Ensnared: An Alien Romance Trilogy (The Spider’s Mate Book 1)
Ensnared: Chapter 2

The only sign that Ketahn and his companions were making forward progress along Heartsthread Tunnel was in the stone carvings on the walls—depictions of dozens of long-dead warriors and the many queens descended from the city’s founder, Queen Takari, all of which had been worn over the long years. But the weblike writing on some of the carvings was still readable.

They had long since passed Prime Fang Jalar tes Unei’ani Ul’okari, who had slain two score warriors from another city in defense of Queen Vexii and died of her wounds. The carvings of Queen Ashai and Prime Fang Zeera had likewise been left behind, along with those of so many other queens and champions whose names were remembered now only in ancient writings kept in the queen’s records.

Between the depictions of the females were smaller carvings, all of which were so faded that Ketahn had always wondered if the damage had been deliberate. None of those carvings bore writing that could be read, but Ketahn had always noted something interesting—most of the indistinct figures within them seemed to have six legs rather than four. That marked them as males.

But Ketahn could not recall having ever learned of a male who’d been honored like this, who’d been worthy of remembrance in the same space as champions and queens.

The tunnel was wide and tall, with stone supports standing at regular intervals along its length. Large crystals glowed from their places in hewn alcoves, bathing the crowded vrix in soft blue light, and the swaths of dyed silk hanging between the supports swayed in the gentle flow of air from the Den of Spirits ahead.

Hundreds of vrix were packed in the tunnel as tightly as the threads of the most intricately woven cloth. The males’ eyes and markings glowed in the light of the crystals, creating splashes of blue, green, red, and the far rarer purple everywhere.

The females, though outnumbered two to one, stood head and shoulders above the males, each of them nearly a segment taller than their counterparts. Though their hides lacked any colorful markings, most wore eye catching adornments—gold bands and rings, polished gems, decorated belts, beads, and pieces of brightly dyed silk.

The buzz of conversation was strong enough for Ketahn to feel it through the stone floor. All those voices came together to form an indecipherable sound, as primal as the ceaseless calls of tiny, unseen creatures in the Tangle. The only lulls in the conversations immediately around Ketahn came whenever he neared one of the many Queen’s Fangs who were positioned along the walls.

Each of the Fangs stood tall and imposing, her right hands clamped on the shaft of a war spear with a broad blackrock head. Those spears were longer than Ketahn was tall. Each of the females wore a fanged club on her hip, as well, weapons that had the pointed teeth of various beasts and shards of blackrock embedded in their hardened wood.

None of the Fangs needed either weapon to kill, especially in so crowded a space.

Most of the other vrix, males particularly, seemed to avoid looking upon the Fangs directly. The elite warriors were only one part of the queen’s vast web Urkot had mentioned—they just happened to be the most visible part.

Ketahn looked each Fang in her eyes. These warriors did not frighten him, though he knew any one of them could’ve brought about his end. Most of them knew him. Some he’d even fought beside in the war against Kaldarak. But he did not find the one Fang he sought—not yet.

A thousand years passed between each step forward, but the pace did not diminish Ketahn’s resolve. His determination only grew with each segment closer he came to the Den of Spirits. The same clarity that suffused him during hunts settled upon him, sharpening his focus.

His place was in the Tangle, stalking dangerous beasts, exploring the dark, dank places never touched by sunlight, fighting through the jumbled plants and the hot, sticky air. Today, he would make that clear. He would make the queen understand without room for doubt.

Neither Rekosh nor Urkot spoke; they understood as well as anyone could and knew Ketahn would not be deterred.

Ketahn’s eyes turned ahead more and more once they passed the carving of Queen Lyris, who had been only three generations removed from Queen Takari. He couldn’t see far due to the females in the crowd, but there was a hint of more intense light ahead.

He was drawing close.

The end of Heartsthread Tunnel finally came into view. Gaps cut out of the wall allowed the light from the Den of Spirits to stream through and cast the huge carving of Queen Takari above the entryway in bold relief.

Urkot tapped a knee joint against one of Ketahn’s rear legs, the gesture quick and firm and its message plain—he was with Ketahn. A moment later, Rekosh tapped Ketahn’s hindquarters in a similar manner.

Three Queen’s Fangs stood at the entryway, stopping the vrix seeking entrance. Their hulking forms were shadowed by the light from the cavern behind them, though their gold and gems gleamed as they moved.

One of the Fangs shoved a male back against the wall with one hand and dropped another to his waist, ignoring the pained chirrup he released. She plucked something off his belt. The object was too small for Ketahn to identify immediately—not until its sharpened edge caught the light.

It was a blackrock knife, the sort weavers like Rekosh often used in their work. The blade wasn’t even long enough to span across the female’s hand; the fangs of her mandibles were likely just as large as that blackrock shard, if not larger.

Ketahn moved forward instinctively, unsure of what he intended to do but certain that he could not merely watch. He had to act. Fang or not, no vrix in Takarahl had cause to treat the others as enemies.

He was halted by a strong hand on his arm and a spindly leg stretching in front of him. Ketahn didn’t know whether to be grateful for or frustrated by Urkot and Rekosh’s intervention.

“Weapons are not permitted in the Den of Spirits,” the Fang declared in a voice at once hissing and booming.

The male forced his mandibles down, bowed his head, and brought his forearms together slowly in a sign of supplication—at least as much as the crushing hand pressed against his chest allowed him to.

For a few moments, the crowd around the entrance was silent, and the buzzing voices from ahead and behind Ketahn seemed muted and distant. The air was thicker, heavier, and crackled with the same sort of energy one could sense in the Tangle just before a lightning storm.

An unspoken question hung in the air between all those silent vrix—why were the Queen’s Fangs permitted to carry weapons in that sacred cavern if no one else was?

A second Fang joined the first, extending her foreleg to brush it along the side of her companion’s. “It is a tool, Irekah,” the second Fang said in a familiar voice—she was Ahnset. “He is a weaver.”

Irekah released a clicking growl and shoved away from the male, who sagged and seemed about to fall until Ahnset caught him by the arm.

“Weaver or not, he is a fool,” Irekah snarled, “and our queen has no time for fools.” She slapped the flat of the blackrock knife onto Ahnset’s open palm and stalked away to take the central position in the entryway.

Ahnset helped the male regain his balance. “What are you called, and where do you dwell?”

The male’s response was too low for Ketahn to make out.

“I cannot allow you to enter the Den of Spirits with this knife, Gahren,” she said, tucking the tool behind her broad belt, “but by the Eight, I shall see it returned to you when this day is through.”

Gahren offered another bow with forearms together.

“Would that the queen had more such as your broodsister in her ranks,” Rekosh whispered.

“A hundred such as Ahnset is far more than any of us deserve,” Ketahn replied, “and would still not be enough to change anything.”

Ketahn watched as Ahnset said something more to the male and sent him on into the Den of Spirits. She was attired the same as her sister Fangs—gold bands around her upper arms, leather strips adorned with red beads on her wrists, a yatin hide gorget with large, thin bands of gold running from the base of her neck up to her jaw. Strips of red silk hung from her belt, which was decorated with pressed gold and more beads in weblike patterns. Her braided black hair was pulled back to hang in a bundle at her back, adorned with more beads and golden rings.

And, of course, she carried a spear and a fanged club. However gentle Ahnset could be, she was a warrior to her core, exceptionally skilled even amongst the queen’s elite. She’d proven herself more than most in the battles against Kaldarak.

Ketahn angled his path toward Ahnset and, soon enough, was standing before her.

Her eyes flashed purple with reflected light from the nearby crystals, and her gold adornments glinted. “My broodbrother.”

She slid her forelegs toward Ketahn and sank into a bow that nearly put her face level with his.

Ketahn hooked his forelegs around hers and leaned forward. They both opened their mandibles wide as he tipped his headcrest against Ahnset’s.

“Broodsister.”

Her mandibles, half again as large as Ketahn’s, closed lightly over his. He had seen females—Ahnset included—use their mandibles in battle. There was no question of the strength she could exert if she chose to do so. But she was one of a few vrix he trusted wholeheartedly.

Those thoughts faded as her scent washed over him, drawn in both through the air and the brush of the hairs on his legs against hers. For a short while, he forgot Zurvashi and Offering Day, forgot the cold, unyielding stone around him, forgot what he intended to do and the expected consequences of it.

Ahnset straightened, angling her head to look down at Ketahn. “You should have sent word when you arrived in Takarahl, broodbrother. It has been long since last I laid eyes upon you.”

Withdrawing his forelegs, Ketahn bent them and knelt on their lower joints to bow, drawing his forearms together. “I am sorry, Ahnset. The Tangle binds me tighter each time I venture into it.”

She tapped the butt of her spear on the floor. “May the Eight keep their many eyes upon you, Ketahn, and ensure the day does not come when the Tangle refuses to release you.”

As he rose, Ahnset shifted her gaze to look past him. “Rekosh, Urkot. I am glad to see you, also.”

“Ahnset,” the two males said in unison.

Her mandibles and eyes relaxed. Ketahn could almost pretend that all was as it had been while they were broodlings, before their lives had been complicated by the demands of Takarahl and its queen.

“Though I am sorry to deny you the pleasure of throwing me against the wall, Ahnset, I must tell you I left my knife in my den,” Rekosh said, leaning forward—which made the red markings on his back glow a little stronger.

Ahnset chittered softly. “As always, Rekosh, I am sure I will find reason to do so as long as you keep talking.”

Rekosh’s mandibles twitched, and his forelegs drummed the floor. “Ah, to be so known by another is a thrill.”

Another chitter escaped Ahnset. Then she adjusted the grip of her right hands along the shaft of her spear, raised her chin, and squared her shoulders. Her lower left hand fell, its thumb hooking on her belt just above the club.

No matter how many times Ketahn had seen it happen, Ahnset’s transition from caring broodsister and friend to Queen’s Fang always amazed him.

“You are welcomed on behalf of Queen Zurvashi tes Kalaa’ani Ul’okari, Queen of Takarahl and Guardian of the Ancestral Crystals,” she intoned. “Our queen bids you to make offering to the Eight that our city may remain prosperous.”

Urkot eased closer and sank into a reverent pose, arms intersected in the gesture of the Eight which, for him, would always be incomplete. Rekosh and Ketahn did the same.

Ahnset flicked her gaze toward Irekah. Dipping her head closer to Ketahn’s, she whispered, “After you have made your offering, hasten out the Deepdelve Tunnel. Do not delay. The queen is in foul temper today.”

As Ketahn and his companions proceeded past Ahnset, his thought was given voice by a low whisper from Rekosh.

“Has she any other temper?”

The fullness of the Den of Spirits’ light struck Ketahn before he could reply. He slitted his eyes against the glare, and the cavern gradually came into focus. As much as he’d come to dislike being understone, Ketahn always felt a flare of wonder when he entered this cavern.

The ceiling was so high that it was lost in hazy, bluish darkness, a darkness both broken and enhanced by the sunlight streaming in through the hole at the ceiling’s peak. From the floor, that hole looked too small for even a hatchling to pass through, but Ketahn had peered into it from the surface. It was at least five segments across, big enough to swallow the largest female with room to spare. Looking through that hole in the dark of night to see the blue crystals glowing far below had been an awe-inspiring experience.

Now those many-faceted crystals were catching the sunlight and shattering it, spraying rainbows across the cavern walls and stonework. Crystal formations stood throughout the cavern, some of them larger than Ketahn; they grew from the floor, hung from the ceiling, and jutted from the walls. Shaped stone flowed around those crystals in many places, taking advantage of their light to make clear the writing etched everywhere.

Here were recorded the stories of Takarahl, its queens, and the Eight, available for all vrix to read—though some sections had been blocked off for as long as Ketahn could remember so stoneshapers could repair the wear they’d accrued over the years.

Ketahn had never seen any stoneshapers working in those areas, and Urkot had never met another shaper who claimed to have done so. There was only one ongoing piece of stonework in the Den of Spirits—a new statue that had been taking shape over the last few years.

There were not merely carvings here—there were statues and sculptures, the most prominent of which depicted Queen Takari in ten-segment-tall stone. She was surrounded by eight pillars that towered over her, each of which bore eight gemstone eyes.

The eyes of the Eight, looking down upon Takari to fulfill her oath.

Zurvashi’s statue would be twice as tall when it was finished.

The old stories said Queen Takari had discovered the Den of Spirits as she’d been leading her exiled people in search of a sanctuary. She’d fallen through the brambles that had grown over the hole overhead, and by the grace of the Eight, had landed unharmed. It had been their will that guided her to this place, their will that had safeguarded her.

Once Zurvashi’s statue was complete, anything that fell through the hole was likely to be caught not by the gods, but her gigantic stone hands.

Those stories claimed Queen Takari had sensed the spirits of her ancestors here. She had sworn to protect the Den of Spirits from that day onward, had sworn her entire bloodline to uphold that sacred duty. She’d become the first Guardian of the Ancestral Crystals.

But Ketahn had never sensed any spirits in this cavern. Perhaps it was because the last of Queen Takari’s bloodline, descended over countless generations, had been slain by Zurvashi in this very cavern sixteen years ago.

Queen Zurvashi stood upon the uppermost portion of a broad stone dais at the center of the cavern, backed by towering columns, carved archways, dangling banners, two of her Fangs, and a single Queen’s Claw—one of the males who served as her personal hunters and scouts.

Ringlets adorned the small braids into which Zurvashi’s hair had been arranged, and her belt made Ahnset’s look plain. She wore enough gold that she seemed to emit her own light. All that metal—along with her many beads and gems—was polished to shining. Where she was not clad in metal, her body was swathed in sheer, purple silk, some of which was so long that it hung over her hindquarters and brushed the floor.

She did not move save the occasional twitch of her mandibles or forelegs, observing the vrix making their offerings to the nearby spiritspeakers with unsettling indifference. When it came to the queen, boredom was dangerous.

Ketahn sank into a lower stance, putting himself on level with most of the nearby males, and continued following the procession. Vrix were streaming toward the central platform from four different tunnels, guided by Fangs positioned at regular intervals.

Silk-shrouded spiritspeakers moved along the dais, their flowing white coverings lending a sense of softness and grace to their large bodies. They collected offerings from the approaching vrix and gave blessings in return. Only Archspeaker Valkai, who alone wore intricate gold bands around her arms and neck, was not taking offerings. She stood just below and to the side of the queen with her arms bent and forearms crossed in the sign of the Eight.

To Ketahn, she seemed to be avoiding looking at anything directly, especially the males with yellow sashes and flattened strips of bark who were alongside her spiritspeakers—the queen’s scribes, who were noting the name and offering of every vrix in attendance.

Ketahn glanced at the unfinished statue nearby, which already loomed larger than anything in the cavern even though it lacked two arms and a head. He found himself suddenly torn between his anger and his urge to leave, to return to the jungle, to delve deeper into the Tangle than ever without leaving so much as a frayed thread for the Queen’s Claw to follow.

Another meaningful tap came from Urkot, followed by one from Rekosh. Only eight vrix remained between Ketahn and the dais; perhaps he might have taken that number as a sign rather than an inevitability were his attention not otherwise occupied.

The queen stirred.

Zurvashi’s amber eyes glinted as boldly as her metal adornments as she swung her gaze to Ketahn. He had faced down bloodthirsty beasts that hadn’t looked half as predatory as the queen. Her mandibles opened wide and rose, and her mouth parted enough for her tongue to slip out and trace one of the pointed tips on her upper jaw.

She turned her head and spoke to the nearest of her Fangs—Prime Fang Korahla, the head of her elite warriors.

Prime Claw Durax watched the exchange from behind the females with his pale blue eyes narrowed. When the queen had finished, Durax turned his head to glare at Ketahn. One of his hands dropped to clasp the haft of the blackrock axe slung on his belt.

Korahla strode forward, halted at the edge of the dais, and banged the butt of her spear on the stone, making a hollow clacking that echoed through the cavern. “Ketahn tes Ishuun’ani Ir’okari, approach the dais so our queen may honor you by accepting your offering.”

Ketahn was aware of the hush that had fallen over the Den of Spirits; the cavern was so quiet he could hear the air flowing in through the hole overhead as clearly as he could feel it across his fine hairs and hide. Some might have called it bravery, others foolishness, but he felt no fear—and he did not hesitate to move forward.

The queen’s heavy, hungry gaze did not intimidate him. It only filled him with fresh determination.

“Finally learning your place, Ketahn?” Zurvashi asked, her voice low and buzzing.

“My queen demanded my presence.” Ketahn stopped at the base of the dais, tilting his head back even more than usual to hold her gaze.

“Ketahn, sweet one, I have yet to make a demand of you.” Her mandibles snapped toward each other, their tips touching before she spread them again. “When I finally do, you will not look quite so smug.”

“As you say, my queen,” he grated, barely stopping himself from bristling at the truth of her words.

“I shall never understand why you choose the hardships of the Tangle over the luxuries of Takarahl.” Zurvashi lifted her upper arms, turning her hands so her palms faced away from Ketahn. The gold and gems on her wrists and the backs of her hands flashed with blinding reflected light. “My request remains, Ketahn. Become my chief hunter. Lead the Queen’s Claw. Such would be a much more sensible use of your skills.”

Durax stepped forward with a growl, mandibles wide and hand rising as though he were about to tear his axe free. “My queen, you cannot choose this jungle worm to—”

Zurvashi flicked a hand toward Durax, not even glancing in his direction. The Prime Claw’s mouth snapped shut, and he released his weapon. He dropped his gaze as he retreated a step.

Ketahn released a slow breath. The air he drew in afterward was laden with jungle smells from above, but they were overpowered by Zurvashi’s heady scent, a particular feminine fragrance that struck him on an instinctual level well beneath his waking mind.

Her scent had never overcome him before; it would not do so today.

“With respect, my queen”—he took the leaf-wrapped bundle in his lower hands, lifting it toward her—“I seek only to give thanks to the Eight. For allowing me to live during the reign of the greatest queen Takarahl has ever known.”

Her mandibles clacked together, their fangs striking with enough force to have crushed Ketahn’s skull. She rose higher, and her shadow, cast by the beam of sunlight slanting in from overhead, stretched long over the dais’ stone.

“You are not half so clever as to veil your insults in mock praise and have it elude my notice, Ketahn,” she rumbled.

Faint tremors crept through the stone floor as she strode toward him.

She descended to the level just above Ketahn, looming over him like a storm cloud over an already flooded jungle. “Present your offering, that I may best decide your fate.”

Her scent was even stronger now, and the pieces of silk hanging from her belt had fallen aside to reveal the long seam of her slit, now just above his eye level.

Clamping his jaw shut, he forced his mandibles down, shifted his rear pairs of legs back, and bowed. He unraveled the bundle with his upper hands.

“I offer the same gift I made seven years ago, my queen.”

The leaves fell away to reveal the mender roots, which were still oozing their purple juices.

“Fresh enough for my queen’s dye masters,” Ketahn said, keeping his gaze locked with Zurvashi’s.

She narrowed her eyes, and her hide stretched as her muscles tensed. One of her legs slid forward, but Ketahn did not back away even a finger’s span. A low hiss sounded from the queen’s throat. The Fangs flanking her moved forward, leveling their spears. At a gesture from Zurvashi, they halted two segments before reaching the edge of the dais.

“Forgive me, my queen,” Ketahn said, “but I had forgotten. Your favorite shade requires something more.”

Ketahn brought his upper arms together and stabbed a claw into his left palm. It sank deep. The pain was far off and yet oddly thrilling; it was not lost upon him that it might have been one of the last sensations of his life.

Blood welled around his claw. He turned his hand and let the blood drip onto the mender roots. The dark red droplets mixed with the purple juices, creating blotches of darker color.

The queen’s mandibles pressed together. The scrape of their fangs against one another was the only sound in the whole cavern.

“Such things cannot go unpunished, Ketahn,” she said, her voice a low growl that vibrated across his fine hairs. She bent forward and reached out with a hand, snatching the roots away from him.

His hearts quickened, and tension rippled through his body. Fear sizzled up from his gut, hot and unsettling, but it had never stopped him before.

Zurvashi squeezed the roots in her fist. Purple juice ran over her hide and spattered the floor between Ketahn’s forelegs, joined by a few fresh drops of his blood.

She leaned closer still, bracing her thick, powerful legs to either side of Ketahn. Her heat pulsed into him, and her scent wrapped around him like a cocoon, laced even more heavily with her desire.

Ketahn’s stem stirred behind his slit. He clenched his jaw against the sensation, refusing to give her such a reaction.

“You provoke my ire, Ketahn.” Her lower arms encircled him, and her large claws grazed his back lightly enough that he nearly shuddered.

He kept his mandibles low. If she meant to end him now, there would be no stopping her—but he was quick enough, at least, to inflict some damage before he was through.

“Clever as you think yourself, do you not realize what you are accomplishing?” she asked.

Ketahn’s claspers drew tighter against his pelvis, pinching his slit closed more firmly as the seam bulged with the insistent press of his stem. He held her gaze without wavering.

“You do not,” she continued with a chitter. One of her hands rose suddenly, and she grasped his bound hair in her fist, yanking on it to force his head back. “Your every act of defiance, Ketahn, serves as proof that you are to be my mate. You alone are worthy of that honor.”

Ketahn was aware of eyes upon him—dozens, hundreds, the eyes of every vrix in Takarahl, perhaps even the eyes of the Eight. But he could see only Zurvashi’s.

“But you are not worthy, Zurvashi,” he said.

Her hold on his hair strengthened, producing sharp pain on his head, and her claws pressed hard enough against his back to threaten piercing his hide.

Had he come here to seek his death? Did he possess an eagerness, tucked somewhere in the hidden recesses of his mind, where his darkest secrets were shrouded in webs even he could not penetrate, to meet his end?

“Shall I make my demand, then?” she whispered, stroking the sides of her mandibles up and down his neck. “Shall I test you once and for all, sweet little Ketahn, and prove the choice has always been—and will forever remain—mine?”

“Even you, my queen, cannot have everything you want,” he replied.

“For all your prowess and skill, Ketahn, you lack understanding.” Her mandible fangs scraped his neck, producing a dry rasp. “I am the only one who gets what I desire—always.”

Ketahn’s forelegs curled, their claws raking the floor. He strained to expand his awareness, to place part of his focus on his surroundings and the many onlookers, or on the crystals, the stonework, on anything, but Zurvashi commanded his full attention.

“May the Eight bless you, my queen,” he said thickly, “and ensure you receive all you deserve.”

His hearts pumped wildly as Zurvashi stared into his eyes. Her fangs paused just beneath his jaw, their deadly tips resting against the soft, vulnerable hide there. Finally, she shoved him away. Ketahn remained upright only by spreading all six of his legs to assume a wider stance.

“Enjoy the Tangle, Ketahn,” she said, turning away and displaying the backs of her hands dismissively. “Your time there will soon be at its end. And remember the threads that bind you to this city. I will not hesitate to sever them one by one should you give me cause.”

A strong, rough hand clamped around Ketahn’s upper arm. “Move, you damned fool,” rumbled Urkot.

Ketahn tugged his arm free, and stared at the queen until she had taken her place at the peak of the dais. When her attention flicked toward him, he crossed his forearms over each other and dipped his head.

She responded by lifting her gaze to look past him.

“You have done enough,” Rekosh whispered, tapping Ketahn’s rear leg. “Much as I admire the way you made your statement, it is best not to linger.”

Ketahn felt little as he and his friends strode toward Deepdelve Tunnel. His hearts did not ease, even as the soft sound of conversation resumed, and his muscles were stiff and restless. But nothing else remained—not pride or satisfaction, not fear or relief, not foreboding or hope.

“Zurvashi tes Kalaa’ani Ul’okari,” a female called, her voice booming through the chamber, “I challenge you under the eightfold eyes of the gods. Your reign shall end this day, and Sathai tes Sorak’ani Tok’okari will become the new queen of Takarahl.”

Uncertain clicks and trills swept through the crowd like wind through the jungle boughs.

Halting, Ketahn spun to face the dais; Rekosh and Urkot did the same.

The two Fangs who’d been flanking Zurvashi had moved forward to level their spears at the challenger, a female with a scarred hide and only a few scraps of adornment. Durax stood between the Fangs and the queen, axe in hand, as though he were not entirely outclassed by the females surrounding him.

Sathai’s mandibles were raised, and she had her arms to the sides, making her appear even larger. She was looking directly at Zurvashi, past the blackrock spearheads that were within a handspan of her face.

“An eventful Offering Day,” Rekosh said. “Perhaps your display was inspiring, Ketahn.”

Ketahn’s mandibles twitched. He folded his arms across his chest as his fine hairs rose again; he could still smell Zurvashi, making him long more than ever for the thick jungle air. “I hope you are wrong, Rekosh. No more vrix need die meaninglessly.”

“But it would have been fine had you done so?” asked Urkot, folding his upper arms to mimic Ketahn’s stance. His lower arm reached across his torso so he could settle his hand over the scarred hide on his side.

“We need not watch this,” Ketahn replied, trying to ignore the sting of Urkot’s words. “As Rekosh said, it is best we do not linger.”

“This may be the challenge that changes everything,” Rekosh said with too much excitement. “We must bear witness.”

The queen lifted a hand. Even from a distance, Ketahn could see the purple juice staining her hide—and a bit of his dark blood mixed with it.

The Archspeaker moved from her place, her long silk wrappings trailing over the floor. The shifting fabric seemed to change color in the rainbow light of the crystals. “Your challenge is recognized by the eightfold eyes, Sathai tes Sarak’ani Tok’okari,” she called in a high, clear voice that nonetheless reverberated through the cavern. “The Eight bear witness. Our ancestors bear witness. Takarahl bears witness.”

Queen Zurvashi made a harsh, hissing growl and snapped her mandibles together. The Fangs at the edge of the dais withdrew, moving several segments away from the queen. Durax did the same, but only after a long hesitation that earned him a glare from the queen.

Zurvashi stomped on the stone and spread her arms. “Come then, Sathai. Add your name to the ranks of my slain challengers.”

The other female leapt onto the dais smoothly. Her hind legs flexed, and her hide pulled taut. Ketahn recognized the scars she bore—they had been left by spears, knives, and fanged clubs, by claw and fang.

“Let us be off,” Ketahn urged.

“What if the Eight finally take action, Ketahn?” Urkot asked. “What if you compelled them to do so? This…this may be justice.”

The note of hope in Urkot’s low voice nearly broke Ketahn. He could not bring himself to say what he knew to be true—this challenge would be no different than any other.

Sathai reared back, balancing herself on her hind legs to lift her front pair off the ground in a display of size and strength. Her mandibles parted wide, and she answered the queen’s prior growl with one of her own.

The challenger charged. Only as Sathai crashed into her did the queen move, shifting her huge body aside with deceptive speed as she grabbed hold of the challenger.

Zurvashi twisted, redirecting Sathai’s momentum just enough to disrupt her balance. As she tumbled to the floor heavily, Sathai latched onto the queen, dragging Zurvashi down with her.

Two of Sathai’s fists slammed into Zurvashi’s face in quick succession, the dull thumps of impact echoing through the otherwise silent cavern. All eyes were upon that dais, and it seemed the same sense of longing and hopefulness Ketahn had heard in Urkot’s words thrummed in the very air. Takarahl’s fate dangled by a single frayed thread.

But they all knew. They had to know. Since claiming rulership of Takarahl, Zurvashi had faced at least ten such challenges…and before ever she’d seized the title of queen, she’d been Prime Fang to the prior ruler.

Zurvashi herself had led her Fangs into battle against Kaldarak.

The queen pressed the tips of two legs onto the floor and rolled atop her challenger, golden adornments clinking. Wrapping her other legs around Sathai’s middle, Zurvashi hammered her fists into her challenger’s face and torso, using her lower arms to divert Sathai’s attempts at shielding herself. Sathai’s defenses crumbled, and there was a wet crunch as the queen’s next blow landed.

Now Zurvashi had more than one hand bloodied.

Without ceremony, Zurvashi grasped Sathai’s head, wrenched it aside, and brought her mandibles down around the defeated female’s throat.

Ketahn balled his hands into useless fists.

The sound of the queen’s mandibles closing made the wet crunch from a moment before seem mild and unimportant; it was a sound Ketahn had heard far too many times in his life, but he’d never been able to shake how much it unsettled him. Sathai’s body stiffened. Her legs curled in toward her hindquarters, her claws raked across the floor, and then she was still.

Zurvashi grasped the long hair on Sathai’s head with one hand and the challenger’s chin with another. She pulled the head up and twisted it to the side. The muscle, hide, and bone holding Sathai’s head onto her body gave up their fight after two heartbeats. Dark blood pooled atop the dais and spattered across the stone as the queen rose.

The Archspeaker Valkai kept her gaze averted from the scene. Her silk coverings rippled as though she’d shuddered, and she lifted the cloth with her lower hands so it did not touch the spreading blood. “The Eight have made known their will. The sacred rite is concluded. Long reign Zurvashi, Queen of Takarahl and Guardian of the Ancestral Crystals.”

Zurvashi turned her face toward Ketahn, meeting his gaze and holding it for a moment. Then she tossed the severed head aside and returned to her place on the uppermost part of the dais. “Proceed.”

The spiritspeakers hurriedly resumed their collection of offerings as a pair of Fangs marched forward to collect Sathai’s remains.

Durax stared at Ketahn from his place at Zurvashi’s side, mandibles twitching. He still held his axe in hand.

“Shaper, shelter us,” Urkot said, voice laden with sorrow and despair.

“Weaver, shroud us,” Rekosh said, his voice filled with disappointment and frustration.

“The Eight hold no power here,” Ketahn growled, turning toward Deepdelve Tunnel. “Not so long as she rules.”

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