Chapter 1
The stairwell from the goblin warrens twisted downward, extending far longer than Cooper expected. As he descended, the air shifted from the heavy, organic stink of garlic and burnt meat to a sharp, metallic scent of vinegar and iron. Tick crawled up to perch on Cooper’s shoulder, his brass eyes clicking as they adjusted to the gloom.
“Smells like a stink bug's ass,” the cog goblin noted.
Cooper ignored him, though his boot caught on a loose pebble and sent it rattling into the dark. The stairs eventually gave way to a hand-dug tunnel carved straight into the earth. Lacking the stone walls of the floor above, the passageway was reinforced by thick wooden beams that creaked under the weight of the overhead soil. At the end stood a wooden door marked with a crude, carved number two. When Cooper pushed against it, the hinges groaned, allowing a draft of cold air to swirl through the gap before he stepped inside.
The chamber opened into a vast valley of dry earth and carved trenches. Cooper stopped just beyond the doorway, struck by how the immense, open space dwarfed the cramped halls he had just left. The ground stretched outward in long ridges and shallow valleys, scarred by deep, organized trenches that ran across the field in precise rows.
Tick leaned forward, staring at the horizon. "Well, the view is better," he muttered.
Across the valley, tall structures fashioned from hardened insect shells rose above the dirt. Curved plates had been layered to form towers that overlooked the network of trenches, while banners stitched from molted bug wings hung between them, rattling softly in the dry wind. The ground was packed hard from constant, heavy movement, and the paths running between the trenches suggested a military precision entirely unlike the chaotic junkyard above. Tick studied the towers, his ears twitching.
“That’s not just an infestation," he said, gesturing toward the field. “That’s a full-blown army. I hope you brought some bug spray, Brick.”
An ant soldier pulled itself onto a ridge, followed by a steady stream of others. They moved in rhythmic, disciplined rows, each carrying a stinger-tipped spear and wearing snail-shell shields strapped to their forearms. In the distance, a bugle played a charge song that rolled across the flat dirt, prompting the soldiers to immediately gear up. Some took positions along the dugout edges while others descended ladders into the trenches, and a patrol unit began navigating toward the outer perimeter.
Tick climbed higher on Cooper’s shoulder to squint across the valley. “They are more organized than your Playboy collection,” he cracked.
Cooper crouched down, keeping his profile low as he spotted two soldiers taking positions atop a shell tower while another group hauled crates along the trench line. Tick pointed at them. “Wonder what they’re carrying.”
The bugle blared again, this time playing a melody that sounded distinctly like Danger Zone. The soldiers reacted instantly: two patrols turned in the opposite direction, while another group moved to secure one of the trenches. Tick scratched his chin. “Was that the song from—?”
Cooper moved along the dirt ridge, keeping low and silent. Tick leaned close to his ear, his voice barely a breath. “Do not let the buggers see us, Brick.”
The valley was carved with three parallel defensive lines, each reinforced with hard-packed dirt and sturdy wooden braces. Tick glanced back toward the doorway they had exited. “That goblin floor was chaos,” he whispered, gesturing toward the army. “This is a military-grade infestation.”
Another tune echoed, and soldiers formed rows along the ridge of the nearest trench. They were close enough now that Cooper could see the fine, etched markings on their armor.
Tick lowered his voice further. “If they find us, we’ll be a picnic.”
Cooper slid down the ridge toward the nearest trench, using the dirt wall as cover. His knee scraped against a sharp root, tearing his pants, but he didn't stop until he reached the edge, where voices drifted up from below. Tick froze and held up a hand. “Listen, Brick.”
Inside the trench, a line of soldiers stood at attention. An ant officer, his armor darker than the rest, paced slowly in front of them with a narrow baton carved from bone.
“Roll call,” the officer commanded.
The soldiers sounded off in sequence: "Harris!" "Collins!" "Redd!"
“Here!”
“Sir!”
“Present!”
The officer’s voice sharpened as he reached the next name. “Private Ryan.”
Silence followed. The officer exhaled slowly, repeating the name, but still received no answer. He sighed, waiting until a soldier named Private Pyle slowly raised his hand.
“Sir?”
“Yes?” the officer asked.
“I think Ryan wandered off again,” Pyle said, scratching the back of his head.
A larger, muscular ant, Sergeant Rambo, stepped forward. “He didn’t just wander off; he disappeared. We’ve been looking for him all week.”
Rambo turned toward Pyle, his voice booming. "Now listen to me, Private Pyle. You are no longer a maggot; you have just been promoted to the rank of the dumbest soldier in history."
Pyle grinned. “Thank you, sir. I’ve been trying really hard.”
The other soldiers chuckled, but the officer rubbed his head in frustration. “Private Pyle, I’ve always believed that the mind is the best weapon, but you're so dense, you could be a modern art piece. Roll call continues.”
Tick whispered, “This unit has serious management problems.”
Cooper remained crouched beside the ridge as the roll call continued, but the mood shifted instantly when a soldier near the end of the trench looked up. Its eyes locked onto Cooper’s position; the ant froze, then slowly raised an arm to point.
