"Fangs," he agreed.
They worked together—she braced, he cut with his field knife at the gum line, twisting. The fang was a curved dagger in its own right, slick with venom and still warm from the fight. They bagged two, then took a spinneret cluster, a plate shard that bore distinctive markings, and a vial of venom that they carefully milked into a stoppered glass.
When it was done, the silence pressed in heavier than the heat.
No skittering, no movement in the web-latticed cavern. Only the low hiss of dying flames and the occasional snap of cooling chitin. The once-living hive was now a tomb.
Inigo stood, giving the queen's corpse one last look before turning to Lyra. Her braid was half-undone, grime streaked across her cheeks, and the string of her bow looked one shot away from snapping. She met his gaze without a word. They didn't need to speak to know what both were thinking—time to go.
