They drop out of the sky like bombs and weave between the high stalks, pollen falling around them like bright summer snow. Ryold shrugs his lance higher. His hummingbird’s wings churn the air into blur.
They fall into formation for the approach. Briawn, his second, shouts at him through a leaf-cone. “What’s the twenty on Gold Squadron?” she bellows.
“They should be coming in a few seconds before us. Eyes open.”
There is a calm, the canopy of flowers beautiful in the sun.
Then the fray, into the clearing, and the air thickens with buzzing. Above, the Hive looms.