---
By the time Kai came back into the main arteries of the mountain, the taste of Ikea's lips had faded from his tongue, leaving only stone, smoke, and the low, aching hum of a hive after war.
He did not go to his own chambers first.
He went to the wounded.
The triage galleries Luna had claimed were quieter than before, but it was the heavy quiet of exhaustion, not peace. Torches burned lower, the air thick with the mingled scents of blood, alcohol, boiled herbs, and shell glue. Drones lay in neat ranks on carved stone cots, plates strapped, splints bound. A few stared up at the ceiling, too tired for anything else. Others murmured to each other in low voices, antennae brushing in small, careful taps.
