Before Riya could even take her third step down the winding spiraling stairs, Antares turned, leaned down, and effortlessly scooped her up into his arms, cradling her princess-style against his chest.
Riya gasped, her eyes widening in sudden surprise as her hands instinctively caught the collar of his heavy hunting coat of the king to steady herself. A delicate blush crept up her neck and cheeks, coloring her pale skin as she felt the immense warmth radiating from the King's broad frame.
Antares wasn't doing much better. Beneath his thick leather tunic, his heart was hammering against his ribs like a war drum.
A faint, betraying reddish flush dusted his cheekbones, though he tried his absolute best to maintain a stern, unbothered expression. Up on the surface, talking about producing an heir and fulfilling his royal duties sounded like a necessary, tactical decree.
But now, actually carrying a stunning female antwoman down into the dark depths, knowing precisely what the "seeding ritual" and "giving his people an heir" entailed, his composure was hanging by a thread.
"Y-Your Majesty..." Riya stammered softly, her voice carrying a nervous flutter. "I can fly on my own, I don't want to be a burden to you."
"No," Antares cut in quickly, adjusting his grip on her waist as his red kinetic aura flared around his boots. "I fly way faster than you, and time is of the essence. The sooner we reach the palace, the better."
"Sire, with all due respect," Riya argued gently, her antennae twitching as she looked up at his rigid jawline, "I am an an evolved antwoman. My flight speed is more than sufficient to keep pace with you... I think. You do not need to carry me like a fragile package."
"It isn't about whether you're fragile or not, Riya," Antares retorted, lifting off the ground and launching into a rapid downward dive through the vertical transit shaft. "It's about raw speed. I can break the sound barrier in these tunnels without breaking a sweat. If you fly on your own, you'll get tired before we even reach halfway there. End of discussion."
"I have mana running through my veins, Your Majesty, fatigue is hardly an issue for me," she countered, a stubborn note entering her melodic voice. "And carrying me like this... it is hardly practical for maneuvering if we encounter an obstacle."
"If we encounter an obstacle in our own secured tunnels, I will turn it into dust with one hand," Antares shot back, though his ears were burning hotter by the second. "Just hold on and stop debating your King."
Riya pouted slightly, but the gentle rise and fall of her chest settled against him as she finally let out a quiet sigh, resting her head against his shoulder. "As you command... Your Majesty."
Trailing thirty paces behind them in flawless, silence was Adam. The firstborn Red Son flew effortlessly through the narrow shaft, his crimson visor catching the red glow of Antares's aura. He listened to the back-and-forth bickering though his stoic face and helmet remaining perfectly still.
Behind that visor, however, a rare, quiet thought passed through the elite warrior's mind.
They would make a fine couple, Adam thought to himself, his core humming with silent approval as he maintained his guard position, deliberately staying far enough back to give his king some privacy.
____________________
Meanwhile up on the frozen surface, the atmosphere in the Northern Surface Camp was one of roaring with activity. Night was fast approaching, and the arrival of Lord Yajin's grand procession had turned the settlement into an absolute hive of productivity.
At the Eastern Gate, a large wooden scaffold had been erected. The colossal carcass of the Woolly Mammoth Antares had killed lay at the center of a massive butcher detail.
Dozens of foragers and laborers worked like a synchronized machine under the flickering light of torches.
Nothing was being wasted. Giant iron cauldrons boiled with gallons of water as the mammoth's thick, shaggy fur and heavy hide were peeled back, carefully scraped of fat, and salted to be processed into heavy winter blankets and armor padding.
Long strips of red bloody meat were systematically carved from the flanks, washed, and hung on cedar drying racks over smoking hardwood fires. Internal organs were set aside for rich stews, and even the blood was being drained into sealed wooden barrels to be used as binding agents and nutrient supplements for the livestock.
Standing near the edge of the butchering platform, watching the process with a keen, analytical eye, was General Yanrid.
The Ice General was not wearing his intimidating, frost-forged Master-Rank armor. Instead, he was dressed in a simple, practical outfit—a thick, slate-grey wool tunic, heavy trousers, and scuffed leather boots. Without his crystalline plate armor, he looked younger, though the fierce, unwavering authority in his posture remained absolute. He held a wooden ledger in one hand, marking off the weight of meat harvested from the beast.
From behind him, heavy, rhythmic footsteps crunched through the snow.
Lord Yajin approached, his massive frame towering over the surrounding soldiers. The Ashfang warlord cleared his throat loudly—a sound like grinding boulders—and puffed out his broad chest as he stepped beside the younger general.
"A fine beast," Yajin rumbled, his voice dripping with an exaggerated, casual booming tone as he looked down at Yanrid. "Reminds me of the mountain mammoths we used to hunt along the jagged ridges during my rookie days. The meat is tough, but if you marinate it in fermented midnight flower juice for two nights, it melts right off the bone."
Yanrid didn't turn his head. He calmly flipped a page in his ledger, made a small mark with his charcoal quill, and spoke directly to the head butcher. "Ensure the tallow from the fat reserves is separated for the new charcoal lamps. We need the lighting standardized along the southern palisades."
"Understood, General!" the butcher called out.
Yajin blinked, his ivory tusks twitching slightly. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat again—louder this time—and took another step closer to Yanrid, leaning down slightly.
"You know, kid," Yajin tried again, his tone awkwardly attempting to sound warm and fatherly, "back when I was leading the frontline during the goblin war, a master warrior didn't spend his evenings holding a piece of paper. A real commander would be down there holding the butcher's knife himself, showing the men how to carve the choice cuts! It builds camaraderie!"
Yanrid slowly turned his head. His icy blue eyes met Yajin's amber gaze. The silence between them stretched for three painfully long seconds.
Without uttering a single word, Yanrid turned his head completely away, looked past Yajin as if the nine-foot warlord were made of thin air, and addressed a passing sentry.
"You there, double the guard at the timber stacks. We cannot afford damp wood."
"Sir, yes Sir!" the sentry saluted and hurried off. Yanrid then turned on his heel and walked straight past Yajin toward the eastern watchtower, entirely ignoring his existence.
Yajin stood frozen in the snow, his mouth slightly open, his hand hovering awkwardly in mid-air as if he had been about to pat Yanrid on the shoulder. A dark crimson blush of pure embarrassment rushed up the warlord's thick neck. He let out a low, defeated grunt, lowering his hand and looking at the dirt as if he had just been defeated in battle without a single sword being drawn.
As Yajin slunk away from the gate with his shoulders slumped, he didn't even make it ten paces before a dry, wheezing laugh echoed from the shadows of a nearby supply shed.
Lord Velas was leaning heavily against his wooden staff, a new fresh mug of steaming broth in his hand, his wrinkled face twisted in a look of absolute, hysterical amusement. The old mage lord was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking beneath his three layers of heavy winter furs.
Yajin stopped in his tracks, his amber eyes flashing with theatrical rage as he glared at the magic-user.
"You bastard, what are you doing here?!" Yajin growled, baring his tusks.
"Well," Velas wheezed, taking a shaky breath as he wiped a tear of laughter from his eye, "I was standing right here, minding my own business, watching your miserable and pathetic attempt at being a father!"
Velas let out another loud, cackling laugh that drew amused glances from several nearby Ashfang soldiers, who quickly looked away when Yajin glared at them.
"Shut your mouth, old fossil!" Yajin snarled, crossing his massive arms over his chest to hide his embarrassment.
"I was merely offering advice regarding beast processing! The boy is hyper-focused on his duties, that is all and must I remind you that we are almost the same age?"
"Advice? From you?" Yajin asked.
Velas teased ruthlessly, taking a slow, mocking sip of his broth. "Yajin, my friend, you looked like a lost puppy trying to ask a snow bear for a hug! The boy gave you the cold shoulder! Literally! His ice flared so hard when you stepped near him I thought my broth was going to freeze!"
"He carries my blood!" Yajin snapped, though his scowl lacked any real bite. "He is an Ashfang warrior! We do not exchange flowery words like softies like you!"
"Oh, of course not," Velas chuckled, shaking his hooded head. "You just awkwardly clear your throat and talk about marinades while he pretends you are not there. Truly, a touching reunion between father and son. History books will write songs about this day!"
"I am going to throw you over the palisade wall, Velas. I swear on the ancestors, I will," Yajin muttered, though a defeated, heavy sigh escaped his lips as he looked back toward the eastern watchtower where Yanrid was busy inspecting crossbow bolts.
"Give him time, you old brute," Velas said softly, his teasing tone softening into rare, genuine comfort as he tapped his staff against the snow.
"You abandoned the boy to the cold for years while you fought on the front lines and stayed in that hot castle of yours. You left him to fend off for himself since he was a baby as a result he built his pride as a soldier, not a son. He reached Master Rank to prove he didn't need your approval. If you want him to look at you as a father, you'll have to earn it with more than just mammoth meat recipes."
Yajin stared at the snow for a long moment before letting out a gruff, low grunt. "Bah. What do mages even know about family anyway?"
Despite his grumbling words, Yajin didn't yell further. He simply turned and walked toward the central square, where the camp was buzzing with life.
All around them, the Northern Surface Camp was thriving in the crisp evening air. Sand Steeds were being unharnessed and led into warm, freshly strawed stables built by the Tharvok miners.
The Massive supply wagons were being systematically unloaded, their heavy sacks of southern grain and crates of root crops stacked neatly inside reinforced, dry timber sheds. The air was rich with the mingled scents of roasting boar meat, sweet pine sap, and the deep, earthy aroma of charcoal smoke rising from the newly constructed kilns.
The Ashfang veterans who had just completed the grueling march were gathering around communal fire pits, laughing, boasting, and tearing into fresh meat alongside the northern foragers.
For the first time since the Ant Tribe had breached the surface, the dark cloud of immediate starvation had been completely shattered.
Meanwhile, deep below the surface of the world, late evening had settled into the bowels of the kingdom.
The endless, dark Transit Tunnels finally opened up into the monumental, hollow expanse of the subterranean realm. Up above, embedded in the soaring stone vault that served as the cavern's sky, thousands of ancient bioluminescent crystals and cultivated glowing moss veins hummed with a soft, ethereal azure and golden light, illuminating the vast world below.
Antares, still carrying Riya in his arms with Adam following closely behind, broke through the high tunnel exit and soared into the open cavern air.
Spread out beneath them was the grand settlement of the Ant Tribe.
From high above, the transformations Antares had initiated were glaringly obvious. The wide stone streets were immaculately clean, lined with newly carved drainage channels. Down in the residential districts, squads of antmen workers were already busy laying the foundations for the new, modernized housing units, erecting stone kilns that would funnel clean charcoal heat beneath the floors of every home.
In the central agricultural sectors, the vast subterranean fields were green and thriving, no longer strained to their absolute limits now that the surface supplies had arrived.
Citizens walking the thoroughfares paused, looking up into the cavern sky. When they spotted the radiant crimson streak of their King's aura, thunderous cheers echoed off the cavern walls, reverberating up to the high ceiling.
Antares smiled softly down at his people, feeling a deep, profound sense of pride settle in his chest. But he didn't slow his pace.
Directly in the center of the sprawling subterranean city, rising like a monolithic needle carved from dark obsidian stone, stood the Ant King's Palace. The ancient tower towered over the surrounding structures, its runic carved walls pulsing with dormant, ancestral power.
Antares knew that buried deep within the upper and lower floors of that royal tower lay locked system chambers—vaults filled with ancient ancestral treasures, lost blueprints, high-tier skill scrolls, and legacy artifacts. Unlocking those floors using his Sovereign authority was his primary objective after the ritual.
The wealth hidden inside those chambers would provide the capital needed to fund his expansion and fuel his maritime trade with Prince Tayron for years to come.
Antares angled his body downward, descending toward the grand, outer courtyard of the palace.
He touched down smoothly on the polished marble plaza directly before the colossal, gold-trimmed obsidian gates of his personal residence.
"Ahhhhhhh..."
Antares let out a long, heavy, agonizingly satisfied sigh, stretching his aching shoulders as he finally set Riya down onto her feet. The journey from the surface, carrying her the entire way at supersonic speeds while arguing about flying abilities, had been a unique strain of its own.
"Home sweet home," Antares murmured softly, a genuine, warm smile breaking across his handsome face. He rolled his wrists, feeling the familiar, comforting mana signature of his own palace washing over his senses.
He stepped forward, placing his hands against the massive, double obsidian doors. He didn't even bother to use his internal mental keys; he simply pushed them open with a grand, theatrical flourish, eager to greet his household and finally relax.
"I'm home!" Antares shouted loudly into the grand entrance hall, his voice echoing off the high vaulted ceilings.
But as the heavy obsidian doors swung wide, revealing the grand interior of the palace foyer, the words completely died in his throat.
Antares froze dead in his tracks. His eyes widened to the size of saucers, the warm smile instantly sliding off his face, replaced by a expression of absolute, bug-eyed shock. A cold sweat erupted across his forehead, and his broad shoulders locked up as if he had just been hit by a paralyzing spell.