
Just then, the larva blinked its miniscule eyes open. In place of the solid black of a typical dragonet's sclera, this grub had actual irises. Striking deep purple ones, at that. They fixed on Queen Ichneumon with unnerving clarity, devoid of the usual milky haze of newborn blindness. The upside-down frown deepened, accompanied by a low, gurgling cry that sounded disturbingly like a choked sob.
Ichneumon recoiled as if physically struck. Her claws scraped violently across the amber throne armrests. "Yet another hatched female, ready to pupate," she growled, gritting her teeth. Her iridescent black scales seemed to ripple with suppressed fury under the hive's dim light. "Blast it! It's so.. Bright smashing sunsuns inconvenience that incubation doesn't last longer. I laid this one less than six moon cycles ago!" The queen's voice rose to a furious hiss, her coal-dark eyes blazing. "And already the vile parasite has returned to taunt me!" She surged forward on the dais, looming over the trembling midwife and the grotesque dragonet. The air crackled with her venomous contempt.
"Yes, my Queen," the midwife whispered, her antennae trembling violently. She bowed lower, pressing her insectoid face almost to the polished basalt floor. The motion made the deformed grub on her back whimper again, its tiny purple eyes wide and unblinking. The midwife didn't truly understand the queen's hatred for this particular hatchling – she'd seen defective grubs fed to larvae pits without a second thought. But Queen Ichneumon's rage was a force of nature, a storm to be weathered. Survival demanded agreement. "I hate that too," she breathed, the lie tasting like ash. Her compound eyes darted sideways, avoiding the queen's terrifying gaze. "Such... inconvenience." She forced her voice to mimic the queen's disgust, hoping the placation would spare her antennae.
Queen Ichneumon lunged her neck forward, a viper striking. The sudden movement sent the midwife scrambling backward, her claws scraping frantically on the smooth stone. She nearly tripped over her own clumsy limbs, the dragonet on her back letting out a thin, terrified squeal. "Well?" the Queen hissed, venom dripping from every syllable. Her coal-black eyes blazed, fixed solely on the midwife. "Then kill it already! How many times must I give these orders to you stupid worms before you will finally obey?" Her voice rose, sharp as shattered obsidian, echoing off the cavernous throne room walls. The low hum of the hive seemed to falter under its weight. "Is the concept so complex? Defective grub equals termination! Must I carve the procedure onto your carapace?!"
The midwife trembled violently, her compound eyes wide pools of terror reflecting the Queen's fury. She tried to bow lower, pressing her insectoid face flat against the cold basalt floor. "B-but, Majesty," she stammered, her voice thin and choked. "W-we can't kill a princess." The words slipped out, a desperate plea muffled against the stone. She attempted to twist her body, trying to dislodge the tiny creature clinging stubbornly between her wing joints. One clawed leg pried loose, flailing weakly, but the dragonet instantly tightened its grip with the other three, its upside-down frown deepening into a mask of terrified determination. Its strange purple eyes remained wide open, locked on the towering Queen. "She... she hatched from your egg clutch," the midwife gasped, risking a sideways glance. "The royal lineage... the protocols..."
Queen Ichneumon sighed explosively, a harsh sound like steam escaping a fissure. She shook her head slowly, the iridescent gold shimmer beneath her black scales catching the dim light in fleeting, contemptuous flashes. "Ugh," she growled, the sound vibrating deep in her chest. Her coal-dark eyes narrowed to slits as she stared at the struggling midwife and the clinging grub. "Even the simplest commands carry no weight when it comes to one of these precious, mewling females." Her lip curled, revealing the gleaming points of her fangs. "How delightful." She shifted her weight, her tail lashing once against the polished dais stone with a sharp crack. "My day must be interrupted so I can perform a mundane chore that any dragon else could have accomplished with a simple, well-placed kick."
Her claw shot out, swift and precise as a striking serpent. It wasn't gentle. Black talons, sharpened to lethal points, surrounded the squirming infant grub, digging momentarily into the midwife's carapace before finding purchase on the tiny dragonet's soft, grey hide. With a brutal yank, she ripped the grub free from its precarious perch. The midwife gasped, stumbling sideways, her antennae flattened in terror. The grub, suspended upside-down in the Queen's grasp, didn't scream. Instead, it emitted a series of atrocious, high-pitched bubbly sounds – wet gurgles and frantic clicks – as it spun helplessly, its little fat tail wiggling uselessly in the air. Its permanently upside-down frown seemed grotesquely appropriate now, its strange purple eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on the terrifying visage holding it aloft. At the very least, Ichneumon thought with icy disgust, the repulsive thing could muster a respectable hiss. Something worthy of termination. This pathetic gurgling only amplified its uselessness. Its sheer repulsiveness, however, did make the task at talon marginally easier. There was no pang of misplaced kinship, only profound irritation.
She pivoted sharply, her powerful wings snapping open for balance, aiming the squirming bundle towards the gaping maw of the nearest larvae pit recessed into the throne room floor. The pit hummed with the low drone of thousands of voracious grubs churning below. The stench of decay and fermenting grub-paste thickened the air. The Queen's arm drew back, muscles coiling like springs beneath her iridescent black scales. The grub’s tiny claws flailed weakly against her thumb joint, its gurgling escalating into frantic, wet chirps. The midwife, scrambling upright, saw the Queen's intent etched in the merciless set of her jaw, the cold focus in her coal-dark eyes. Panic surged, overriding terror. "Wait!" The word ripped from the midwife's throat, raw and desperate. Instinctively, she threw her foreclaws up in a feeble, protective shield over her own cranial plate, anticipating the Queen's inevitable wrath for the interruption.
"WHAT?" screamed the Queen. The single word detonated in the cavernous room, sharp as shattered obsidian, echoing off the polished basalt walls. The hive's constant thrumming drone seemed to stutter and die under its force.
The midwife flinched violently, her carapace rattling. She kept her claws shielding her head, her voice muffled and trembling. "The others! The royal clutch... only one!" she stammered. "The other eggs... they were sterile! Empty shells! This... this grub... it's the only one left!" Her voice dissolved into a terrified whine. "The last princess!"
Queen Ichneumon froze. The grub in her grasp continued its wet, bubbly chirping, blissfully unaware. Its tiny claws clicked together again, a soft, rhythmic tik-tik-tik that echoed absurdly in the sudden silence. The upside-down frown seemed to soften slightly, the corners of its muzzle twitching upwards in a grotesque parody of a smile. Ichneumon stared at it, her own expression unreadable. The larvae pit hummed hungrily below. Her arm remained taut, poised for the throw. The midwife dared to peek between her claws. The Queen’s coal-black eyes were fixed on the grub’s strange purple irises, narrowed not in fury, but in a cold, calculating assessment. The iridescent gold beneath her scales flickered like trapped lightning. The grub gurgled happily.
“You are certain of this?” The Queen’s voice cut the silence, low, dangerous, devoid of its previous shrieking rage. It was colder than the basalt floor.
The midwife lowered her claws slowly. She nodded vigorously, her compound eyes clenched tightly shut against the anticipated blow.
"For the blood of Clearsight," Queen Ichneumon spat, her voice thick with venomous disgust. She jerked her claw away from her face as if scalded, leaving faint red scratches across her own iridescent cheek. "I won't have another clutch in me for months!" The thought of enduring the bloated lethargy, the hormonal fog, the sheer inconvenience of egg-laying made her scales crawl. She wanted nothing more than to smash the infant abomination into a sticky pulp against the nearest pillar. Its wet gurgling grated on her nerves like claws on slate. Yet her talons remained frozen, locked in place by something deeper than rage, older than reason. There must always be a backup female. The imperative pulsed through her veins, cold and undeniable, etched into her very genetics by millennia of selective breeding. It was the same primal programming that paralyzed her subjects, preventing them from harming a female grub even when ordered to by their Queen. Survival of the Hive superseded even her own fury. The grub blinked its strange purple eyes, its neck. Its upside-down frown deepened momentarily, sensing the shift in tension. A single droplet of saliva stretched from its lower lip, dangling precariously over the larvae pit's hungry maw.
She sighed dejectedly, the sound escaping like steam from a cracked geyser. "Now I suppose I have to name this... this ugly thing," she grumbled aloud, the words thick with reluctant resignation. With surprising gentleness—born entirely of necessity, not affection—she settled the squirming creature down onto the thick scales of her lap. Its tiny claws scrabbled against her armored thigh, finding purchase. Briefly, she pondered naming it something nasty, like 'Lizard' or 'Failure', a permanent mark of her contempt. But practicality intervened. The Hives would look up to it, no matter what she called it. Encouraging dragons to act any more idiotic than they already did was not an option. If this grotesque creature were to survive even a short time—long enough to lay viable eggs of its own—it would need to be not only a proper HiveWing, but a role model. A symbol. Something worthy of reverence.
Temporarily, of course. The thought hissed through her mind like venom. After this creature laid the next royal female egg—just one viable successor—she'd rip its throat out herself. Right in the center of the Grand Atrium. She'd make every dragon watch. Watch the "beloved princess" bleed out onto the polished obsidian floor.
Queen Ichneumon was a good mother, after all. A good mother rarely needs to punish or slaughter her offspring. Dragons who lived in fear were dragons who obeyed orders. Killing a princess sent a very strong message. It taught obedience deeper than any lecture. It showed the cost of failure. It proved the Queen’s word was ironclad. It ensured the next princess would tremble at the mere scent of her mother’s shadow." She traced a claw along the grub’s through the silk bandage beneath his shirt. The grub blinked its purple eyes, its upside-down frown twitching as it watched her face. She forced her expression into something resembling neutrality. No point terrifying the creature before it could even crawl properly. Fear could paralyze, and paralysis bred incompetence. Incompetence wasted her time. She needed this grub functional. For now.
"Princess Mandarina," she hissed. It had a certain hollow ring to it, thought the Queen. While a Hornet might be a beautiful thing, it could be crushed with the lightest touch. It was weak, and helpless. It was a threat to no dragon. She liked that. The name tasted sourly sweet on her tongue, a contradiction as jarring as the grub itself. Mandarina. Sugary, fragile, easily peeled and discarded. Perfect.
Ichneumon waved the midwife away, a dismissive flick of her claws. The short Hivewing didn't hesitate; she scrambled backward, claws scraping frantically on the polished stone, then bolted from the throne room faster than she’d entered, vanishing into the dim corridor without a backward glance.
Alone with the grub, Ichneumon sighed. Mandarina’s tiny claws kneaded weakly at the silk bandage beneath her shirt, her upside-down frown deepening into a parody of concentration. Her purple eyes blinked slowly, unafraid, almost curious. It was unnerving. Weakness shouldn’t look so… content. Disgusting.
Stop that, Ichneumon thought, her own jaw tightening. That vacant expression was an insult. A proper Hivewing princess should radiate potential threat, even as a grub. This slack-jawed idiocy invited contempt. Without conscious thought, her claw flashed out—a quick, sharp smack across Mandarina’s delicate snout. Not hard enough to bruise, barely enough to sting, but shocking. The grub froze. Her perpetual upside-down frown vanished instantly, replaced by genuine shock. Her tiny mouth trembled, then opened wide. A thin, high-pitched wail erupted, sharp and grating, echoing off the basalt walls. Tears welled in her strange purple eyes, spilling over to trace glistening paths through the grime on her grey hide. The Queen watched, a flicker of grim satisfaction warring with profound irritation. Good. Fear was useful. Confusion was acceptable.
"You need a thicker shell, little one, even before you pupate," Ichneumon murmured, her voice a low rasp, devoid of warmth. She traced a talon along Mandarina's trembling jawline, the touch deliberate, assessing the softness beneath. "Chitin may be a hard exterior, but hatred and mistrust are harder than diamond." The bawling infant didn't understand her words, but its crying abated slightly, hiccuping into wet sniffles. Its wide purple eyes stared up, uncomprehending but strangely focused on the Queen's face. Something gentle and soft began to fill its core—not affection, but the instinctive, desperate seeking of comfort from the largest, most powerful presence in its tiny world. Mandarina instinctively nuzzled weakly against the Queen's restraining claw, seeking warmth, seeking safety from the terrifying creature who was its world. The gesture was pathetic. Weak. Utterly predictable.
Ichneumon recoiled internally, the grub's blind trust scraping against her nerves like claws on slate. Yet, she held it closer, her movements stiff, mechanical. Duty warred with disgust. Feed it, the ancient imperative hissed.Keep it alive. Her coal-black eyes scanned the throne room's dim recesses, searching the shadows as if they held answers. Not for tenderness – that concept was as alien as sunlight – but for the cold, bitter residue of obligation. A flicker, perhaps, of the fierce, protective fury she'd felt millennia ago for her own first grubs, before centuries of disappointment calcified her heart. She found only a hollow echo, a ghost of instinct buried deep beneath layers of contempt. It would have to suffice.
Her claw tightened around Mandarina’s trembling form, not cruelly, but with the firmness of possession. The grub’s wet sniffles subsided into hiccups, its strange purple eyes fixed on her face, trusting despite the sting. Ichneumon lowered her massive head, her long, blackish-blue proboscis unfurling with a soft, wet sound. It glistened faintly in the hive's dim light. Mandarina instinctively craned her tiny neck upwards, her upside-down frown softening into an open-mouthed gape. The Queen paused, her own lip curling. The sight of the gaping maw, vulnerable and expectant, intensified her revulsion. "You shall have enough," she whispered, the words grating like stones, "of my royal jelly to keep you from starving to death." Her voice held no warmth, only the stark pronouncement of a transaction. "And not a drop more."
She touched the tip of her proboscis to Mandarina’s open mouth. Instantly, a thick, viscous stream of royal jelly, shimmering faintly gold like liquid amber, flowed forth. It wasn't a flood, but a meticulously measured trickle. Suppressing the instinctive surge of nurturing hormones felt like holding back a tidal wave with a single claw. Every drop demanded conscious control. Too much, and the grub would grow soft, complacent, expecting undeserved bounty. Too little, and it would weaken, becoming useless before it could serve its purpose. Ichneumon focused on the sensation: the slight pull at her internal glands, the sticky warmth coating her proboscis, the faint, cloying sweetness hanging in the air. She monitored Mandarina’s gulps, each swallow a tiny, rhythmic click. Indifference, she commanded herself. This is maintenance. Like polishing armor. Yet, a treacherous flicker of satisfaction sparked deep within her ancient core as the grub’s trembling ceased, replaced by the rhythmic pulse of feeding. She crushed it instantly. Satisfaction was weakness. Duty was tolerable only because it was temporary.
Mandarina drank greedily, her tiny throat working. The royal jelly was warm, thick, and tasted faintly of fermented honey and crushed pollen – the essence of the Hive itself. Her strange purple eyes drifted half-closed, her upside-down frown smoothing into something resembling peace. Her claws, still clutching weakly at the Queen’s restraining talon, relaxed. For a fleeting moment, the grotesque deformity seemed less pronounced, softened by the simple act of sustenance. Ichneumon watched, her coal-black eyes unblinking. The grub’s blind trust was a gaping vulnerability, an open wound inviting infection. It needed hardening. Immediately. The Queen withdrew her proboscis with a sharp, wet retraction the instant Mandarina’s frantic gulps slowed to lazy swallows. The grub whimpered, her mouth searching blindly for the vanished source of warmth and sweetness. Her purple eyes snapped open, wide with startled confusion.
***
"You called for me, Mother," Princess Mandarina announced, her claws clicking softly against the obsidian floor as she entered the throne room. The air hung thick with the scent of fermented honey and tree ash—a signature blend of the Hivewing royal quarters. Mandarina kept her gaze lowered, though her wings trembled slightly beneath their burnt-orange stripes.
Queen Ichneumon turned her head toward the pest she'd summoned and narrowed her eyes. "Yes. Today is a special day, Daughter," she said, relishing the word with unnatural pleasure. "I intend to call audience in the grand pit today, and you are to join me." The Queen walked slowly up to her child, her own iridescent scales catching the torchlight in shifting waves of liquid gold beneath the black. Mandarina didn't flinch, but the faintest ripple traveled down her spine. She recognized the predatory glide in her mother’s step—the same glide that preceded public humiliations or private torments disguised as lessons.
At four years of age, the little princess was scarcely half the size of her adult mother. She frowned and took a few steps back. "I already know what you plan to do," she said, a muted look of anger twisting the corners of her muzzle. "You aren't going to get away with it." Mandarina’s claws dug into the polished obsidian, leaving faint scratches. She remembered the last "audience"—the jeering drones, the staged failure, her mother’s cold amusement as she’d stumbled over her own wings. This time, she wouldn’t play the fool. The scent of fermented honey suddenly tasted sour on her tongue.
Ichneumon unleashed a screeching cackle that sounded like hooves on a chalkboard. "Not get away with it? Oh, that is delightfully rich!" she said, circling the princess as she spoke. "What are you going to do, run away?" The Queen’s voice dropped to a venomous whisper, her coal-black eyes gleaming. "Where would you go, little grub? The Poison Jungle? They’d tear you apart before sunset." Her tail flicked dismissively, scattering droplets of condensation from the damp chamber walls. Mandarina felt the heat of her mother’s breath, stale and metallic, as she leaned closer.
"So what if I do?" asked Mandarina, her voice trembling despite herself.
The Queen sneered, her iridescent scales flashing like oil on water. "You can't get away, you larva! My soldiers may not be able to harm you, but they'll drag you back to the Hive and lock you in the chrysalis cells." Ichneumon's breath hissed between her teeth, carrying the acrid scent of venom glands. "All I have to do is tell them it's for your own good," she continued, her tailtip tapping a staccato rhythm on the obsidian floor. "At least have the courage to face your mother in the pit in front of every dragon. Show some spine for the first time in your useless life, right before I snap it in two."
Mandarina's trembling stopped. The anger melted from her face like wax under flame, replaced by a coy smirk that didn't reach her dark, glittering eyes. "Well then," she murmured, her voice suddenly smooth as silk, "I guess it's lucky for me that there won't be a show at all." Her claws retracted from the gouges they'd made in the floor. The Queen froze mid-stride, her predatory glide interrupted as if she'd hit an invisible wall.
Queen Ichneumon leaned her neck back in shock. This little weakling... she couldn't have. Could she? "What have you done, you wretched BRAT?" she demanded, fuming with every breath. Her coal-black eyes narrowed to slits, scanning Mandarina's face for any flicker of deceit. The stale metallic scent of her own venom glands sharpened in the air. Mandarina simply tilted her head, her burnt-orange stripes catching the torchlight like embers.
"Oh, nothing much... just convinced the guards that your order to bar me from the nursery was a simple mistake," she said, as her smirk grew into a full un-frown. "The moment I heard you'd ordered our midwives to confine me to the central Hive, I knew you'd managed to place a new female egg into the royal hatchery. So, I killed her." Mandarina shrugged, as though royal fratricide were nothing but a mundane chore. "I did exactly what you would have done in my place."
The Queen's eyes widened in disbelief. Up until now, this dismal excuse for a Hivewing princess had managed to survive on luck alone. Although Ichneumon's fecundity had slowly been decreasing over the years, she still laid royal eggs on rare occasions. However, royal female eggs were much larger than male eggs. This made them difficult to form properly, and on her last few attempts the shells had been too weak. Until last moon cycle's clutch, every potential female had failed to hatch. The new infant dragonet-bug who emerged three days ago had been the success the Queen was waiting for. It would have allowed Ichneumon to finally purge from her brood this flimsy, deviant waste of chitin which now stood before her.
Mandarina had killed her sister. Ichneumon felt a strange warmth spreading through her chest—a flicker of recognition. This was not the cowardly larva she knew. This was something sharper, colder. Something worthy of the royal bloodline. The Queen recoiled internally, venom glands pulsing with disgust. Respect? For this traitorous maggot? Unthinkable. Weakness disguised as admiration had no place in her hive.
"You are still a miserable weakling," hissed the Queen, her voice scraping like chitin on stone. "That daughter you destroyed would have been twice the princess you are!" She leaned in, her iridescent scales shimmering with suppressed rage. "To this day you continue to sprinkle your repugnant love on MY subjects when they aren't even starving!" Mandarina flinched at the venom in the word. "You make me sick." Ichneumon shuddered visibly, her tail lashing against the damp obsidian floor. "I'm starting to realize just how much you take after those dreadfully affectionate silkwings and their...feelings." She spat the last word like spoiled honey, her coal-black eyes burning with revulsion.
Mandarina recoiled as if physically struck. Her claws scraped harshly against the floor. "NO! I do no such thing!" she snarled, a loud stomp of her claw echoing sharply in the chamber. The smug expression on her face had been replaced with a much more entertaining grimace—pure, undiluted horror twisting her muzzle. "I am nothing like them!" Her voice cracked, high and desperate. "I killed her! Just like you taught me! Strength is survival!" She stumbled back a step, wings flaring defensively. The accusation of Silkwing softness was worse than any threat of the pit. It struck at the core of the brittle identity she'd forged under her mother's scorn.
Queen Ichneumon watched the panic bloom with cold satisfaction. She advanced slowly, deliberately, her iridescent scales casting shifting golden shadows on the damp walls. "Coddling soldiers may make you popular, dear child," she hissed, each word sharp as a stinger, "but your filthy generosity infects every dragon it touches." She stopped inches from Mandarina's trembling form. "You are completely incapable of sacrifice. A true queen knows her dragons are expendable, and she will act on that knowledge without hesitation." Her coal-black eyes bored into Mandarina's, stripping away pretense. "Were you to succeed me—which, thankfully, you NEVER shall—every Hivewing would be dead within a year."
Mandarina flinched violently. "That's not true at all!" she whined, the forced bravado crumbling into a child's plea. "I am strong... I... I killed her!" Her claws scraped uselessly against the obsidian. "I did exactly what you would have done! I thought baring my fangs would finally make you... p-proud of me..." Her voice cracked, thick with unshed tears. The moisture welling in her dark eyes betrayed the fragile creature beneath the desperate act of fratricide.
Queen Ichneumon stared into those wet, glittering eyes—eyes reflecting torchlight like trapped rainwater.Moisture. The child was still so soft. So pathetic. Murdering a helpless hatchling was a simple, brutal act—instinctive, like crushing a beetle beneath one's claw. But true strength? True queenship? That demanded the ruthless calculus Ichneumon wielded daily: sacrificing loyal soldiers without blinking, enduring the isolation of command, crushing hope wherever it dared sprout. This sniveling larva couldn't even stomach her mother's contempt without weeping. How could she ever command an army? The sheer absurdity of it choked Ichneumon. Loathing, thick and rancid as spoiled honey, surged within her chest. She took deep, angry breaths, the stale air rasping in her throat. This disappointment wasn't just failure; it was an insult to her very lineage.
"Well?" shouted the princess, her voice cracking under the strain, desperation sharpening it into a brittle shard.
Queen Ichneumon's venom glands pulsed visibly beneath her obsidian scales. "NEVER!" she screamed, the sound echoing off the damp chamber walls like shattering glass. Her coal-black eyes burned with pure revulsion. "Pride? Are you actually serious? Even the idea you would desire me to feel something so horrid fills me with disgust!" She lunged forward, her claws scraping furrows into the obsidian floor. "You aren't even worthy of a dragon's respect. You are worthless trash, little Mandarina, and you shall never measure up to me, you... you feeble-minded worm!"
Princess Mandarina gnashed her fangs, the sharp sound echoing in the sudden silence. Tears threatened, hot and humiliating, but she forced them back with a shuddering breath that scraped her throat raw. Her claws dug deeper into the stone, anchoring herself against the torrent of her mother's contempt. Inside, the pain wasn't a soft ache; it was a molten spike driving deeper with every hissed insult, hardening the fragile chitin of her spirit. She felt it forge something brittle and sharp within her hollow chest.
Without another word, Mandarina turned. Her movements weren't the frantic scramble of a terrified grub, nor the proud stalk her mother might have commanded. It was a slow, deliberate pivot, each step measured and heavy on the polished obsidian. Her wings, trembling moments ago, folded tight against her back with unnatural stillness. The burnt-orange stripes seemed duller now, absorbing the torchlight rather than reflecting it. She walked towards the arched doorway, her tail dragging slightly but her head held unnervingly level. The only sound was the soft scrape of claw on stone, rhythmic and controlled.
Queen Ichneumon watched, her own venomous fury momentarily stalled. The expected collapse – the tears, the pleading, the broken run – never came. This wasn't a flight; it was a withdrawal. Mandarina moved with a weary, wounded dignity Ichneumon hadn't anticipated. The Queen’s perpetual frown, etched deep into her muzzle, softened infinitesimally. Not into approval, but into something colder: surprise, perhaps, edged with a flicker of assessment. The pupa wasn't entirely spineless after all. It walked away instead of crawling.
***
The scout’s voice trembled as he landed beside the moss-covered boulder, his wings still quivering from the flight. "They haven’t followed us, my Queen."
Ichneumon’s black, iridescent scales glistened under the filtered hive light, marred by deep gashes along her flank. A young soldier knelt beside her, claws deftly applying thick, amber-colored gel from a clay pot. The substance hissed softly where it met torn flesh and chitin, emitting a faint scent of crushed herbs and burnt honey. Ichneumon didn’t flinch, her coal-dark eyes fixed on the above, where the distant hum of the hive-city echoed through the cavern walls. Her tail twitched involuntarily as the gel seeped into a particularly deep wound near her hip joint.
Princess Mandarina watched from the shadows of a dripping stalactite, her own burnt-orange stripes blending into the gloom. She’d seen her mother wounded before—during border skirmishes, assassination attempts—but never like this. The snapped center-horn, a jagged stump above Ichneumon’s brow, was more than injury. It was vulnerability. Mandarina’s claws dug into the damp earth. She bleeds like the rest of us, the thought hissed through her mind, bitter and strangely thrilling. She remembered the sting of her mother’s dismissal last moon-cycle: *’Affection is for drones, Princess. Not Queens.’*
Ichneumon rose slowly, deliberately. Her muscles coiled like taut wire beneath iridescent scales, each movement precise despite the pain radiating from her abdomen. The soldier tending her froze, pot of gel still hovering. "Leave it," the Queen commanded, her voice a low rasp that echoed off the cavern walls. She tested her weight on her hind legs, tail sweeping the moss in a slow arc. The snapped horn’s absence felt like a phantom limb—a hollow ache where power once thrummed.
Mandarina struck the earth like a falling stalactite. Damp soil sprayed upward as her claws sank deep, the impact shuddering through the mossy clearing. She landed squarely between her mother and the retreating soldier, wings flared wide enough to cast both in shadow. Her burnt-orange stripes seemed to pulse in the hive-light, a venomous warning against her dark scales. "You have failed us, Mother," she hissed, the words sharp as shattered chitin. Her neck arched downward, bringing her snarling muzzle inches from Ichneumon’s face. The scent of crushed herbs and blood hung thick between them.
Ichneumon didn’t recoil. She merely tilted her head, the jagged stump of her horn catching the light. Her coal-dark eyes held Mandarina’s furious gaze, cold and unblinking. Around them, the pit unfolded like a nightmare tapestry. Juveniles, their carapaces still soft, darted between fallen warriors. They pressed thick amber gel onto weeping wounds, hauled limp forms onto makeshift stretchers woven from jungle vines. A low chorus of groans and the wet rasp of labored breathing filled the cavern, punctuated by the frantic clicking of juvenile mandibles. The air tasted of iron, crushed herbs, and despair. The Jungle Kingdom hadn’t just defeated them; it had ripped the Hive’s strength out by the roots and left it bleeding on the cavern floor.
"You dare blame your own failures on your Queen?" Ichneumon rasped, the accusation meant as a roar emerging as a frayed whisper. She drew herself up, every muscle straining beneath her iridescent black scales, trying to project the old, unassailable power. But the effort triggered a violent, wracking cough that doubled her over. Her wings shuddered, scattering droplets of dark ichor onto the moss. For a heartbeat, she was nothing but a broken husk beneath her daughter’s long, accusing shadow. Mandarina felt the moment crystallize – the perfect, fragile instant when any wise adversary would strike. Her claws flexed, the impulse to finish what the Jungle dragons started a venomous heat in her veins.
Mandarina’s snarl deepened, the bitter thrill hardening into cold fury. "It was your fault alone!" she growled, her voice low and venomous. She leaned closer, her muzzle inches from her mother's ravaged face. "Queen Althea would not have been able to use the leaf-speak against us had you not collapsed at her claws in combat, like an immature grub." The words dripped contempt. "You had but a single enemy upon you, and you could not even defeat her!" Around them, the frantic clicking of juveniles paused. A wounded soldier nearby lifted his head, compound eyes wide with disbelief at the Princess's treasonous audacity. The thick scent of medicinal herbs couldn't mask the sharp tang of Mandarina's rage.
Ichneumon’s coal-dark eyes flashed, not with anger, but with a sudden, raw desperation Mandarina had never witnessed. Her mother’s body trembled, not from pain, but from a deeper, consuming dread. She gasped, the sound wet and ragged, struggling to draw breath past the ruin in her chest. "You... you don't understand," she choked out, the words barely audible above the moans of the wounded. Her gaze locked onto Mandarina’s, stripped of its usual icy command. "That wretched Althea... she is too powerful for any of us!" The admission tore from her, raw and ragged.
"Oh, please!" Mandarina scoffed, her voice sharp as fractured chitin. She jerked her head back, disgust twisting her features. "Even her magic was tainted by love. How could she possibly be that strong?" The disappointment was practically etched onto her face. Mandarina was barely an adult, but her battle-hardened stare spoke vividly to the depth of her resilience, forged in the cold absence of the affection she craved.
Ichneumon slumped, the forced posture of regal defiance crumbling entirely. A tremor ran through her, visible even beneath her iridescent scales. She stared past Mandarina, her coal-dark eyes wide and haunted, fixed on the dripping cavern ceiling as if seeing the phantom claws of Queen Althea descending again. "It... it must be some kind of witchcraft far beyond our ken,"
Mandarina's claws dug deeper into the damp earth, her own scales humming with barely contained fury. "Witchcraft? Or your own weakness?" she spat, the words dripping venom. She leaned in, her muzzle almost touching the jagged stump of her mother's horn. "We should have infiltrated the Leafwing kingdom first, and used deception to siphon her subjects' trust away—just as I had originally proposed." Her voice dropped to a lethal whisper, colder than the cavern air. "I should end you, right here, right now." As she spoke, she tilted her head in a way where her center-horn pointed at her mother threateningly.
Queen Ichneumon didn't flinch. Instead, a flicker of weary understanding passed through her coal-dark eyes. She saw the tremor in Mandarina's extended claw, the slight hesitation before the venom pooled. The Princess was coiled, magnificent in her rage, yet utterly stalled. She cannot do it, Ichneumon realized with startling clarity. Not out of fear for the repercussions – Mandarina clearly believed herself ready to claim the throne. No, the blockage was deeper, older. It was the ghost of the hatchling who had once brought her clumsily caught beetles, seeking praise. A fatal sliver of compassion, buried deep beneath layers of bitterness, still anchored Mandarina’s heart. Ichneumon almost pitied her. Compassion was a luxury queens couldn't afford; it was a chink in the carapace wider than any wound Althea had inflicted.
The silence stretched, thick with the scent of ichor, crushed herbs, and Mandarina’s unnatural, chilling aura. Every eye in the cavern pit was fixed on them, the groans of the wounded forgotten. The Queen’s gaze dropped from her daughter’s glowing eyes to the damp moss beneath her own claws. Then, without warning, Ichneumon exploded upwards. It wasn't a graceful lunge, but a desperate, pained surge fueled by pure survival instinct. Her uninjured rear leg lashed out, not aiming to kill, but to stun – a heavy, chitinous claw cracking hard against Mandarina's jawbone. The sickly purple glow flickered violently as the Princess reeled backward, stunned more by the sheer audacity than the blow itself.
Mandarina recovered in a heartbeat, a feral roar tearing from her throat. Her wings snapped open, blasting dust and droplets of condensation across the clearing. She surged forward, a blur of dark scales and venomous orange stripes. Her claws slammed down, not on Ichneumon’s throat, but on her forelegs, pinning them cruelly against the yielding moss. Ichneumon thrashed, her wounded flank screaming in protest, but Mandarina was younger, stronger, fueled by rage. Another lunge, another crushing impact, and the Queen’s hind legs were pinned too, splayed out grotesquely. Ichneumon lay trapped, belly exposed, her broken horn pointing uselessly at the cavern ceiling, utterly vulnerable. Like a rare, dangerous beetle pinned beneath glass.
Mandarina leaned low, her muzzle inches from her mother’s ravaged face. Her breath came in hot, ragged gasps that smelled of crushed herbs and ozone. Shifting shadows across Ichneumon’s terrified eyes. "In case it isn't obvious," Mandarina hissed, her voice trembling with barely contained fury, "I'm taking over, Mother. Today, there is a new Queen." She paused, letting the declaration hang heavy in the thick air. "You are no longer of any use to me, and you are a burden to the Hive." Mandarina’s claws dug deeper into the yielding moss beneath Ichneumon’s pinned limbs. "Now," she whispered, the word sharp as shattered chitin, "is this really how you want it to end?" The sickly light pulsed brighter, illuminating the stark terror etched onto Ichneumon’s face. "If you beg me for mercy," Mandarina offered, her voice dripping with cruel promise, "I might let you live. That way, you can grow old among us, reminded daily of how stupid and worthless you are."
Queen Ichneumon stopped struggling. The frantic twitching of her tail ceased. The desperate straining against Mandarina’s crushing grip fell away. She lay utterly still beneath her daughter, the ragged rise and fall of her chest the only sign of life. Her coal-dark eyes, wide with terror just moments before, blinked slowly. Then, they lifted. Not in defiance, not in pleading, but with a strange, sudden clarity. She looked directly into Mandarina’s furious, glowing gaze. The fear evaporated, replaced by a chilling stillness. It was the stillness of a predator who knows the chase is over. A profound weariness settled over her, deeper than the pain radiating from her wounds. The frantic calculations, the desperate clinging to power, the constant vigilance – it all dissolved. The burden of hope, the corrosive need to survive this humiliation, simply vanished. She saw not the usurper, not the bitter hatchling, but the dragon she had meticulously forged in the cold fires of ambition and neglect. The perfect, merciless weapon. Ichneumon’s lips parted, not in a snarl, but in something resembling… satisfaction.
Mandarina felt the shift. The unnatural chill radiating from her horn pulsed erratically. The raw terror she’d expected, the desperate begging she’d anticipated to fuel her triumph – it wasn’t there. Instead, her mother’s stillness felt like a void, swallowing her fury whole. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Mandarina leaned closer, her hot breath stirring the damp air near Ichneumon’s muzzle. "Well?" she hissed, the venomous promise laced with a flicker of uncertainty. "Beg!"
However, the temptation to yield was weak. Despite all the Queen's best efforts to forge her into unfeeling steel, Ichneumon could still see the spoiled hatchling hiding behind those blazing eyes. The dragonet who’d wept over a crushed beetle, who’d flinched at the first sting of training venom. Still fragile beneath the hardened carapace. Still soft, drunk on the poisonous sympathy she craved and the futile desire for something Ichneumon had never possessed herself. This weakling, fueled by childish spite and borrowed power she didn’t understand, would undoubtedly make a horrible queen. The Hive deserved better than a pitiful path to oblivion led by a creature drowning in its own unresolved hurt. And maybe, just maybe, this defiant little botched abortion deserved something more herself. Something final. Something clean.
Ichneumon steeled her nerves and willed her blood to ice. She carefully suppressed every emotion but the virtuous ones. As she stared up into her daughter's beautiful purple eyes, Queen Ichneumon's gaze suddenly widened sharply, the look on her face brimming with rage, disgust, and contempt. But most of all, the icy stare of the defiant mother radiated pure, unmistakable disappointment. It wasn’t the disappointment of failure, but of wasted potential. "Mercy?" Ichneumon rasped, her voice a dry whisper that cut through the cavern’s oppressive silence. A harsh, grating sound escaped her throat – not a cough, but a laugh devoid of any warmth. "You pathetic grub”
Mandarina flinched, the unnatural purple light flickering violently. "Silence!"
"You are NOTHING!" Ichneumon screamed, her raspy voice shredding the air like broken glass. Every wounded dragon froze, compound eyes wide. "You will NEVER be a true leader!" Spittle flew from her jaws, mingling with dark ichor. "I hate you with every last plate in my shell! You are NOT my daughter—you are a living mistake, you inadequate, worthless, flimsy excuse for a—"
Mandarina’s roar drowned out her mother’s words—a sound of pure, shattered fury. Her claw flashed down, not with the precision of an execution, but with the brutal, blind force of obliteration.
Snap.
***
The new Queen assumed her role, and life within the Hive continued its rhythm.
A year slipped by, then two, and soon three.
Yet, it would take many more years for Queen Mandarina to grasp the profound sense of fulfillment she experienced—
The insatiable hunger of a Hivewing, utterly quenched—in those fleeting, agonizing moments just before she snapped her mothers neck.