Shell‍-​sculptors had the sharpest claws of the chrylurk castes, and this one had a whetstone upon the table, honing the edge further, even as you walked in. You, a surrogate clad proudly in ceramic carapace, paused at the threshold to the chamber, tugging on your invisible bindings to the rest of the hive as if it would pull you from some terrible drop.

‍—Sit down, sister! (the shell‍-​sculptor sent, eager antennae already perking up at the promise of being helpful) This one has been told just what you need!

‍—Tuned (you acknowledged).

Your tugging on the lines ceased, unable to overcome the gravity of your appointment: six legs ferried you inward, and you lay your ceramic‍-​clad carapace upon the cool clay of the sculptor’s workbench.

All was lit apale in the sharp light emitted by the sculptor’s swarmling shimmerbugs, perched and reflecting beams with shiny inner elytra. All was lit, save for the shadows cast by the chrylurks themselves

Your forearms folded, hugging your thorax.

‍—Would you like a full exfoliation?

‍—That wasn’t the order given (you sent).

‍—You’ve worn this shell for a month, this one would love to provide you a fresh coat!

‍—It has served me well. That won’t be necessary.

‍—Tuned (this one hummed resonantly in acknowledgement. It would respect her needful sister’s wishes. Clearly a delicate claw was called for!) Then you’ll just be needing a replacement thoracic plate?

Head still, your antennae bobbed up and down, nodding affirmative.

‍—But this one needs to see your thorax for the work! Can you move your arms, please?

You weren’t frozen. Your arms did twitch, initiating slow, unsteady motions. But the sculptor was watching closely.

So this one rose, shifting weight from six legs to four. The sculptor caste had sharp claws, suited for that caste’s duty, but the pads of the second pair of limbs were soft. This one brought tarsi down high on your thorax. A gentle weight lending comfort.

‍—You just returned from a duty in the mortal city, yes? (the sculptor sent, admiration undisguised: hatched in the hive, this one knew the exscient primarily as what one sculpted shells to hide and defend from.)

Antennae nodded again.

‍—And you visited this one first thing upon returning. You seek repair‍ ‍‍—‍ you flinch from damage caused. The cracks.

“I failed,” you said. Words issued from the mouth, a whisper.

‍—We are together bound (this one sent, confused and speculating. Had it been an attempted courtesy, to spare this one bearing the full tone of guilt that could not be muted through their harmonic connection? This one continued:) Loud, brutish breath befits the exscient! You are home now, sister.

‍—Enough. This is not necessary (you sent). I ask that you fulfill your duty.

‍—One molds what is soft, one mends what is cracked. This one serves in tune!

‍—Together bound, and yet this one taunts me with semantics.

‍—Bound, yet you insist my sister has failed.

‍—I… (the transmission trailed off; further deflection was moot.)

You felt the buzz as the sculptor probed you deeper‍ ‍‍—‍ your spiderlice did not, would not, keep secrets from the hive, and answered each subverbal question. You were known in depth, just as if you were one of the sculptor’s own shimmerbugs.

‍—Your womb is emptied, and your gullet drips with nectar fresh from the reaping! Was that not your duty?

Finally, after all this prodding‍ ‍‍—‍ after the sculptor might well have read the information off your lice‍-​woven record‍ ‍‍—‍ you spread your forearms wide.

Your thorax was cracked, a with dark splotch in the gleaming ceramic, shards missed and replaced with dark, coagulated hemolymph‍ ‍‍—‍ victim to a savage, sanguine caulking.

“I miscalcuated my thrall’s dose, and it had worn low by the time I returned. Without my venom to stabilize its mind, I was attacked,” you spoke calmly‍ ‍‍—‍ but that you spoke at all belied that you were too disturbed to commit it to honest record. “Such performance is an insult to our queen.”

‍—How many thralls have known your parascixion? (this one sent, knowing they both knew the answer. One waited, but eventually had to say it:) Just the one, yes?

‍—I submit, once more, a request that you fulfill your duty, sculptor.

One lifted slender arms and flexed a tarsus bearing scalpel‍-​sure anatomy. One’s ceramic gleamed in the shimmerlight of the workroom. Despite all the argument, one’s mandibles grinned eagerly at the prospect of playing with exoderm‍ ‍‍—‍ purpose, pure and simple.

‍—This one shall peel you bare and restore your beautiful barding, sister (this one sent, with one sly thought a twang in the harmony) But one must make a request of you in turn.

‍—Which is?

‍—When you report to Her, ask how She fared with her first thrall!

Among branches overlooking a scarcely‍-​trod dirt road through the woods lay perched a pair of chrylurks, silent sentinels, listening intently to the clanking of vesselblades amarch‍ ‍‍—‍ the gilded knights’ armor reflecting the night. The hunter tensed: and she thought of her Fione and she readied her claws.

‍—Halt, sister (sent the weaver on the other branch.) Remain quiescent.

The hunter stared down the length of the dirt road‍ ‍‍—‍ a old cabin with but a single inhabitant lay at the other end. The hunder knew it well.

‍—I saw those swords (replied the hunter.) The exšh’t brutes will kill her. We have to‍—

‍—Observe and report (the weaver strummed gently, stiffly.) We observe and then we report what we observe. We didn’t expect compleat vessels so close to our hunting grounds. We didn’t know‍ ‍‍—‍ next time, we shall.

‍—Next time? Next time? What about now! What about my Fione?

It was rhetorical; the hunter was already dropping from the branch‍ ‍‍—‍ but to be a weaver was to master silk like innumerable complementary limbs. Well within her abilities to suspend the brashly falling chrylurk in woven ropes that might well have coalescenced from the air itself for the very suddenness.

‍—I would not cross my stinger with that vessel (sent the weaver,) and it is my role to equal the compleat. Where I would flee, you must follow.

‍—Your role is callous. Your webs are dead and calculated. You’ve forgotten what’s it’s like to infest and grow!

‍—All this passion is sung to me on the webs you call dead (the weaver noted.)

‍—I’m not done! (the hunter sent while still twisting in her bindings.) She told me she understood purpose of our hive‍ ‍‍—‍ she believed, she loved. She was almost parascixe!

‍—Exscient (the weaver sent, leaving it deliberately ambiguous whether that was meant as an solemn affirmation or scathing negation.) An excoriating agony shall gnaw within the flesh of every vessel for their crimes against us. Such was always their fate. Do you understand, hunter?

‍—She might as well have been parascix! She was us. I won’t abandon her. She is mine.

‍—And if you forget yourself upon the vessel’s transfigured blade?

‍—Then the hive would lose two, tonight (sent the hunter at length). But if I defy your fatalism, the hive saves two. On average, letting me go makes no difference.

‍—You called calculation my role. Do not arrogate it; it ill suits you. You would doom the hive itself with your reckless, and we would save far more than two swooning lovers with this caution. We observe, and we report. You are a chrylurk, sister, we are patient. Our way is to hide and rot unseen.

‍—But‍—

‍—And if she understood like you claim she does, then she knows she does not die should her queen live. Sacrifice would be her role, just as it is for us all.

‍—Damnable weaver. Always an answer for everything.

‍—One way, I suppose, to say that I know what you do not (sent the weaver, knowing the hunter’s acquiescence had been clear in the harmony between them. Even if the bug was too proud to spell it out.) And I’ll give you one more, because we are bound. You drank her dreams. Her flesh may be forgotten to us, but she has already found her way into you.

‍—I… I’ll miss her. But you must be right. I have a role. I can’t save her if it means forgetting what I’m saving her for.

‍—The words you’ll looking for are: “Thank you, O wise weaver.”

‍—Maybe if you let me go (the hunter sent, still suspended mid‍-​air in the weaver’s binding.) I am glad you spun sense into me.

‍—I’m glad, too. Otherwise I would have saved the vessels the trouble and killed you myself.

‍—O Sister Contempt, fifth hunter! Where are you? (came a pulsed message, proxied by an operator, originally sent by Hysteria, first architect.)

Contempt tensed. A cool breeze tassled her silk‍-​hair as it dangled in the grasp of gravity. Her legs clung to the underside of a thick supports meeting in a cross. Were they roots? The blight’s mycelium? Whatever it was had been encased in exoderm.

Unsurprising the hive hadn’t cached her whereabouts‍ ‍‍—‍ not least for the fact she had picked this nook because it was one that few bugs frequented. “Hunter, fifth in caste” might be distinguished in an elder hive‍ ‍‍—‍ but fifth of six hunters meant only her kindred (asleep in the warren‍ ‍‍—‍ she missed them) ever really spun her any mind.

Particularly when first hunter Despair still boasted of the compleat knight zhe had made parascixe.

By contrast, Contempt’s recent hunt was a courier (lean, but such sweet blood)‍ ‍‍—‍ and she’d lost a raptorial forelimb for her trouble. A hunter missing a raptorial? No wonder no bug spun her any mind.

‍—Line? (sent Hysteria, not proxied this time, but no more scrutable; she had that characteristic opacity of the royal castes.)

‍—Bound. (answered Contempt’s lice reflexively. Then, in her own voice:) To what trespass does this one owe the touch of an architect’s silk and mind?

‍—May I make a physical inquiry? (sent Hysteria, still opaque to scrutiny, but revealing a glint of restraint. The hunter could refuse, and the architect would not insist.)

But restraint should have been obvious. Between them, a line was bound‍ ‍‍—‍ had Contempt lost accord and earned royal ire, then it’d simply be a matter of following the tug of serivane between them. No escape.

‍—I am hanging in the vomitorium of the upper gymnasium.

For now, the hunters all trained in the main stadium‍ ‍‍—‍ the masons had not yet reached an accord for how to lay out the new gymnasium. Contempt had no idea what there was to debate, mainly because she did not have interest in learning. Not her role.

‍—Hello again, Sister!

With a quiet yelp, Contempt flinched. She fell from her underperch on the cross‍-​brace, though she retained the grace to put three legs below her. Antennae flung wildly about as her apertures widened. Still she seemed alone.

‍—Ah, here I am (sent the architect, loud and proximity‍-​clear.)

The light of a shimmerbug spreading its wings flared to life‍ ‍‍—‍ that swarmling perched on veiled head of the architect. The shadows around her fell away like a pool of water draining.

The architect was a tall creature, looming with gentle bulk over the lithe hunter‍ ‍‍—‍ because for all her keen vision and intelligence, her kind was ultimately an exaltation of stone‍-​hefting masons.

The hunter brought two hands together and inclined her deference.

‍—How quiescent. You move like this is mortal territory, your honor (Contempt couldn’t help but comment.)

The hunter knew she had not failed to rake her gaze over that corner of the gymnasium behind her, so how had such an unmissably vast bug eluded her? Evanescence of the light itself!?

‍—A rather discordant habit, forgive me.

A habit!

Of the two of them, Contempt had spent far, far more time in mortal territory, hunting the exscient; her grace Hysteria was above such concerns. But of course, an inclination toward her stealth sprung from the same spring as the opacity of her line‍-​harmony.

No, she didn’t move like this was mortal territory; she had all the occult flair of a chrylurk that crossed with her own kind. There were other hives, other queens‍ ‍‍—‍ a task fit for a royal, to meet them with diplomacy and dagger.

‍—You are above forgiveness (said Contempt, after puzzling how she could respond in accord.) Your station in the hive is profounder than I grasp.

The architect flicked her proboscis upward, lifting her veil, and Contempt saw the shiny curve of her fangs grinning at her.

‍—Once more I elude you, O scixe girl (lilted Hysteria.) The habit is not my aloof nobility. Shall I be vulgar? I am fucking with you.

As would be your right. It would be as reflexive as her licenest replying “Bound!”‍ ‍‍—‍ yet if the architect dispensed with formality, should she? Or was that too presumptive?

‍—Should I appreciate that? (Contempt said, by way of saying she did not.)

‍—Highly discordant! I daresay you are in error to humor me~ And isn’t that a delightful little trap?

‍—I suppose I’m thankful I have prey to toy with instead (Contempt ventured carefully‍ ‍‍—‍ she imagined architect saw little in the way of violence. Perhaps that left one’s nerves madly frayed.)

‍—You wound me! Good girl~

‍—What was your physical inquiry, your grace?

‍—Right! To tie this off, what I am getting at is that I simply love suprises. We grow dull when we let the harmony tell us everything in advance.

(Do architects not like calculated designs?) Contempt wondered to herself.

‍—But! I digress! You almost had me monologuing (sent Hysteria, and she bent her legs until she was eye level with the hunter, one limb snaking into her robes.) Tell me, you were the hunter who reeled in that runner, yes?

‍—Tuned (she said.)

‍—Slippery, wasn’t it? I heard you got all smashed up. Can I see your arm?

Contempt inhaled a deep breath, and then she slowly stepped forward. Her second, smaller pair of arms had been held in front of her, fidgeting and gesturing, while her larger raptorial arm had been folded up. Polite, that way.

Now, she rolled her shoulders and brandished her weapon, a limb sharp with spikes and a honed, cutting edge.

‍—There is an issue (Contempt started.) Rather pointedly, you cannot see it. The result of my hunt is that it is not there.

Her stump was no grave disfigurement‍ ‍‍—‍ her broken limb had been taken to a vat where nurses might coax the flesh back into order, at least once the hive had resources to spare. A hunter’s raptorial was not trivial to craft nor repair‍ ‍‍—‍ in the whole hive there were only six pairs of them, after all.

The architect had stepped forward too, hands of her second arms reaching out to touch and pull away the silk flap below her pauldron, exposing the stump. Fingers traced melanized scar‍-​chitin. There was a nakedness in the lack of exoderm coating it.

Contempt looked away.

‍—You’re wanting on a grafter to weave some metamorphosis down in the wetrooms, right? (Hysteria sent idly, while she read the answer from the hunter’s record.) You think of decorum and a bug’s place often, don’t you?

The hunter’s apertures snapped shut and open again, blinking at the nonsequitur.

‍—I seek to preserve the accord.

‍—I know that, I’ve talked to you longer than a second! You wriggle so carefully in your place. It’s cute and it’s dull. But whatever. (Hysteria blew a puff of air from her abdomen, and so petulent a gesture contrasted with the royal being a giant next to the hunter.) I would say our flesh has its place, also. Where do you think that place is?

‍—Our flesh?

‍—Biology, what else? The pulse in your veins. The prey you fuck. The arm you lost (the architect sent, tapping one talon with a click.)

Contempt began to fear Hysteria was growing bored of her. Before she could puzzle out what was best to say, the architect signaled her:

‍—Let me help you out, not so scixe. I am gyne, royalty among our kind, and you are a worker. That much you’re very aware of. Would you say flesh is royal?

What kind of question was that?

The hunter thought. Gynes were responsible for growing the hive‍ ‍‍—‍ they begot, and workers nourished what was begotten. All the separated her from the drones was her name; a gulf next to the higher caste. Queens, consorts, surrogates.

The nature of flesh was to grow, expand, beget. Was that the answer? That analogy?

But what about architects? What role did she have in the hive’s life cycle? Contempt did not know, just like she did not know what the builders argued about regard the gynmasium’s layout, and suddenly she was almost interested in knowing.

Why had an architect ever spun mind, touched her silk to a hunter‍ ‍‍—‍ fifth of six!‍ ‍‍—‍ like her? She squirmed in this alien attention.

Yes, Contempt was a hunter‍ ‍‍—‍ at once it was clear: she was of flesh. Architects, by contrast, concerned themselves with the arcane realm of designs.

Contempt didn’t know the answer, not really. But was that the answer? The hunter was a worker, and the architect was not. Contempt was of flesh, and beneath Hysteria.

‍—Our flesh serves us but does not define our kind (Contempt finally composed her answer, airily sent. Her eyes drifted to the veil over the architect’s face.) Recapitulation, harmony, it’s deeper than our pulse and our… fucking.

‍—How diplomatically put (sent Hysteria, drily.) You found the answer that would satisfy me, and I dare say that alone spoiled it.

‍—You believe this is empty flattery?

‍—I know it’s flattery! We are bound, and you are not half as aloof as I am. You want to mollify me, like some dog nipping at your heels for attention.

‍—I’d rather say I want to entertain you. It’s clear you flagged me down for your amusement, nothing else explains this encounter.

‍—Guilty as charged (Hysteria sent, unabashed.) Forgive me? But I suppose this is the heart of it, then. You picked an answer to entertain me‍ ‍‍—‍ do you stand by your choice? Will you take responsibility? Shall you be my entertainment?

‍—I would have thought you’d find me dull.

‍—What is a chrylurk, that we cannot change your forms?

And at that prompt, she thought. O Contempt, fifth hunter of six!

The gymnasium lay quiet, and dark but for the shine of the architect’s lone shimmerbug, but there was a phantom buzz of licenests fielding inquiries from the hive at large. A question on idle palps: What was the meaning of this sudden, mysterious meeting? None but her kindred ever spun Contempt any mind‍ ‍‍—‍ but Hysteria, first architect?

And that, at least, was answer, wasn’t it?

‍—No (sent Contempt.) I have a role. I am a hunter. You said yourself that I was in error to humor you. Leave me out of your royal games.

The architect grinned. Her fangs alone were nearly as wide as the hunter’s head.

‍—It’s delightfully parascixe, isn’t it? A simpering slave would say “Yes, of course I’ll serve you!” and I can imagine nothing that dries my loins faster. But your refusal piques me. And you know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?

‍—No, of course not.

‍—Mm, I want more than reflexive contrarianism out of you.

‍—I’m not sure what you want out of me, frankly (the hunter replied.) There are royals who could keep up. Have they all grown tired of you?

Puffs of air, several‍ ‍‍—‍ Hysteria laughed.

‍—So, have you not guessed what this is about yet?

At that nudge, the last lines of logic tightened‍ ‍‍—‍ something had to have spurred the architect to seek her out, and what of all things was unique about the fifth hunter? But it was the first thing Hysteria asked her.

Earlier, the royal had snaked a large arm into her woven robes‍ ‍‍—‍ at last, it emerged, and produced a work of such distinctly architect design.

‍—You gave a good attempt, but miscalculated your answer. Harmony? Recapitulation? Important, and perhaps a queen or weaver would argue most important. But if you seek to flatter, you must give face to what is beauty itself distilled into form: the work of exodermic sculpture!

The architect held out an acutely detailed carving: a raptorial arm rendered in the waxy clay of chrylurk secretion‍-​crafting.

But Hysteria loved her surprises. And with the bright twang of evanscence, an invisible web caught and puppeted the world by her will‍ ‍‍—‍ the highest chrylurk art.

The arm unfolded itself and exposed a metal blade.

‍—You lay idle here in your seclusion because the hive is starving and can’t spare the calories to grow you a new arm. Such is the poverty of the flesh! But I am architect, of vision, of genius! So answer me, O Sister Contempt, shall we have flesh bow to the higher caste?

Sunset came, slow‍-​going, sky turning the color of fading embers. Shadows were stretched long, and the woman leaned under the leaf‍-​dappled shade of a tall maple. Her arms held a book, anonymous, held so that passersby could not descry its contents. Her gaze idly dipped into its pages, but just as quickly snapped back up, grazing the passing throngs of men and mice and marching djramul.

He came while her eyes read. “My lady! Hail, my apologies to keep you waiting.” A man dressed plainly with supplies strapped to his back. Dark hair, bright eyes, dirty hands.

“It’s no trouble,” she said. “I could leave at any time.”

“Kind of you not to, then. I appreciate that. Shall we be off?”

“Of course.” The woman pushed off the tree and brushed bark‍-​dirt from her skirt. The book remained in her hands, folded between arm and breast.

“You always stand out with that mask, you know.” His gaze had slipped from her brown eyes to the dark garment of cloth and hid that hide half her face. It curved over her nose and her chin, strapped somewhere behind her hair. Slits in the material ostensibly let in air, but he had expressed his doubts.

One would think it’d reduce her expression to unreadable blankness, but she had a way of crinkling and shifting‍ ‍‍—‍ he’d become fluent in the signals. She was frowning.

Even if it were blank, it was a small loss‍ ‍‍—‍ her eyes told stories.

He flinched and added, “I mean no offense. It’s just the first thing I see, always. Makes you easy to find, I suppose.”

“The city air doesn’t agree with me, I’ve told you this.”

“My apologies. It’s just,” he said then paused, “I wonder what you look like, I admit. What face lies underneath?”

“Perhaps it’s not for you to know,” she said. They stood talking on the grass, so she took initiative, starting them down the path.

He followed. More trees crowded around them, a canopy of leaves that let only strangler sunrays touch them.

“Fair day, isn’t it?” Then he added, “With fair company.”

The woman laughed. She had a sharp, clear voice, one that easily carried through her mask. “How did your day at the tannery treat you?”

“I’m sick of the salts and oils! I dare say the tannery air doesn’t agree with me,” he said. “I bet I stink! Lucky you’ve got that mask, I suppose. And I’m lucky I don’t‍ ‍‍—‍ you smell lovely today. Is that a new scent?”

Another laugh. “Something like that. I try new perfumes, here and there. I’m glad I could be reprieve from your work. Tiring, I take it?”

“I almost miss the days when master just had me carting around boxes like some steed.”

“I’ve read the new methods are far less, what’s the word, odiferous.”

“Maybe, I wouldn’t know. Before my time.”

“I would know less,” she said. By this point the treeline had halted with abrupt restraint, and even the grass grew fleeting. Dirt gave way to sandy and gravel.

Gradually, reply by reply, they’d both spoken louder. The river’s sullen roar rivaled their speech.

“Right, your clan does it the old way, I bet.”

She’d told him she grown up on a farm far from the city, a closed off cluster of families. Hence her shy, reserved character and air of mystery. She’d not disclosed why she’d left for the city.

“Perhaps I’ll show you, one day,” she said. “I do think we have a talent with using skin few can match.”

“Bet my master would take issue with that.” Now, he unslung the form he’d had strapped. A blanket for them to sit by the river and watch the sunset light it ablaze.

As the woman lay down, she opened her purse, too, and retrieved the wine bottle. Corked glass sloshing with a fine claret.

“It’s still a miracle to me that you’re able to get your hands on that. It tastes divine every time.”

“Not divine,” she said. “Not even vignette. I’m no miracle worker.” She’d brought more than a vine bottle‍ ‍‍—‍ fruits, crackers, and several small bottles bearing idiomatic labels. “Shall I mix your drink?”

“I’d appreciate it! I think I’ll try to find some flat rocks. My brother was telling me he skipped stones across a running river and I bet he was telling tales.”

Her mask didn’t hide her broadening smile. While he slinked off, she detached the mask. She opened her mouth, wide, even as her hands mixed wine with fruit juice and milk. She glanced behind her‍ ‍‍—‍ he was crouched and hunting among the river‍-​slick rocks. Their backs were to each other.

She opened wider, jaw unhinged. The roof of of her mouth split apart, compartments opening‍-​emerging, and two long syringes jutted out. Viscid, opalescent tears slid down their lengths and dripped into the cocktail she mixed. One, two, three. She held her breath and measured.

And then it was done. Her mouthparts squished back behind her façade and her mask clicked back into place. She sliced a fruit and placed it to float.

“Hey! Look at this thing.”

She glanced back at the back and saw his prize held him as much as he held it.

“Big red crab! You ever seen one this size?” The crustacean pinched his hand and squirmed madly. If its legs flared out all the way, it’d be wider than his chest.

Holding back a half, she said, “Throw it back unless you’re going to eat it. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Oh, fine!” He grunted while he tried to get a grip on the thing, turning it upside down. Then, with a sudden florish, he flung it at a long angle to the rivers surface. She could tell his breath was bated.

It skipped once.

“Ha!”

“Enough. I’m finished with your drink.”

He finally arrived and squatted down, dirt all along his legs, but he took the glass from her eagerly. “You know, my mother loves to drink tea, but I never liked how bitter it was. But something about this? I don’t know how you do it.”

“Maybe I spit in it,” she said.

“Ha!” The laugh came while he was drinking, leading to the natural issue. “Let me drink some more before I answer.”

“So you’ll have an excuse to flirt?”

“Do I seem so crass?”

Instead of responding, she drank. Her method involved a straw slipping through a hole in her mask.

“I don’t like that you aren’t saying no.”

“Come, sit over here.” She patted the part of the blanket beside her. He moved, but she reached out, grabbing his hands to pull him into place snugly beside her. He leaned closer, and she did not let go of his hands.

She pointed. “And so golden hour ends.”

The sun cast its parting light down the murky blue waters of the river, fire shot through glass. The pair never tired of the glow in the waters. Brilliant, potent, ensnared. He took another sip of his drink.

She gazed down at him, leaning on her. His eyes drooped, and the fidgeting of his hands fell still.

She removed her mask, smiling again. He hadn’t closed his eyes all the way, but she looked and found them dull, dilated. She wasn’t worried about him seeing this‍ ‍‍—‍ he’d dreamed about her face often enough, she was sure.

Her hands reached for the cocktail, grabbing his glass before he spilled the last ounces. Nimble fingers felt along his face, parting his lips, and she poured the rest in. Done, she ghosted her hand lower and settled on his throat. She squeezed.

The book cradled between her arms unfolded in her lap, and her other hand let her pen glide. She wrote the day’s date, consulted her sunset tables for the hour, and she counted.

She felt his pulse, the rapid rhythm accelerando, and scratched down a figure. She thought about that comment about her scent, and added a note. Things were progressing, weren’t they?

This time, when her jaw unhinged and the compartments at the roof of her mouth unfolded‍-​escaped, segments surged forward. No syringe‍-​fangs, this time, but the flexible length of her proboscis.

Its wet pad fell upon him, and she felt his skin flush and flutter. An urge, momentary and foolish, to wrap this organ around his throat entire and wring. To seize him entirely. Viciously.

But he needed to live‍ ‍‍—‍ live without tell‍-​tale scars. So she pulled down his shirt, and lay her proboscis tip nearer his heart. The organ was lined with needles like a score of loyal mosquitoes, but she dipped only precious few into him.

Dose with her venom, he was dreaming, and pulsing with those dreams. She sucked, supping upon his desire and his mortality. She tasted herself in him, seeping insinuated.

Golden hour turned blue, a twilight gloom.

She penned more figures in her notebook. Volume drained, taste and composition. Today, she was halfway down the page, this man was a reliable donor. Generous, though not by virtue of his willing. Well‍-​behaved thrall, through and through.

Could he be more?

She would have to talk to her clan far from the city. Her sister was a vector, but she had particular inclinations. This mortal… no breasts, few curves. hairy. Sister could be so picky about her hosts.

But flesh was maleable, wasn’t it?

“Yes, I do think we have a talent with using skin few can match,” she murmured, and he might have shifted in dream. When he finally awoke, wretchedly hungover, she was gazing down at him, a smile in her eyes.

Not a pore was out of place on the skin she’d borrowed.

Weavers held the advantage in eusapient interactions.

Perched on high, Coven watched chrylurks crossing the canyon floor, or crawling along webbing and catwalks. Small from up here, but each passing worker would stand taller had she not claimed this high vantage. For workers of the named caste, weavers were rather diminuitive.

Compact and thin it may be, her exoderm boasted sculpted curves and gleaming ceramic, painted an violet hue unmistakable against the warm browns of the canyon walls.

Their hive was nestled secured in the depths of an deep, dry river‍-​scar that carved athwart the land, far away from the hateful eyes of mortals. Here Coven could brandish her true shell without a care. But she had mastered the changes; if the Queen willed a passage above, then Coven’s proud purples would be gone in the evanescence of a moment.

But exoderm was hardly Coven’s pride. The smooth shell of her faceplate quickly grew pockmarked: her licenest began low on her brow, just above her dimly‍-​glowing ocelli: a hexgrid of holes that engulfed all the rest of her long, ovoid head. Threads of silk spilled out from every hole, each the burrow of a spiderlouse, diligently spinning and controlling its bundle of silk.

Perched on high, Coven raised her head, rayed by a thousand pale threads. It spread and bloomed, like a maiden’s bountiful tresses submerged in water, but this was open air. Still air‍ ‍‍—‍ the canyons lay calm‍ ‍‍—‍ but the threads moved, swaying in unseen winds, vibrating line harps plucked by unseen hands.

Laylurks were too quick to speak of weaver’s grand licework as a “tapestry”, but tapestries were fragile and finished. No, Coven would sooner describe herself as the very loom.

Threads stiffened as they found connection‍ ‍‍—‍ to other chrylurks and to the cobwebs that lined the canyon’s walls, infrastructure of the hive. The weaver hummed a sonorous note as her attunement was complete.

(O Mother who weaves in nexus!) she thought, half in prayer. (Haunting be thy web! That we may suture flesh and mind as fabric for thee! Until thy silk be as the dust and the breath, and suffuse every passage and recess! O Mother, weave a cocoon of the world!)

‍—And there she is (sent a passing bug, with swagger alone to identify her as a hunter. She threw a glance upward as she walked along the wall.) Little priestess woke up! Get ready for another sermon.

‍—Every morning! (sent a mason, closer in elevation but busy tighting the ropes on a catwalk. Her antenannae crossed.) She comes abound, all but shouting like a kid getting their first present in spring.

‍—You’d think she’d be used to it by now.

‍—Sisters! (Coven finally replied.) Are you not amazed at this gift our queen has given us? How can I not rejoice in the embrace of our nexus! Today is a resplendent day, and I am thankful for it.

‍—You say that every day!

‍—I am thankful too (the other chrylurk chimed in). If our queen ever demands worship, we can be sure Coven will give it all singlehandedly.

Coven’s spiderlice were busy. They worked beneath her direct perception, but she was acquainted with the lore. Most of her lice were tasked with spinning, weaving, and maintaining bundles of silk‍ ‍‍—‍ forming the hair that fell all the way down past her pinch‍-​waist chrysoma, at least when the mass wasn’t levitating in the throes of nexal communion.

Now, this common silk wasn’t unusable for hive‍-​binding‍ ‍‍—‍ but doing it right required a special grade of serivane, crafted by those pampered lice centermost her scalp. This serivane could ghost through walls, but in the canyon, with no obstacles between her and the others, it did not need to‍ ‍‍—‍ but it could also ghost through itself.

The hunter who even now was walking down the length of canyon, did not need to mind the silk that ran through the space between them, even as she turned, even as she crossed underneath the mason working on repairing the catwalk.

(Haunting be thy web! As the dust and the breath!)

The vaneline itself vibrated finely. Finer than mortal ears could perceive‍ ‍‍—‍ she knew a tuning fork produced its tone by quivering hundreds times in the span of one heartbeat. Serivane quivered a hundred thousand times.

Modulation endowed that hyperpitched tone with meaning. In the time it took one’s bodily voice to speak a single word, the hive‍-​bound may exchange a whole sentence. If one were to speak with austere terseness, that is.

But any eusapient knew it was manners to bare one’s soul over the wire. And thus was Coven’s voice chorded with her irritation and her steadfast pride in her devotion. She’d had this conversation before, and so the binding buzzed with echo‍-​reprise of past rejoiners, like a shared memory beneath verbal transcription. It lended the conversation a feel almost akin to a recurring joke.

Coven held her apertures closed and ocelli dim, and wore a weaver’s veil‍ ‍‍—‍ all the better to focus her attention on the nexus. And yet, without seeing, she felt the twitching antennae and spin‍-​blinking eyelids of the other chrylurks. If hive‍-​binding were a language, it was one with words and grammar for for all the overt and subtle configurations of the face.

The vibrating silk joined to a setae‍-​hair joined to a nerve joined to her mind itself. Like that was her empathy limned vivid. The straining arms of the mason tightening the catwalk was her own strength tested. And the drunken sway of the passerby, stricken with a princess’s venom (oh! no wonder they grasped the wall for balance!) was her own swooning swagger.

And the laughter shared between her was‍ ‍‍—‍ grudgingly‍ ‍‍—‍ hers too.

(O Mother who weaves in nexus! Bind us as one! Bind us obedient, bind us beautiful! Let us subjugate our thralls as thou hast subjugated us! For all thy brood thou art; for all thy brood this one shall be! As one we praise you, as one we weave you!)

‍—I forgive you all (Coven sent, head bowing with antennae outspread). I understand.

How could she not? Weavers held the advantage in eusapient interactions. Her licenest was voluminous and sensitive. She could bind herself to a dozen chrylurks at once, attend a symphony of silk‍ ‍‍—‍ but castes were molded to their purpose. To her her sisters, the hive‍-​binding is a convenience, a sense akin to scent or touch: crucial, but far from all‍-​eclipsing.

The glory was hers to witness, and theirs but to serve.

But these words so sent did not have an ameliorative effect. The binding relayed a groan from the mason’s spiracles, and an outright snarl from the venom‍-​high hunter.

‍—Don’t need your forgiveness, weaver (sent with high amplitute, as of a sharp pluck: spiderlice had claws).

‍—Yes, keep it (the worker said, moving from one end of the catwalk to the other, shooting the weaver a sidelong glance in between.) I think forgiveness belongs in your possession more than ours.

With her attunement to the two chrylurks, she could watch, beat by beat, each’s reaction to her words. The irritation, the way they recoiled from her outpouring of love as if from an oversaccharine meal.

The hunter was weary‍ ‍‍—‍ for she’d already said her prayers to the queen in her afternoon in the princess’s company. The mason queried her lice for context, and felt her thoughts about the unfortunate limitations of lower castes, and knew this forgiveness was indulgent condescension.

Coven laughed to watch the slight play across the minds of her sisters.

Yes, she did this every day‍ ‍‍—‍ and it still brought her joy.

So many vines over the city‍ ‍‍—‍ almost blocked out the sky. What’s the weather like? Leaves, might pollen later.

Horny fucking plants.

I threw a kick. The sapling bent under the force. Ugh. One hand grabbed ahold of it, and my leg threw another kick. I felt something beneath the dirt tearing. Good. The crack in the air, the dirt expanding underfoot.

Another hand grabbed it. I ripped, wrenching the plant from under the ground. Dirty sprayed up, landing on the pants I wear. I didn’t close my eyes even in the onslaught of the sediment cloud. Keep tearing. That was a long ass root‍ ‍‍—‍ how deep did it go?

Pulled it high enough now I couldn’t keep pulling it up, needed to shift to a sideways tug. Whatever. I dropped the wood, leaving it to slump defeated on the ground. Good enough.

I glanced down at my hands. The meat had little red spots now. Like blood. Gripped the tree to hard, yanked to roughly.

Hands clapped together. How did mother’s refrain go? Remember the teardrop falling. The forms change‍ ‍‍—‍ the venom, the blood, the honey‍ ‍‍—‍ all to reach your heart. A final distillation: the change.

It nipped at me, beneath all this skin, pulse‍-​instant and quickly riding down ephemeral lines. From my deepest heart, up the chest, down the arm‍—

And flesh is will and will is I. It resumed its proper place just as I would move some appendage. Pinched all back together.

I wiped away the blood and the palm meat was whole where just before it’d been torn open.

“Hullo there!”

I jerked my head. There was a woman striding into the clearing, a girl following right at her heel. She was dressed‍ ‍‍—‍ dressed‍ ‍‍—‍ all reds and blacks and flowing cloth. Ribbows, bows, I didn’t make sense of it past how it registered as altogether too fancy.

“Good day to you… sir? ma’am? Something else?”

“What else is there?” I grumbled, looking back at my torn‍-​up tree as if it were more interesting.

“I just wasn’t sure, is all.”

“None of your business.” I glanced back over with a glare.

“Something else it is then!” All throughout, the woman had paced closer, that girl in lockstep. The closer they got, I saw a… rope? A chain? It ran between them; a gloved hand gripped its handle, and the other end led to a collar around the girl’s neck.

“What do you want?” I thought grumbling and glaring made it clear enough, but she didn’t even pause.

She smiled at me. “We were out for a walk and heard someone working out here, and it piqued out curiosity. Lucin, did you want to say hi?”

“Um.” The girl had a small voice. “You did the tree‍ ‍‍—‍ well? It seemed hard. You must be strong.”

I rolled my eyes and looked away. Not enough to miss motion in the corner of my eye. Tugging on the leash‍ ‍‍—‍ the two of the drew closer‍ ‍‍—‍ and I didn’t glance back when I saw the woman reaching out, placing a hand on the girls’ head, stroking her hair.

After a murmured word, the woman took a step forward, and the girl did not follow. Said something else‍ ‍‍—‍ I heard ‘okay’‍ ‍‍—‍ and the the leash was placed in the girl’s hands, and the woman strode more intently toward me.

“I don’t know what you think you’re‍—”

She grabbed my hand as she leaned closer, but said nothing. Instead, a spiderlouse crawled onto my hand.

‍—Hello sister. Line? (Your query vibrated down the silk sown into this flesh.)

‍—Bound. (Lice stirred out of stasis deep in my submerged core.)

I said nothing else to you besides the formality. Part of me thought: fuck. Which is not the best reaction to the privilege of reconnecting to the hive mid‍-​infiltration. But maybe I already knew where this was heading.

‍—You need to be more careful. Look up.

‍—I know.

‍—I said look up. Don’t ‘I know’ me.

You grab my hair and pull, pointing my head skyward. A trellis‍-​dome encasing the city, and vine‍-​leaves obscure the clouds. I see it every day. Have you made your point yet?

‍—This is a divine city. You need to be more careful! Don’t just recklessly change, without even a roof over your head!

‍—It was a small change. Not any more reckless then hive‍-​binding me out in the open like this.

You pulled away, and I see that skin‍-​mask of yours squinting, before it suddenly scowled. You tightened your hold on me.

‍—So you do it so often I need to narrow it down! Girl, I didn’t know you’d done it right before I showed up! (You sighed, digging those feeble not‍-​claws into my meat.) Sir or ma’am, sister. You’re supposed to care about the answer, not brush it aside like it means nothing. You’ve been changing from one to the other, recklessly‍ ‍‍—‍ that is what I wanted to talk to you about.

‍—Some mortals treat me better as one or the other, but the difference is so small it wouldn’t even register unless an alchemist was breathing down my neck. Doesn’t matter.

‍—Did you sleep through your brief? This is not how we operate!

‍—Mortals don’t notice. Works fine.

‍—Divine city, sister! It’s not the mortals I’m worried about.

‍—I’m just a bug, actual divinity isn’t going to notice me.

Another sigh.

‍—Come to my house tonight. We’ll dream about this together. I need you to understand this.

‍—Ugh. Okay, sister.

‍—Bound. Now, I didn’t just come here to nag you. Wanted to give you a pleasant surprise too, but you went and made an awful first impression! Be nicer to my pet, please? She’s a tasty one.

You didn’t let go of my hand as you dragged me along, across the clearing to where that little slip of a girl waited. She’d stared longingly at us, but averted her as as our attention turns to her.

“Dear! This is an old friend of mine, she’s from the same background as I am.” You took the leash back, and you ran another petting hand over her brown hair, leaning down to plant a kiss against her forehead.

The girl stood straighter, staring wide‍-​eyed at me.

You took a step away from me, behind her, settling into a wide and engulfing stance (her legs stood so close together) as you threw an arm around her shoulders.

“Isn’t she just the cutest?” A hand softly ran down her cheek, diverting to underscore her lips. “Gives good kisses. And look‍ ‍‍—‍ she lets me nick her all over.”

Her hand darted near the ear, pulling away hair to expose skin above the jugular, riddled with puncture wounds. Marked, yet easily hidden.

“My lady, I‍—”

“Must I stop already?” you said softly. “I wasn’t finished.”

“Oh… alright. Just. Eep.” She glanced down, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“I told you how we’d seen you before, yes? She thought you looked just striking. Especially when you let your hair down‍ ‍‍—‍ remarkable how quickly you can change your style! But I digress. Do you want to know what else she said?”

Her gaze jerked back up at you. “My lady!”

But you eyes were narrowed‍ ‍‍—‍ you grinned wolfish at me. “How well do you kiss?”

“What?”

“It’s a simple question. Do you have any experience in the matter, darling?”

“I can’t say I’ve had any use for it.”

“Um.”

“Is that so? Then perhaps you’d like some practice?”

“My lady. P‍-​please.”

Something in her tone finally broke your stare. You glanced down at her, features at once morphing less pointed. “What is, pet? You don’t want to kiss my friend here?”

She paused, then shook her head.

You laughed once, sharply, and glanced back at me‍ ‍‍—‍ somehow even more smug. “You really made a bad impression.”

I frown.

You hand was drifting down, and her arm shivered where your gloves danced along the exposed flesh. “How about this? I’d hate to offer my friend nothing for their trouble. Would you mind giving them your finger?”

“I… think that would be o‍-​okay.”

“Excellent. Here, a tease for you.” Your hands were larger, gripping the limp‍-​splayed digits like a prey held in jaws. Adjusting, you extended the pale tip of the middle finger.

“Do you really expect me too…” Then I stopped. Fuck it, blood was blood. I opened my mouth and accepted the digit.

Rough tongue laved it clean and raw and wet, and then I press it against a sharp canine.

She gasped. A stroke of her hair, a kiss of her cheek. “Good, you’re doing quite well,” you murmur.

Blood welled in my mouth. I tasted it‍ ‍‍—‍ warmth and salt and metallic tang. Smooth in a way only a thrall with a well‍-​managed diet ever was, and was that surging undercurrent… I glanced at her darting eyes, saw how they were dilated ever so slightly. It was. Oh, you prepered her so well.

As I stared at your thrall, I could see you taunting me‍ ‍‍—‍ your tongue along her cheek, your sharpened canine coming to rest right above her thick vein. Showing off how you are allowed where I was forbidden.

“Enjoy her,” you told me. “But take it from me. It’s much stronger near the heart.” You tapped her chest and she gasped again.

Growling, my incisors gritted slightly‍ ‍‍—‍ but intently‍ ‍‍—‍ against the joint of the digit, and I sucked. The taste of blood itself was one thing‍—

But I tasted you. The sour notes of nectar, the ovirexia you’d oozed into her.

There was a pulse in the tip of the finger, throbbing as blood was pushed through so narrow an exit. And as I drained her, your pet quickened her heart beat.

“Oh!”

“Moaning already, dearest?” Your finger circles her lips.

I closed my eyes to your pointless indulgence and focused on sating my needs. Blood streamed into my mouth, drop by drop, but it was so little. I brought a canine to to the wound. Widen it, tear her open‍—

“That’s enough of that.” Still holding your pet’s trembling hand, you tugged on it, felt my jaw resist you, and then a glove struck into my mouth and my prey slipped free.

“I wasn’t done,” I barked, half‍-​unintelligible. I repeated myself when you pulled your glove out.

“Oh, poor thing. There’s always next time. If she lets you, that’ll be up to her.” You smile, teeth bared. “Now! It was nice seeing you, but we’ll have to be on our way. See you tonight. Till then, I don’t mind if you dream of her delicious little neck. Maybe that’ll spur some good behavior out of you!”

As you left, I could only glare, though your pet gave a little wave as you tug her leash, blood dripping down her finger.

I glanced away. Turn around, and look around for another tree to tear up.

By light of an oil latern, I divided the mass of lime in half‍ ‍‍—‍ into quarters‍ ‍‍—‍ into half of quarters.

An idle hand felt along the segments below my chest. Scales of wax seeped out between them, deforming softly under my touch. I scooped it up and brought it to the the table. A spoon measured out a quantity, and I mixed it with the first pile of lime. Another hand‍-​scoop, two spoonfuls into the next.

My hand twitched. Instinct‍-​craving tugged on my will. Slather my shell in this wax, find a nice pile of sand to roll around in! But I wouldn’t let myself be bathed in dirt.

Another scoop, three spoonfuls‍ ‍‍—‍ then above me the basement’s hatch‍-​opening creaked open.

‍—I’m back~

The spoon clattered to the table. Short drop, all considered, but my wax had spilled onto the cloth.

‍—You couldn’t have let me know sooner?

A connection was strung between us. I didn’t understand it‍ ‍‍—‍ we had held each other in bed one night, then awoke to the silk on our scalp stuck together and a buzzing in both our skulls. Even when we cut the silk, the buzzing was still in my head, and I knew it was still in yours. It was ours.

In other words: our minds were joined. You had the whole way back to give me an update, and yet you stayed quiet.

‍—It’s cute the way you jump! (You descended the staircase half at a time, two feet on a step before you took the next.)

‍—I was working. You made me spill that work.

‍—Your own fault! You could have checked in on me. (No need to turn my head to know you were sticking out a tongue at me. Or was it a tongue, still?) I wanted to hear from you, y’know…

I sighed. Sacs all down my body inflated and deflated‍ ‍‍—‍ still wasn’t used to that. I heard chitious feet reach the basement stone.

‍—I’m sorry.

I didn’t feel it, not fully‍ ‍‍—‍ but somehow just sending the words made you perk up.

‍—Forgiven! We’ll work on it together, right?

‍—Right (I send.) But this is important. You’re feeling the itch, same as me.

‍—It feels like I’m naked all the time! Even with clothes on…

I turn my attention back to the crafting materials before me, glancing at the page listing the recipe for clay. There had to be a way to craft a better shell for us.

‍—I’d find it.

You were behind me‍ ‍‍—‍ this close, the buzzing of the connection between us, your excitement, was unignorable. You lunge forward and throw hands around me in a hug.

‍—Such a hard worker~ (you send, antennae entwining with mine.) How was the hive while I was gone?

‍—What hive? There’s three of us.

‍—You know what I meannn. Don’t you want to dream big?

‍—I want to dream possible (I replied, then answered you original question.) Anyway, she’s asleep. Or ignoring you.

‍—Then she’s asleep! Mommy would never ignore me.

‍—She will if you keep calling her that.

‍—Am I the only one excited about what we are now?

‍—You say excited, I say foolish. This is the third night you’ve gone out. You’re going to get caught at this rate.

‍—I’m sneaky!

‍—You have to get lucky every time. And you won’t.

‍—So mean! I guess you’re not hungry, then.

‍—I didn’t say that.

‍—Hmph!

I unfurled my proboscis, freeing my mandibles to spread. Gaze turning to where you were leaning over me, my salivating mouth was upturned.

‍—Please? (I sent.) It was the reason you went out, in fact.

‍—I don’t think you deserve it now!

I tilted my head down, apertures spiralling open to gaze wide at you.

‍—I’m sorry for doubting your prowess. Your fangs are the sharpest and your tread is the sneakiest of us all (I lied.)

Your antennae happily bounced up and down.

‍—Glad to see you remember who’s the best around here~

Then, suddenly, your proboscis wrapped around my own, shifting it out the way. Your mandibles, narrow and closed, thrusted into the space between my own and spread me further open. Then your tongue distended. It slithered into my mouth and rubbed against my own, provoking me even as you pulled back.

My tongue followed you out‍ ‍‍—‍ as planned. You twisted your head, and both our lengths flatten, a seal between us, forming two halves of tube.

And then your throat is convulsing, choking wetness retching upward. I scooted my seat farther from the table, giving you space to push forward and loom higher above me.

Regurgitated blood filled your mouth and drippped down our married tongues. I sucked it down, eager to be fed. First I tasted your saliva, bitter with a hint of venom, then finally the warm salt and sour nectar of a blood meal.

Then you pressed your tongue so as to pinch the tube shut, nothing but the barest trickle passing through.

‍—Do you like the taste? (you ask.) Did I hunt well?

‍—Yes, more please!

‍—Mm. Don’t just tell me. I want to hear it.

We paused there‍ ‍‍—‍ I paused there‍ ‍‍—‍ for a moment, mortified by what you’re asking.

‍—C’mon (you urge.) Don’t you need it?

I hummed in my throat, a two‍-​note affirmative.

‍—There you go. More like that. Don’t hide it.

Slowly, partially, you let the trickle of blood increase. The iron taste seeped into my mouth. Oh, finally!

Ah. Air escaped The spiracles lining my chrysoma, core shuddering as the promise nectar quickened its pulse.

‍—That’s a good worker. Drink up all the yummy blood I brought for you!

A whine of annoyance or grunt of need or moan of delight. It was all too fuzzy to me. You provoked me, and I made noises. Hands tugged on my hair, caressing my naked chitin.

‍—Mm! Thank you!

When you pulled away, the air was lined with so much wet and sticky strings, the red‍-​colored excess and spillage from my feeding. My tongue wiggled, outstretched alone in the air; yours was still retreating.

‍—The rest is for mommy, sorry~ But we’ll kiss some more until she wakes up.

‍—I… thank you, but I have work I need to resume.

‍—Mm, but I didn’t ask~ You can’t hide what you really want from me. Now, let’s find out how deep my trunk can go…

I had lost feeling in three fingers on my left hand. Fuzzy‍-​numb, like a ill‍-​fitting mask over the undercurrent of utter throbbing pain. I dare to slip off the glove, just for a glance: farther along than it was yesterday.

Purulent and riddled with little burrow‍-​holes. What looks like flecks of rice cling to the skin all over. Maggots, and they don’t even scurry out of sight when brought into light.

I bring a trembling finger to stroke the outer edge of my palm. A wound runs half down, chewed lengthwise and glued shut with congealed blood and discharge. A finger‍-​nail digs into the flap of skin, and beneath the numb fuzziness, I barely feel the tearing‍-​peeling… though cool air almost brings relief.

Light brings motion, again. Not a grain of rice, this time‍ ‍‍—‍ more like a noodle puffing up after too long in the pot.

“Leave it be, girl.” I look up to see a woman frowning at me. A veil covers her face, eyes occluded, so it’s impossible to tell if her gaze is human. “Keep up like this and you’ll be hopeless when you give over the rest of your flesh.”

My pus‍-​slick fingers flinch away from my infested hand, falling now on the cuff at my wrist. There were no maggots past that point‍ ‍‍—‍ yet.

“Can I get another injection? I can feel it… it stings.” Voice demure, trembling. But I should be screaming at her, at what she’s doing to me.

The rage felt fuzzy and numb.

“Mmm.” I can’t see her expression behind the veil, either. “No. Endure it. Your medicine isn’t a treat for you to indulge in whenever. Remember, pain is your growth. Don’t deny yourself‍ ‍‍—‍ embrace it, darling.” Fingers holding my chin, pinching my chin, pulling my gaze upward. To the veil that scrutinized me and offers nothing back.

(Why numb me at all, then?) I didn’t say it.

“I’m trying,” I said. That concession should mollify. It could get me somewhere.

“You aren’t enough. I can see the weakness on your face. How do you think you’ll fair when they have your arm?”

A shiver down the whole limb. The other hand grabs it to hold it steady, to reveal no further weakness. It wasn’t pain, not really‍ ‍‍—‍ that was still fuzzy numb. But I felt all of those noodles making a meal of blood and ligaments.

I could play piano, once.

“Please,” I say.

Something shifted under her robes, even though both her arms were crossed. “I don’t think you appreciate just how merciful we have been, letting this procede so slowly for you. Has anyone shown you a proper eggsack?” That last word was hissed.

I freeze. It sounds far more dramatic than rice and pasta, to put it lightly. To put it darkly‍ ‍‍—‍ I startle away every night from those dreams. The thought alone rots my idle hours… segments and webs that burst, like great dam eroding‍-​exploding. “That‍ ‍‍—‍ won’t be necessary.”

“We’ll see,” she said. “Pull down your glove again and I assure you it will be. But shall we extend more mercy? Perhaps if you refrain I’ll consider administering another dose.”

I opened my mouth. It took me a moment to find the words. “Thank you.”

The woman turned away, but I felt her softly spit. “Weakness.”

Frailty stood on five legs down by a brood‍-​thrall’s cocoon. Her secondary hands combed claws over waxed silk, while her primaries alternately tightened and insinuated themselves inside the constraints. Throughout it all, she emitted this high‍-​pitched chirping, like the vibrations of serivane transcribed to air.

She felt how the squirming of the brood shifted in response to her calls, and ever slowly, ever gently, ever patiently, she modulated her chittering.

‍—They’re learning nicely (she sent idly over her hive‍-​binding.)

No address on the message, but since I stood at the entrace‍-​way to the chamber, I heard her. Her current thrall had long since foregone any hope of abscixion or fighting off ovirexia, and consequently the larvae luxuriated in their now‍-​free run of the flesh.

If only the silk weren’t here, then you could see how little meat was left, bare scraps not turned to a nesting for this budding colony.

Beautiful how the young to could pull themselves together, such tiny worms reducing even the resolutely exscient to quivering puddle.

And then she chittered softly again, almost cooing in that frequency modulated whirr.

‍—Doesn’t that get old? (I sent.)

‍—Hm?

‍—This rote manner of communication, to entiotes not yet parascix, and incapable of holding a conversation. It seems lice‍-​numbing.

Frailty withdrew one of her hands. Between her fingers, she held a long and protuberate form, tiny legs curling in the air and mouth of primitive mouthparts clicking. A sheen of blood and bile glimmered in the mingled light of the two chrylurk’s shimmerbugs.

‍—Isn’t it adorable? (She strokes the larva’s body, then chitters sharply: in response it wiggles.) You’re telling me you’d get tired of this?

‍—It’s nice to watch them grow (I say.) I only meant the calling. How many times have you repeated that Liiine? Bound. Slackkk? All so extruciatingly slowly.

‍—You know there’s no counting it, dear. (She sent, slipping the larva back into the cocoon when it started to whine.)

‍—Exactly (I said.) My condolences, I guess. I know it has to be done.

Frailty fixed me with gaze of narrowed apertures and crossed antennae.

‍—Does it ever get old? Draping yourself in imitation‍-​flesh and repeating all the excruciating rituals that passes for manners among mortals? How many times have you answered the same questions, told the same lies, circling on the same worries? (The nurse turned away, bending down to give the brood‍-​thrall a kiss of tongue and teeth.) My condolences. I guess. I know it has to be done.

‍—Cute, but that isn’t the same. It’s a new puzzle every day, hardly a repetition.

‍—Do you think every thrall is the same?

‍—We have silk and venom to make them well‍-​behaved. Outside the hive? The will’s work demands more cunning. Every word could be your undoing.

‍—And is that not the most exhausting prospect? Give me my exy thralls any day.

My scalp buzzed as I thought of a response.

Frailty secured a blinding veil over the face of the thrall, then rose to her full height. She send another message before I articulated mine.

‍—Now, what was it you actually wanted, Opacity? Surely not just an argument.

…My scape was buzzing again.