The truck bounds through the thicket, often needing the khirig to push it out of the mud when it gets stuck. I take to following from above; the constant bouncing is unpleasant. This continues for a while, before they come out on another road and their speed returns.

  Soon, it rolls into a stop outside a lone nest with no others in sight. The structure is small — which is strange to consider, what with all of them being larger than most other creatures’ nests down in the tunnels.

  “Load up the explosives,” Uncle calls, climbing out of the front of the truck. “I don’t want to be here longer than ten minutes.”

  Without his say so, the khirig have already stormed through the door of the nest and carry dozens of boxes out into the truck.

  “Do you really think these’ll work?” Ryles says, having taken one of the objects within the boxes to inspect. The crystal jar contains some sort of liquid, but its the ever so slight energy-filled lines marked along the outside which attracts my attention. “I mean, these are decades old now. What if all the inscriptions are bust?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Uncle says. “As long as the fire running through the engine inscriptions still burns, the fluid will ignite.” He slaps the truck when saying ‘engine’ so I have to imagine it has something to do with the vehicle.

  I don’t know how those things will help, but I can guess well enough by the mention of explosives. Whether it’s the explosive power of a magma chamber or something different, I’m excited to see.

  A gust of wind blows over the group, and the khirig collectively hunch with a shiver. “When did it get so cold?” I hear one murmur before they move on with their work. Quickly, the last of the explosives are loaded into the back of the truck and they’re off down the road again.

  I follow in tow, watching as they unload the explosive jars and fiddle with them before tying them in place near the front of the trucks innards. Despite having handled them multiple times until now, the khirig sit far from them. Each visibly winces with each lurch of the vehicle.

  “We have a short window before the camp gets word and ups their guard,” Uncle shouts over the strengthening wind. “They’ll be preparing for more of their army to arrive in a few days. There’ll be Enhanced amongst the next group. So before then, I want to destroy their munitions storage and cause as much damage as we can.”

  The wind is cold. Almost as cold as some of the isolated caverns in the warped tunnels, and the khirig can feel it. As they listen to Uncle’s speech, they huddle close. Some pull out not-skin the albanics left in the back of the truck and distribute it. The fit is strange when they throw it over themselves — often having to tear holes to fit their antlers through — but it seems to help them with the weather.

  “Who would have thought there would be a blizzard this late in the year,” one murmurs, followed but grunts of agreement at their side.

  A thick mist carries along with the strong wind, slowly obscuring more and more of my sight. Frost builds upon the tips of grass and along the lengths of leaves.

  “I want you all to take Henosis’ guns and fire upon their camp from the cover of trees. If you can, target the command tent or the barracks. I don’t expect much from that range, but it would be nice to get a lucky shot. As soon as they mobilise, flee into the bush. I’ll use your distraction to send the truck rolling for their munitions storage.”

  Not long after giving the task, Uncle stops to let each of the khirig off.

  “Be safe, Uncle,” Ryles says, before he and the rest dash into the thick cover of trees.

  I twist my head between the truck, and the group. As much as I want to keep listening to their conversations and protect them should things go wrong, I’m rather interested in these explosives they’ve got prepared.

  Uncle drives the truck back off-road, slowly rolling the vehicle along the base of a valley, where a river once might have flowed. The path he takes is long and winding, considering it would have taken a tenth of the time to go straight there, but considering that would have taken the vehicle over the ridgeline and in clear view of all who look, I can see why he took the long route.

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  By the time Uncle gets to where he needs to be, the icy fog intensifies into a raging storm. Frost batters the side of the truck and leaves a trail of snow over the landscape. I cannot avoid the tiny pieces of crystallised water crashing against my scales. They whip through the landscape, carried by the wind.

  A shot resounds over the hill before Uncle can reach his destination. “Fuck,” he says, then immediately accelerates over the lip of the hill. As he does, dozens more shots echo up to us. Cresting the hill, the camp comes into sight. Uncle doesn’t wait. Ducking his head low behind the wheel, he pushes the truck to a roar and has it crash into the open plain and tear down the hill towards his target.

  Below, through the haze of the icy wind, I see the khirig already firing into the camp from the line of trees on the other side. Their bullets rarely reaching anywhere near the soldiers, but a couple fortunate strikes do ring through. The albanics react with force. A large barrel spins and the bangs come so fast they blend into the next. Trees melt before the power and speed of this weapon, but by the time it is brought into play, the khirig have already abandoned the attack.

  Uncle has driven half-way down the hill almost without opposition. But that doesn’t last. The truck spears towards the gap between fortifications where the hive’s defences haven’t been completed yet. He was supposed to send the truck rolling before running to safety, but as I watch, I find his eyes are hard and focused. He holds no intent to flee.

  He knows how this will end. He knows he will die. But he doesn’t care. The rage in his eyes are absolute. He will do anything to achieve that vengeance.

  Yet, the opportunity is stolen from him.

  A sudden, unbearably cold gust of wind rushes over the landscape. The wind slams into the truck, freezing it in place despite all the momentum it carried. Razor-sharp ice spikes pierce through the side, riddling the vehicle with millions of tiny fractures.

  Within seconds, the edges of the truck crumble away. Uncle; dead before he could feel the chill. The ground frosts over. The temperature collapses. And a being appears.

  A woman. Another albanic. The frozen winds circle her in a comforting embrace while cutting through earth trees and anything else that poses an obstacle. Patterns emerge through the earth. Rings carved from her deadly frost shards leave her the centrepiece in the eye of the storm.

  There is a lull in the gunfire as the soldiers stare in disbelief. Considering it is another albanic, I assume she’s on their side, but that thought disappears when the gunfire turns on her. Even the larger multi-barrel gun is finally turned to fire upon her.

  Despite the vast quantity of metal fired her way, not a single one come close. The frost blades circling her like a storm slice the bullets into motes of metal dust that are harmlessly swept away in the wind.

  “You're not supposed to be here.” Her voice is curt, and manifests a chill through my core as it washes over me.

  This is no apikull equivalent. This creature has a true command over frost and wind that I’ve not seen before. Her voice, while not yelled, carries over the clearing with weight. Each pronunciation, a piercing storm of cold wind that chills my scales.

  “I'm quite sure I would have been the first to know if Henosis had declared war.”

  Suddenly, all gunfire halts. And not from a lack of effort; the albanic soldiers squeeze their weapons with all the panic of cornered prey, but the frost crawls over their guns, disabling them. Metal triggers shatter under the soldiers attempts to continue attacking. Fingers follow suit soon after, stiffening until they no longer move.

  “None of you should be here,” the albanic mutters, her voice still carrying over the frozen wasteland reshaping under the weather. “Unfortunately for you, I'm not allowed to leave survivors.”

  In an instant, the storm converges around the woman. It twists and explodes forward. A powerful gust slams through the camp, flattening nests and freezing sapients solid. It carries onward, bathing the forest behind the camp in its icy wind.

  Nothing survives.

  Trees, animal, sapients. It doesn’t matter; everything freezes before the wave of ice razors spears through them.

  Not only has the albanic killed the Henosis soldiers, she’s left none of the khirig hiding in the woods alive. The range of devastation leaves no doubt. Being as weak as they are, their survival is impossible.

  All that remains of the camp is the frozen boots of the sapients that were alive only moments ago. A vast swathe of open plains and surrounding forest now turned frozen and dead. Cold air burns at my scales. Even the land not within range of the attack is affected by this being’s power.

  I’d been prepared to rush forward and protect the khirig if it looked like they were going to fail, but after their first success, I’d backed off. Now, because I’d allowed them to do as they wanted, they are all dead.

  This creature is an albanic. It can speak. It is sapient. And at the same time, it is incredibly powerful. After being disappointed by all the warrior caste until now, I’d assumed they couldn’t pose a threat to the creatures of the warped tunnels.

  But this one is different.

  Intense energy flows across lines painting her body. They twist and circle every part of her skin, glowing bright through the fake-hide she wears atop her own.

  My instincts scream. While not a Titan, this isn’t a creature I can treat as any old competitor. It is powerful. It is experienced. And worst of all, it is sapient.

  “Now…” She brushes a hand over her shoulder, knocking free a tuft of snow. “For the actual reason I'm here.”

  Ice digs into my spine as the creature turns and looks me in the eye, not bothered by distance or the foliage I hide.

  She sees.

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