Aggranox ground his teeth, the sound echoing softly in the dark, but he did not argue. He glared at the tame beast.

  The lead Keeper didn't celebrate the victory. Instead, he scrambled down the side of the tame Voragath, dropping into the knee-high muck with a wet splash. He waded toward the two demon lords, his movements labored in the thick sludge, keeping his head low and wringing his spindly hands together.

  "My lord Vorgrul," the Keeper squeaked, his voice trembling slightly. "A clarification on the orders, if you would. Sovereign Dagrimor... he requires, many?"

  Vorgrul looked down, his crimson face unreadable. "Dagrimor requires them all, Keeper. Every shell in this cavern is to be bound and marched to the walls of Shatterdeep."

  The Keeper flinched as if struck. He looked back at the dozen other Keepers, who were currently securing the chains on the newly captured muscle. They looked exhausted already.

  "All of them?" the Keeper whispered, the color draining from his face. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Vorgrul's gaze. "My lord... with respect... that is suicide."

  Aggranox stepped forward, the mud squelching under his feet. "Careful, imp. You are speaking to the Court."

  "I speak only of the craft!" the Keeper pleaded, stepping back but holding his ground. "To tame the remaining creatures in this cavern... it is beyond us. We do not have the numbers. The harmonic web we weave... it is fragile. Holding many minds is dangerous."

  He gestured wildly to the cavern, where the other rocky mounds still slept under the crawling light of the Glimmer-Mites.

  "To have many Voragaths in one space, all fighting the song, all confused? The dissonance will shatter the control. If one breaks free while we are binding another, it will wake the rest. This cavern will turn into a meat grinder, my lord."

  Vorgrul remained silent, his yellow eyes processing the risk. He looked at the creatures, calculating the weight of the Keeper's words against the weight of Dagrimor's anger.

  "The risk is noted," Vorgrul rumbled. "But the Master demands an army."

  "And I can give you one!" the Keeper countered quickly. "A controllable one. Let us take seven more from this deep. Just seven. That gives us the one at Shatterdeep, the two we have here, and seven fresh hulls. Ten. Ten, my lord."

  The Keeper held up his hands, framing the number in the air.

  "Ten Voragaths can be spaced out. They can be managed by the details we have. Ten is a siege-breaking force that will crumble any army. Anymore than that will kill us all before we even reach the surface."

  Aggranox scoffed, crossing his thick arms. "He bargains like a coward. We should throw him to the grunts and find a handler with a stronger spine."

  "No," Vorgrul said softly, raising a hand to silence the brown demon. "He speaks with the caution of a master craftsman, Aggranox. A trait you would do well to learn."

  Vorgrul looked at the Keeper, his expression hardening.

  "Seven more," Vorgrul stated, the word carrying the weight of a final judgment. "You will give me seven living, combat-ready siege weapons. If you fail to secure even one of those seven, Keeper... I will feed you to the mites slowly."

  The Keeper let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for minutes. He bowed so low his nose touched the wet slime-mold.

  "Seven more titans," the Keeper promised, scrambling back toward his line of musicians. "It shall be done. Thank you my lord, Vorgrul."

  Vorgrul watched him go, then turned to Aggranox.

  "Ten monsters are enough, brother," Vorgrul murmured. "And if Dagrimor questions the yield, I will deal with him when the situation arises."

  The process was grueling. It was less like taming animals and more like defusing a series of living bombs.

  Hours bled into the damp dark of the cavern. The Keepers worked with a frantic, sweating desperation, moving from mound to mound. The dissonance of the bone flutes became a constant, headache-inducing drone that vibrated in Aggranox's teeth.

  One by one, the giants fell.

  Third. Fourth. Fifth.

  Each capture followed the same tense ritual: the isolation, the confusion, and finally, the heavy clank of control chains being hammered into chitin. The procession grew, a line of lumbering siege engines waiting in the fog.

  They had secured more than half of their qouta. The Keepers were exhausted, their breath hitching in the thick air, their fingers cramping on the instruments.

  "Two more," Vorgrul commanded, his voice tight. "Take that pair near the ridge, and we are done."

  The detail moved in. They circled the final two slumbering Voragaths. The Keepers raised their flutes, weaving the sonic web with desperate haste. The creatures twitched, their resistance crumbling under the assault, and the handlers scrambled up to hammer the final control spikes into place.

  "Chains secured!" a Keeper gasped. "That makes seven fresh hulls. We have the quota!"

  Then, the water in the puddles began to dance.

  It wasn't the rhythmic footstep of a walking Voragath. It was a tremor, a deep, resonant thrum that seemed to come from the very roots of the mountain.

  Aggranox looked toward the far end of the cavern, where the bioluminescent fungi faded into absolute, crushing black. "What is that?"

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  The lead Keeper lowered his flute, his ears twitching wildly. His eyes dilated until they were entirely black, fixed on the darkness.

  "Bad..." the Keeper mumbled, the words spilling out in a frantic, quiet stream. "Bad, very bad. Must move. Quickly, quickly, we need to leave."

  "What are you babbling about?" Aggranox snapped.

  "The breath..." the Keeper hissed, backing away, his spindly hands trembling. "Do you not hear it? The air is moving."

  From the abyss beyond the light, a wind picked up. A heavy gust of warm, rotting air blew out of the dark, physically pushing the layer of white fog back like a tide.

  The Keeper shrieked, abandoning all protocol. "RETREAT! GET THEM MOVING! NOW!"

  It was too late.

  From the abyss, a shape emerged. It flowed, displacing the fog like a ship's bow cutting through water. A Sire Voragath, an alpha of the deeps. It was easily thirty feet tall, a mountain of scarred, ancient shell that dwarfed the others. Its armor was a pale, ghostly white, thick with centuries of calcium deposits, and its eyes were milky and blind.

  It didn't need eyes. It had heard the flutes.

  The Alpha opened its maw, revealing rows of grinding plates, and let out a sound that wasn't a roar. It was a counter-frequency, a bass-heavy boom that hit the cavern like a physical shockwave.

  The sound smashed into the harmonic web the Keepers were maintaining.

  The two newly chained Voragaths convulsed. The alpha's command warred with the flute song in their simple minds. They didn't wake up fully, but they didn't stay docile. They began to buck and thrash against the fresh iron, their powerful legs sloshing around in the muck.

  "Hold them!" the lead Keeper screamed, even as he scrambled backward through the mud. "Do not let the lines break! Drag them if you must!"

  The cavern erupted into chaos. The alpha roared again, stepping closer, its dominant mind pulling the wills of the wild ones to it. The sleeping mounds across the cavern began to shift and rise, dozens of yellow eyes snapping open in the dark.

  "Aggranox, move!" Vorgrul bellowed.

  The red demon didn't wait for a debate. He grabbed the chains of the thrashing rear-guard pair. His muscles bulged, veins popping against his red skin as he physically hauled the confused, resisting monsters around.

  "March! Toward the gate! Now!"

  Aggranox stood his ground for a split second, staring at the thirty-foot white nightmare emerging from the fog. The alpha turned its blind, scarred head directly toward him. For a moment, Aggranox wanted to test it.

  "Do not be a hero, fool!" Vorgrul roared, shoving a retreating Voragath forward so hard that it stumbled. "We have the prize! Leave the rest!"

  The creatures were panic-stricken. They were caught between the flutes and the call of their sire. Every ounce of the Keepers' skill and the lords' strength was needed to keep the column moving.

  Aggranox spat on the floor, turned, and ran.

  The retreat was a frantic, thundering stampede. The Keepers herded the new collection toward the tunnel mouth, their flutes played a desperate, high-pitched tune to drown out the sire's call.

  Behind them, the Weeping Deep woke up. The alpha's roar was joined by the calls of dozens. Clicking mandibles and grinding stone chased them toward the Cyclops Gate.

  The tunnel shook.

  The mountain vibrated under the alpha’s earth-moving stride. Dust and shale rained from the ceiling. Gray grit coated the retreating column.

  The retreat was a blur of panic. Terrified by the roar behind them, the newly captured Voragaths surged forward. Their speed defied their bulk. Keepers clung to chitinous ridges like ticks. Their flutes played a shrill, frantic tempo.

  "Move!" Vorgrul bellowed, his voice cutting through the din. He ran at the rear guard, his massive legs eating up the ground.

  They burst out of the dark, popping into the light of the Titan's Heel like a cork from a pressurized bottle.

  The lead Voragath skidded on loose gravel. It nearly fell. Handlers whipped it around, steering the stampede toward the plains. The beasts spilled out, heavy feet churning ash into a cloud of dust.

  Aggranox skidded to a halt. He spun to face the opening.

  "The wedge!" Vorgrul roared. He pointed to the iron-reinforced stone block. "Clear the track!"

  Aggranox didn't lift it. He lunged. Pivoting his hips, he delivered a piston-like kick into the stone. The impact pulverized the wedge. Granite shards exploded like shrapnel.

  "Now! Push!" Vorgrul screamed, slamming his shoulder against the rim of the gate.

  Aggranox joined him. The lords braced their feet against the ash. Muscles coiled and snapped under the strain.

  From the darkness, the roar grew deafening. The ghostly white sire was visible now. It barreled toward the light, a juggernaut of ancient rage.

  "HEAVE!"

  Aggranox and Vorgrul roared in unison. The door lurched. It picked up speed, rolling along the carved groove with a momentum that felt agonizingly slow against the approaching monster.

  The Alpha was closing in as the door rolled past the halfway mark. It lunged, its terrifying white claws reaching for the sliver of light remaining.

  The Cyclops Gate slammed home, sliding into its locking groove with a sound like a thunderclap.

  An instant later, the entire cliff face shuddered. A dull, heavy impact vibrated through the stone door as the alpha collided with the barrier from the inside. Dust geysered from the cracks in the rock, and the ground beneath their feet jumped.

  Then, silence.

  Or close to it. Muffled by tons of solid rock, the enraged roars of the hive were reduced to a dull, rhythmic thumping, like the heartbeat of the mountain itself.

  Aggranox slumped against the stone door, his chest heaving, his brown skin slick with sweat and grime. He looked at the closed seal, then down at his hands, which were trembling with fear.

  Vorgrul stood upright, dusting the ash from his bone armor. He looked out at the wasteland, where the Keepers were corralling the panicked Voragaths into a semblance of a formation.

  He looked down at his younger counterpart, a rare, dry amusement flickering in his yellow eyes.

  "Compose yourself, Aggranox. It is not often you meet something that makes you look like the runt."

  Aggranox shot him a withering glare, pushing himself off the wall with a grunt of irritation. He refused to answer, straightening himself out.

  Vorgrul ignored the pout. He turned his attention to the chaotic scene on the plains. The dust was settling, and the Voragaths fell into a controlled, lumbering line.

  "We have our prize," Vorgrul announced, his voice carrying over the wind to the exhausted work crew. "All of you, job well done."

  He scanned the group until his eyes landed on the lead Keeper, who was currently checking the chains on a particularly agitated Voragath.

  "You," Vorgrul commanded, beckoning with a single claw. "Come here."

  The lead Keeper froze. He looked around, then pointed to his own chest. When Vorgrul nodded, the small demon scurried over, his spindly legs shaking. He stopped a few feet away, bowing low, expecting to be executed for the chaotic nature of the retreat.

  "My lord," the Keeper squeaked, staring at the ground. "I... I apologize for the disorder. The sire... it was unexpected..."

  "Raise your head," Vorgrul said.

  The Keeper looked up, flinching as Vorgrul moved. But the demon lord didn't strike. Instead, he dropped to one knee, bringing his crimson face down to the Keeper's eye level. The movement caused the ground to shudder.

  "What is your name, Keeper?" Vorgrul asked.

  "Krix, My Lord," the imp stammered. "My name is Krix."

  "Well, Krix," Vorgrul rumbled, a strange warmth in his tone. "I have seen many of your kind cower before the Court. I have seen warlords with less spine than you showed in that cave. You stood your ground. You spoke your truth, even though we may have disagreed at first."

  Vorgrul reached out. His hand was large enough to crush Krix's skull like a grape, but he placed it atop the Keeper's head. He patted him, a gesture of genuine approval.

  "I will be speaking to Dagrimor personally regarding your performance today," Vorgrul promised.

  Krix's eyes went wide, filling with moisture. To be recognized by a true red was a glory he hadn't imagined in a thousand years of servitude. He began to tremble, not from fear, but from overwhelming emotion.

  "You have earned this praise, small one," Vorgrul said, offering a rare smile. "Bask in it."

  He stood up, towering over the imp once more.

  "Now," Vorgrul commanded, pointing toward Shatterdeep. "Move your column, Krix. We have a citadel to protect."