The stone walls of the hive echoed with silence—heavy, brittle, and unnatural. The Queen sat slumped on her throne of obsidian, her silver gown pooling like molten metal at her feet. Her crimson eyes, once brimming with command and certainty, now flickered with something darker: disbelief.
They had challenged her.
Her court.
The very creatures she had created, bled for, ruled over for centuries had turned their backs on her. Not with fangs or fire, no—but with whispers, glances, and the slow, festering rot of doubt. Their message had been clear: they no longer trusted her.
She gripped the arms of her throne so tightly that the obsidian cracked beneath her claws. Her fury simmered beneath the surface like magma, but beneath that rage was something worse: fear. If her court believed her incapable, then she would be overthrown. Not through violence, not yet—but through erosion. Her image was crumbling. And she knew why.
Alaric Knight.
