Darkness. The nest is empty except for the nectar pots I managed to make. The world is small, fringed in this vicious smell, darkened by heavy clouds. I don’t understand. I clamber through the dried moss and scraps of fur I found in here. It keeps me warm, provides padding for my brood. I laid days ago and keeping the eggs warm takes everything from me. I nestle on top of them, shivering my flight muscles to keep them warm. My antennae burn with fear-scent, the too-close fragrance of other bees nearby, of petal-winged insects hatched too soon. Something’s wrong. I’m tired, but the vicious smell at the edge of the world keeps me awake, urges me to lay and brood and work.
Outside, the scent changes. The ground vibrates with something huge approaching. I tense. Poison gathers on my sting. E
