The swarm didn't expect a flank.
Especially not from a screaming, spell-chanting, scythe-wielding army of three thousand robed maniacs, all charging down the southern slope like divine vengeance incarnate.
The ants shrieked in some alien chorus as the cultists crashed into their rear lines, spells exploding, blades flashing. The Stranger himself rode in at the front, swinging a crescent-shaped weapon that looked more ceremonial than practical—but still somehow cleaved through chitin like wet paper.
He screamed, "WITH RIGHTEOUS MADNESS! FOR THE OVERLORD!"
The cultists echoed back:
"FOR THE OVERLORD!"
"FOR THE CHAIN OF SHADOWS!"
"FOR HIS BEAUTIFULLY TIRED BUT DIVINELY GUIDED MORTAL FORM!"
…Darin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Oh, gods, I'm going to have to address this later, aren't I."
Then reality twisted.
A soft snap rang through the air, no louder than breaking a twig, and six figures appeared in front of Darin in a flash of violet light.
