Eleven days. One week since Madamaron was slain and the Hasharana left in the dead of night, taking the entire tavern with her.

  There’d been no deaths since then.

  Dahlia’s second month and second week in the Sharaji Oasis Town began as usual with the ring of the morning bell. Camels bleated outside, the elders threw the window flaps open, the shopkeepers and stall owners trudged out their sandstone houses to set up their wares by the bazaar, yawning and greeting each other with their hands interlocked in prayers. The quiet hubbub would soon grow into the familiar hustle and bustle, but Dahlia had been given a room right next to the chief’s house, which meant she didn’t really need the bell or the sounds of the bazaar to wake up—the chief’s daughter pounded on her front door as usual to eat breakfast together, so she rolled off her bed, rubbing her eyes groggily as she did.

  Issam muttered.

  Being curt with her appearance—only washing her short curly hair and dousing her face with cold water by the windowsill—she quickly threw on her mantle and opened the door to let the girl in. Breakfast was as usual: a plate of pita bread with fava beans, a dipping of olive oil, and a side of aromatic vegetables. It was way more food than she was used to, but when the chief stepped in a moment later and bowed, she figured she couldn’t let the food go to waste. She cleaned her plate slowly as the chief chatted about all things related to the town, mentioning how they were planning on reestablishing trade routes with nearby oasis towns now that Madamaron was no longer a threat.

  Dahlia was only half-listening as she ate, and her mind, as usual, was somewhere off in the gutters.

  The breakfast wasn’t as good as Safi’s beetle meat sandwiches.

  Amula grumbled, sighing behind her ear as she forced herself to stuff down the last pita bread.

  After breakfast, she quickly excused herself and raced out for work. There was no longer a need for her to work multiple jobs, really—Smith Jaleel had offered her a full-time apprenticeship at the forge—but she wanted to stay physically active, and there was no better job for that than pulling reeds from the oasis under the scorching sun. By the time she got to the oasis farmers’ storage house, Mushariff Idan was already waiting for her with eight extra large buckets; he grinned at her to make him some profit, and she smiled softly back, getting her morning stretches in as she walked out to the oasis.

  Raya muttered, sounding sorely disappointed as she kicked off her sandals and waded into the water, greeting the other farmers a good morning.

  Ayla said.

  Aylee said.

  Raya mumbled.

  A smack. The twin sisters smacked Raya on the back of the head, telling him to shut up.

  Amula said, a slight jubilance to her voice.

  The three of them squabbled behind her as the morning hours ticked by, and then it was noon. She filled up her eight buckets and waded out of the oasis to turn them in, and along with her usual pay, Idan asked if she wanted to have lunch with the rest of them. The platters the waitresses from the communal kitchens brought into the storage house certainly delicious: they were plates of hollowed vegetables stuffed with rice, ground meat, and spices. There were even grilled kebabs for her to choose from, so she went for a few skewers before racing off, apologising for not being able to eat with them.

  A part of it was because she wanted to eat on the way to the forge, but another part of it was because if she stayed to eat with them, they’d definitely make her try out the hollowed vegetables as well—and those just weren’t as good as Safi’s locust meat stews.

  Passing through the busy streets, she squeezed into the forge and was immediately blasted with a wave of heat. Smith Jaleel was already handling the anvil on the left, accepting a line of requests so long the people wound twice around the building, but the anvil on the right was empty; it was hers to handle, and there was already a separate line of requests so long the people wound around the building, even spilling out into the narrow back alleys.

  Smith Jaleel chastised her, telling her to quit the farming job so she could work here in the morning as well, but she deflected his offer as usual as she strung on her blacksmith’s apron. It was a woven prototype made by the chief’s late husband, and it was some sort of beetle elytra fabric—extremely breathable, extremely heat resistant, and also super light on her body. It wasn’t the prettiest, but nobody who queued up for her anvil was looking her, anyways.

  If there was one thing that’d changed in the Oasis Town apart from the death of Madamaron, it was that the townsfolk were beginning to accept, once again, the value of Swarmsteel in their daily lives.

  The adaptable, painless locust leg prosthetic she’d made for the chief’s daughter had attracted many curious eyes, and now wanted a little something to spruce themselves up with. As it turned out, most households actually had a few spare insect parts lying around gathering dust, so people came to her in broken Alshifa Tongue asking for very specific things to be made; she took each and every last one of their requests to heart, occasionally asking Smith Jaleel to translate just to be sure she knew what they wanted made.

  Filling up her request checklist and clearing out the line was the first thing she did, and only once people stopped rushing in to make a request did she hang the checklist on a hook, scanning the items over to decide what she should start her afternoon with.

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  Nodding absentmindedly, she reached into the crate of insect parts—everything donated by the townsfolk who had those lying around—and began tossing most of the bigger pieces into the fire behind her. The larger items required more time to heat up, so while she waited for them to glow bright orange, she picked out a few of the smaller pieces to start hand-moulding them into what the townsfolk requested: a sand scorpion hammer that could inject venom into the material it was hitting to weaken its integrity, a fan made of cicada wings that had a natural sand-repelling effect, and a canteen made from a hollowed-out wasp abdomen with a natural purification effect.

  Amula said, humming as she worked the raw insect parts on the anvil with her bare hands; she had more than enough strength to knead the softer parts like bread dough, as well as the dexterity to not break them in the process.

  Raya grumbled.

  Ayla scolded.

  More whacks resounded behind her as she clenched her jaw, focusing on making each and every Swarmsteel as perfect as she could make them. It didn’t matter how ‘boring’ some of them were. To the people that’d come by and pick them up later, they’d be Swarmsteel madefor that one person, and there could be no better Swarmsteel than that. She’d be sure to tell them how to use their Swarmsteel as well, just to keep them from coming back in a few days asking for repairs—she was already busy enough as was.

  Eria reminded her.

  Just in time. She finished the last of her smaller Swarmsteels and immediately tossed those aside to a workbench, whirling around to yank the glowing-hot insect plates out of the furnace. She still winced a little whenever she grabbed the glowing components with her bare hands, but maybe it was a small trait of the assassin bug class, not even worthy of mentioning on her status screen—it was like the nerves in her palms were almost completely immune to the sensation of heat now. Farming under the sun burned her more than the superheated components, so, with great speed, she began moulding them while stealing glances at her checklist.

  To Raya’s disappointment, none of them were weapons or apparel people could meld with, but… she was more than okay with that. Making daily life amenities was soothing. It was calming. The afternoon hours passed by with the sound of Smith Jaleel hammering his own projects to the side, and while she was certainly sweaty and exhausted by twilight, it wasn’t nerve-wracking making Swarmsteel she wasn’t going to hurt anyone. The townsfolk were her neighbours, and this was her home, her ‘kari’; she didn’t want to accidentally hurt anyone with her Swarmsteel like she had with her first prosthetic for the chief’s daughter.

  She was fine with pain herself, but the townsfolk weren’t queuing up before her anvil for it.

  Alice’s words lingered in her head as she finished her work for the afternoon, sitting back against the furnace on a stool as Smith Jaleel tossed her a canteen. They were both done with their requests for yesterday, so come early next morning, all her completed Swarmsteel sitting in a crate to her right would be shipped out by the local couriers. After all, she was just the Maker, not the deliverer. She couldn’t even remember the faces of the people who’d requested her items; they were all just names on a checklist, and she remembered their Swarmsteel more than the person themselves.

  So when Smith Jaleel asked if she wanted to go out and have dinner with the rest of the townsfolk before coming back to resume their work for the evening, she declined politely, saying she’d watch the forge to make sure none of the kids could wander in and mess up their arrangements.

  “You’re a kid, too,” was what Smith Jaleel said as he ducked out of the forge, leaving her alone in the forge with a warm, crackling fire behind her.

  And as she sat against the furnace, staring at the crate of spare insect parts she wasn’t even to emptying over the next few weeks, she felt the same empty pit writhing inside her.

  What was she even so moody about this time?

  Madamaron was slain, the whimsical Hasharana was gone, the townsfolk had more or less accepted her into their fold. She even had a stable job, a stable income, and a stable house to live in; wasn’t this the ‘peace’ on the surface she’d promised to enjoy with the people of Alshifa?

  Issam said, and her ears perked slightly as he said that. Of all the voices in her head, he was the last one she expected to just say it outright.

  The weight on her shoulders became even heavier, and she swallowed hard, looking down at her black chitin hands.

  They were sharp as all hell.

  They could cut way, tougher insect parts than what the townsfolk were giving her.

  Raya whispered.

  Amula breathed.

  Aylee said, and Ayla finished,

  She was just about to open her mouth and speak when the forge rumbled, making hammers and chisels fall off their hooks on the walls. Crates tipped over, spilling raw insect parts everywhere. The fire behind her belched and flared for a brief moment before dimming, and she shot to her feet with a sinking feeling in her gut.

  Killing pressure.

  killing pressure.

  She didn’t need telling twice, dashing out just as the firefly lantern in the forge fell off its hook, shattering against the floor and letting the captive firefly go free… and it wasn’t just the forge that was rumbling.

  Jumping onto the roof of a neighbouring building, she scowled at the sight of the entire Oasis Town reverberating under the quakes—sandstone buildings swaying precariously, the oasis itself rippling violently, waves splashing against the banks. It’d been clear skies just moments ago as well, but now a sandstorm was churning out of nowhere, visibility plummeting as swirls of sand whipped through the town. It was dark. Moonlight could barely pierce through the storm. Dahlia had to pull her scarf up just to breathe properly, but without goggles, the only thing she could see were the faint outlines of the town and the few orange torches and braziers that’d yet to be blown out.

  Confusion erupted in the streets. Doors flew open as people raced from their houses, shouts filling the air, disoriented by the quaking ground and the blinding storm. Dahlia’s heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the shouts and cries as she felt she remembered this exact quake before–

  And then the oasis far in front of her exploded upwards in a spray of water and debris. The sound was deafening, but the monstrous silhouette that emerged from it, flying high into the air above the town, silenced every panicking voice in an instant.

  Dahlia herself stayed perched on her roof, eyes wide with disbelief as she studied the dark, blurry silhouette of the giant insect. The sandstorm wrapped around it, concealing its form in a shifting veil of grit and shadow, but she could vaguely tell: it was eight metres tall, its four wings were glassy and translucent, and it had sleek, angular limbs, unlike the bulky and clumsy-looking Mutant-Class antlion nymph she’d fought back in the undertown ruin. It was humanlike, but not human. Its four arms and two legs hovering far above the town didn’t fool her for a second.

  If nothing else, its glowing, beady red eyes that glared down at all of them like twin suns in the darkness told her it was the desert’s evil god—a Mutant antlion, full-grown, wings flapping so fast it made a sandstorm swirl around it.

  That Mutant-Class she’d fought in the undertown ruin was just an antlion nymph.

  And Madamaron, the Destroyer, had come to avenge its child.