Orin Tal moved through Amber Spoke 12 with a crisp, practiced stride, his gaze as sharp as his polished Civility Order badge. The bustling Spoke was alive with the familiar cacophony of hive life—vendors hawking wares, laughter echoing from dim alleyways, and the occasional squabble breaking out over prices or space. Orin took it all in with a mixture of pride and, frankly, a touch of disdain. The Hive, in all its ordered chaos, was a magnificent thing to look upon. But some parts, like this one, could really do with a better class of people.

He adjusted his badge—the sleek black-and-gold crest of an Educator—a title that wasn't just a title, but a well-earned reason for people to get out of his way. Orin enjoyed the flicker of recognition, even a little fear, that he saw as he walked by. The more ordinary citizens in their drab, honey-dusted clothing averted their eyes, hastily adjusting their cheap jackets or shifting their bags as they cleared his path. As they should, he thought with satisfaction.

Spoke 12 was a crowded labyrinth of apartments and narrow lanes, where the structures of honeyed amber and dark, resinous stone stretched upward like haphazard stacks, each story layered with balconies cluttered by hanging laundry and potted nectar blooms. Rusty, honey-powered cars buzzed by in jerky stops and starts, their faded exteriors plastered with advertising posters, political graffiti, and the occasional prayer to the Queen Monarch herself. Orin winced as one sputtered a bit too close, emitting a thick cloud of golden exhaust. Couldn't they even afford basic upkeep? It was hardly a wonder these lower Spokes were always a step away from outright collapse.

As he passed a grand mural of the Queen Monarch herself—rendered in sweeping strokes of amber and gold that practically glowed under the warm streetlights—Orin took a moment to pause. Her serene eyes seemed to look directly at him, and though Orin wasn't the pious type, he nodded respectfully and muttered, "May Her Vision flow through all." Personally, he'd rather they left the flowing to someone else; his vision was sharp enough, and he liked it right where it was—focused on his own rise up the ranks.

Just past the mural, a cluster of freshly posted bounty posters caught his eye. Ah, the Hive's most wanted. Orin couldn't resist pausing to take in the familiar rogues' gallery.

"Lennor Blight, aka The Blightmaker - 800 Nectar Credits," he read with a smirk. "Impressive." The man's sharp-eyed, scarred face stared back from the poster, with a sneer Orin found almost charming, though Lennor was known to smuggle nectar-based hallucinogens into the Pollen Quadrant, a breach of Hive law that gave Orin pause. "Going against the hive just for some drugs typical of the worker class" he thought, amused.

Next was "Mira Caste - 400 Nectar Credits." A haunted-looking former harvester with hollow eyes, Mira had allegedly aligned herself with the Swarm, the rebel faction under Lord Vespa. The Swarm's taste for sabotage had spread misery to a few too many good Hive neighborhoods, and Orin didn't appreciate that. As he studied her ghostly expression, he thought, "Hard to believe someone that skinny could be a threat." He knew better than to underestimate her, though; she had eluded the Civility Order for months, which was enough to earn his grudging respect.

Then came "Fenn Irid - 500 Nectar Credits," a tattooed brute with fists the size of hammers, wanted for assaulting a fellow Educator. Carved into the wall near the crime scene had been the words "FOR THE RECLAIMERS." Orin frowned. The Reclaimers were a thorn in the Hive's side, a faction of lower-caste sympathizers who clung to the ridiculous notion that life could be better if the Queen's authority was "reclaimed" by the people. Orin scoffed at the idea. If the lower castes had the faintest idea how to manage themselves, they wouldn't need him and the Civility Order instructing them in the first place.

Satisfied he had memorized the latest bounties, he continued on toward his destination: a small, but respectable café on the edge of the Spoke. The place had decent honeybean coffee, and as Orin stepped up to the counter, he gave the barista a short, crisp nod. The worker, wearing a slightly frayed apron with swirling tattoos marking his guild affiliation, kept his eyes politely lowered. Orin made a mental note of the tattoo pattern, though he found he couldn't quite place the guild. "Is it the Weaver's Guild? Or maybe a Forager?" he wondered, then shook his head. "Well, it hardly matters if he can make a proper coffee."

He took his drink to a nearby table, where a discarded copy of The Hive Gazette lay, the ink and pollen-stained pages promising fresh headlines. He settled in with a sip of the rich, dark brew, scanning the front page.

"New Tensions in the Outskirts: Reclaimer Sightings Increasing," blared one headline. Accompanying it was a grainy image of several shadowed figures behind stacks of wax blocks, a look of quiet defiance in their stances. The Civility Order was, of course, preparing a new educational initiative for the lower castes to remind them of their duties to the Hive. "More 'education,'" he thought with a smirk. "Just what they need. If they didn't get it the first time, they'll get it with twice the vigor."

Another headline read, "Honey Drought Continues: Nectar Shortages Threaten the Lower Spokes." Orin's brow furrowed. The report blamed work disruptions and "unruly elements"—in other words, the usual nonsense—but Orin sensed the truth went deeper. He'd seen people hoarding nectar in quantities that couldn't be explained by a mere "drought." The whole system was too delicately balanced. If these shortages kept up, he'd be drinking bitter root tea like the lower castes by next year, and that simply wouldn't do.

A final headline, "Temple of the Golden Flow Celebrates High Convergence," described the upcoming festival. The Temple, a towering structure near the heart of the Hive, was the spiritual and political nexus of the Queen Monarch's power. High Convergence was a festival meant to unite the Hive in faith, but Orin knew all too well it was also a time for dissent. Where there were crowds, there were rumors, and where there were rumors, there was rebellion.

As he flipped through the smaller announcements, one in particular caught his eye: "Swarm Activity in the Northern Reaches - Rogue Honeyfiends on the Loose." He grimaced at the mention of the Honeyfiends, those nectar-maddened former Hive soldiers who had succumbed to the monstrous rage that Lord Vespa somehow managed to weaponize. "Disgusting," he muttered to himself, thinking of the rogue creatures roaming the Hive's outskirts, barely distinguishable from animals. If they weren't such a threat, he'd almost pity them. Almost.

After a few more sips, Orin checked his timepiece. It was nearly time for his meeting with Director Selva, a Senior Order Official known for her no-nonsense approach. She was, by all accounts, a woman as ruthless as she was ambitious—qualities Orin could appreciate. He'd been waiting months for a chance at promotion, for the opportunity to rise from his standard education post into strategic planning sessions, where real power lay. Today was his shot, and he wasn't about to squander it.

As he drained the last of his honeybean coffee, savoring the warm bitterness, he rose with a confidence that came naturally to him. He glanced one last time at the crowd in Amber Spoke 12, the noise and movement blending into a tapestry of organized chaos. These people might live their lives unaware, ignorant, and ungrateful, but it was his duty—and privilege—to keep them in line. With a final glance at the people moving through the bustling city streets, Orin turned and walked toward the Civility Order's central hub, already picturing himself at a new desk, leading his own team.

Orin had barely settled into the austere waiting room of the Civility Order's central hub when the doors swung open, admitting the sharp click of heels against polished resin floors. Director Selva entered with a presence that drew silence. Dressed in the sleek, dark tunic of the Senior Order, her expression was as refined and unreadable as always, her movements measured and precise. She approached with a glance that could weigh and judge in a single flicker.

"Orin Tal," she said in greeting, her voice smooth, almost warm, though he knew better than to let his guard down. "Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice."

Orin inclined his head, a flawless blend of modesty and self-assurance. "Director Selva, it's always a privilege to be summoned at a moment's notice. Though if I may say so, I'm beginning to suspect the Hive would come to a screeching halt without my services."

Selva's eyebrow twitched, but she refrained from rising to his bait—a sign of the control she likely spent years cultivating in response to Orin himself. A worthy adversary, he mused. Her self-restraint was one of the reasons he tolerated these meetings.

"Today's assignment, Orin, is particularly delicate," she continued, maintaining her practiced calm. "The Princess Elaris is departing for a temporary stay in the Ferran Outpost."

"Ah, Ferran. A delightful cell," Orin replied with a smirk, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Where nectar is scarce, loyalty even scarcer, and the locals enjoy a good grumble about the Queen Monarch's 'overreach.' I assume Her Highness is looking to take in the sights?"

Selva ignored his quip, though a faint tension in her jaw betrayed her irritation. "The Princess requested an Educator with... experience handling less structured environments. Ferran, as you're aware, has a reputation for nonconformity. Given her... curiosity about Hive dynamics, she'll need someone to provide both guidance and oversight."

"So I'm to be her chaperone? Interesting. But let's be clear, Director—when you say 'curiosity,' I assume you mean a tendency to ask inconvenient questions." Orin let the corner of his mouth curl in a knowing smile. "Questions that the Civility Order would prefer she not dwell on?"

"Precisely," Selva replied, her voice clipped. "Her Highness's curiosity could be misinterpreted by... certain elements within Ferran. Elements that might see her interest as an invitation to undermine her loyalties."

Orin tapped his chin, putting on a mock-serious expression. "Ah, yes, the Reclaimers, the Swarm sympathizers, the usual cast of miscreants. It sounds as if you're worried she'll be led astray by one of Ferran's charming ideologues. Perhaps a rogue beekeeper or a poet with revolutionary tendencies?" He feigned a shiver. "Dangerous people, poets."

Selva's gaze sharpened. "We do not take this lightly, Orin. The Princess has a duty to the Hive, one that must not be compromised. You're to keep her focused on approved studies—nectar flows, caste dynamics, structural reinforcement. If she shows too much interest in... unconventional perspectives, you are to redirect her. Firmly."

He nodded, the hint of a smirk still playing at his lips. "Of course, Director. I'll be a paragon of virtue, and I'll make sure the Princess sees the wonders of Ferran through the most appropriate, Civility Order-approved lens."

As they walked on, the air grew heavier, Selva's tone even sharper. "Ferran is volatile. I expect no slip-ups, no deviations from protocol."

Orin's smirk faded, if only slightly. "Understood. If anyone is foolish enough to try to 'enlighten' her Highness on the joys of rebellion, I'll make sure they're disappointed."

"And one more thing," Selva added, her voice dropping low. "The Princess has a keen mind. She's bound to question things—she's too observant not to. So it will take more than patronizing platitudes to keep her loyal. Find a way to make her believe, Orin. If she strays from the Queen's path, Ferran won't be the only problem."

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Orin frowned slightly, sensing more unsaid implications beneath her words. The Queen's daughters rarely left the central Hive, and when they did, it was under tightly controlled circumstances. Why Ferran, and why now? Yet, he understood enough not to question the decision directly.

Selva gave him a steady look. "Your reputation, Orin, precedes you. The Princess requires an Educator with a unique touch, someone with the finesse to guide her, but also the awareness to protect her from ideas that could... disrupt her understanding of Hive unity."

"Of course," Orin replied carefully, meeting her gaze. He knew what she meant by "disrupt"—the Reclaimers' philosophies, the whispers of the Swarm, the honey-drenched lies promising 'freedom' from the caste system.

"You will act not only as her Educator but as her eyes and ears," Selva continued. "The Princess has expressed a curiosity about the nectar flow networks and the harvest patterns in Ferran. Should anyone attempt to leverage her curiosity for... undesirable ends, you will ensure she remains properly grounded in the teachings."

"Don't worry, Director," he said, a glint of pride in his eye. "By the time I'm finished, the Princess will see Ferran as nothing more than a dusty little cell filled with misguided souls who lack the privilege of our wisdom. And she'll return to the Hive without a single inconvenient idea in her head."

Selva fixed him with one last look, something just short of a warning. "See that she does, Orin. I'm sure you'll bring your... usual finesse to the task."

"Director, finesse is my middle name," he replied, letting the smirk fully return.

"Your transport to Ferran leaves at dusk," Selva said finally, a note of finality in her voice. "Make the necessary preparations, and remember, Orin—our vision is for unity. See that the Princess's remains the same."

Orin inclined his head. "As you command, Director."

As she departed, leaving him alone in the corridor, Orin felt the weight of the assignment settling on him like a fresh layer of wax. Escorting a Princess to a volatile outpost like Ferran was no ordinary task, and the words "opportunity" and "risk" echoed in his mind in equal measure. But whatever undercurrents lay ahead, he would face them as he always had—with loyalty, diligence, and a quiet resolve to shape the Hive's future, one lesson at a time.

***

Princess Lara woke up excited knowing today was the day she would finally visit a cell all on her own. Today, at last, she would step beyond the merchant cells of Alpha Spoke Twelve. Eighteen years and still she hadn't set foot beyond her mother's gilded prison. It seemed as though every day was the same: the lavish confines of her rooms, their ceilings high and vaulted, draped with rich, woven fabrics; windows arched and rimmed with rare metals. It felt like living in the innards of some golden beast.

Her mother, the queen, had never once visited. And as for Lara—she had never once glimpsed the fabled high cells, where the most refined nectar pooled and the masters of the nectar arts held their secret councils. She spent her days trapped in trivialities: parties filled with handpicked "friends," men and women as lacquered and polished as the jewels they wore. And always, the stingers—her entourage of bodyguards, impassive, armed, never more than three steps away. Lara frowned, shaking her head. No way to live, she thought.

A knock sounded on her chamber door—two brisk taps. Her eyes lit up. Only one person knocked like that.

"Enter, Clang."

The door opened, and her brother stepped in, his silhouette sharply dressed, the epaulettes of his dark suit dusted with pollen crystals, which glinted in the morning light. His face was impassive, the expression he wore at the council meetings he attended on her behalf, yet there was something sharper beneath it—a tinge of annoyance.

Lara leaned in, eyes dancing with the spark of rebellion she could never quite suppress. "Well?" she said, her voice light, teasing. "What vexes you so, Clank? You seem... irritable."

Clank, shoulders squared like he was bearing the weight of an empire, sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples, his every word clipped with exhaustion. "Vexed, my lady? Nay, what plagues me is the burden of tireless vigilance," he declared. "The interminable hours devoted to securing permissions, adjusting protocols, reviewing your security clearance... The miracles I wrought simply to see your request approved would stretch the patience of any mortal."

Lara bit back a laugh, her mouth quirking in a half-smile. "Oh, don't be so grave, Clank. Besides, you're my sole means of escape from this gilded prison. You're the key to the wider world beyond." Her tone softened, as if speaking a confession. "I've never even met the queen. She rules from such a distance, as though she's spun a web over the entire kingdom. But with you..."

Clank's stony demeanor cracked, and a reluctant smile ghosted his lips. "My lady, do you truly think Her Majesty is oblivious to your desires?"

Lara frowned, folding her arms. "What are you insinuating, Clank?"

He stepped closer, a glint in his eye, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Two fortnights past, I received an unexpected visitor. An old comrade of mine—Sir Zell, of the Queen's Intelligence Corps. I believe you may recall him?"

"Sir Zell?" Lara echoed, surprised. "From the Catennacio Academy? Your training partner?"

"The very same," Clank replied, his tone as cold and precise as a blade. "He has risen in station, become quite the formidable presence within the Intelligence Wing. Yet he took it upon himself to call on me, quite out of the blue. He came seeking details, my lady—details regarding your impending venture. And this, mind you, the very day after your request was granted."

Lara's smile faded, her face growing pale. "So... she permits me to go, then?"

"It would appear so." Clank nodded solemnly. "The whispers are true, it seems. Nothing escapes Her Majesty's notice, no scheme too small, no ambition too distant."

Lara's gaze drifted to the polished wood beneath her feet. "It's maddening, Clank. No matter what I choose, my choices become hers. I'm merely a piece on her board, moved at her whim."

Clank's gaze softened, his tone earnest. "My lady, I understand your frustrations. Yet there is more to consider." He hesitated, as if weighing his words. "By decree of the Hive Doctrine, Article 213, any of Her Majesty's direct bloodline must be guarded by a minimum of three Vespid Sentinels and one Commander. I searched tirelessly for an exemption but..."

"Oh, splendid." Lara groaned, her hand tightening around the silk of her robe, the lavender fabric twisted in her grip. "So much for freedom."

"Take heart." Clank took her hand, his voice earnest. "Upon your arrival, you possess full authority over your guard. Not one among them can countermand your orders. Thus, in a way... you are free, my lady."

Lara searched his face, as if trying to grasp the truth in his words. Finally, she sighed, looking out past her window. "How fares my entourage, Clank? Have they proven compliant?"

"Compliant, yes. Resplendent, even," Clank replied with a faint, sardonic smile. "Though I daresay the Vespids lack a certain... flexibility of mind. But tell me, why Ferran, my lady? A place so wretched and neglected, when there are countless cities, far finer, that remain unseen by your eyes?"

Lara hesitated, her fingers curling into her palms. "I... encountered someone there," she murmured.

Clank's brow lifted, his expression shifting from curiosity to careful neutrality. "Someone?" he repeated. "Might you be referring to the last Council Convocation at Alpha Twelve? During Lord Savar's investiture?"

"Yes," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "He was Savar's Secretary of Defense—a young man, just a year my senior. There was... something between us. But then he vanished. They said he went to Ferran and... well, that he was slain by the Reclaimers."

A flash of sympathy softened Clank's rigid features, though he tried to maintain his reserve. "Yet?"

"Yet... a month past, I glimpsed him," she continued, her voice trembling with intensity. "I was at the council market, and there, concealed in a trader's garb, I saw him. He spoke in riddles, warned me I was in peril. Said I must journey to Ferran—but told me to breathe not a word."

Clank's expression grew dark, a troubled look clouding his eyes. "And you believed him implicitly? My lady, do you comprehend the dangers at hand? This man is marked as a traitor. How can you place such trust in him?"

Lara looked away, her voice faltering. "I don't know, Clank. I only know that his urgency... it was real. And I can't shake the feeling that I must go."

Clank paced, his hand resting on his chin, lost in thought. "If indeed this is a trap, then Her Majesty surely knows. And if it is not... then there are forces at play far darker than either of us can imagine."

The room fell into a hushed silence, the shadows stretching long across the floor, the air thick with unspoken fears.

Finally, Clank cleared his throat, straightening his posture. "Come, my lady. Your entourage awaits."

Together, they strode through the vast corridors of the palace, the vaulted ceilings looming above them like a cathedral of stone. Clank walked with his head high, his footsteps steady, while Lara moved with quiet resolve, each step bringing her closer to the unknown. At the entrance, the Vespid Sentinels stood in formation, their dark, armored figures a solemn reminder of the queen's watchful eye.

Clank stopped, his voice lowering to a solemn murmur. "Remember, my lady... tread lightly. For both our sakes."

Lara nodded, her gaze steady, unflinching as she prepared to take her first step into the unknown.

The vastness of the receiving hall pressed down upon her as she walked, its silent grandeur intimidating, swallowing her footfalls in deep, solemn silence. The tapestries loomed from the walls, epic scenes of ancient wars unraveling in woven hues of blood-red and midnight blue, forgotten figures clashing under forgotten banners. It all seemed to speak of a heritage she couldn't quite grasp, a weight her young shoulders weren't yet sure they could carry.

She hesitated at the enormous double doors, her fingers trailing briefly over their intricately carved panels. When she finally pushed them open, the heavy sound reverberated like a tolling bell.

The figures of her entourage turned toward her, faces expectant in the dawnlight, but her attention snagged first upon the looming figure in the centre.

The Vespid Commander moved toward her, a slow, deliberate tread, as though each step demanded a reckoning. He wore black armor, its surface dulled to a smoky sheen, draped with a rich crimson robe that swayed with each powerful stride. He looked both young and somehow hollowed, his gray eyes like storm clouds caught between lightning strikes, as if all the fire within had been contained, subdued, though its ferocity remained coiled and ready beneath.

Closer now, she noted a thin scar beneath his chin, like the mark of some ritualistic encounter. It was the kind of scar men wore not from duels, but from brushes with death. His hair was black as the shadows between stars, and his skin—an unsettling, pallid white—added to the effect of something not entirely bound by the world of the living.

"My lady," he intoned, with a voice as smooth as silk yet laced with something serrated, an edge that made her heart tighten.

His voice managed to make those two simple words carry an unspoken weight, a subtle threat, or perhaps just the suggestion that he knew things, had seen things, that she couldn't imagine.

"I am Verdot of the Vespid Sentinels," he continued, bowing slightly, his words measured and deliberate, almost ritualistic. "Commander tasked with laying my life down for yours."

"W-well, nice to meet you." Lara's voice wavered, betraying her unease, her eyes fixed on him, transfixed by his intensity. "I hope it's not... a bother. I mean, I don't suppose you expected to be tasked with babysitting a foolish girl like me."

Verdot's mouth curled, a faint smile that was more shadow than expression. "Not a bother," he said, his tone unsettlingly ambiguous. "I only serve the whims of my superiors." He paused, his stormy gaze flicking over her with something unreadable. "Your brother is quite the man, isn't he?"

"Yes... quite," Lara replied, tensing slightly. "You seem... interested in him."

Verdot's gaze grew distant, as if glimpsing something long past. "I remember his days at Catennacio," he murmured. "A formidable practitioner of nectar arts. It's a shame he traded that power for politics instead of working directly under the queen."

"Well, sometimes life has... other plans," Lara said, attempting to recover some semblance of composure.

"Indeed." His reply was curt, a blade returning to its sheath. He turned without another word, dismissing himself to make preparations. "Your friends have noticed you," he said, as though it were an afterthought, yet somehow implying he had noticed everything.

Lara drew a breath, her pulse steadying, and turned to see her two closest companions—Inara and Kellen—making their way toward her. They had slipped from the cluster of house guards, their expressions a mixture of relief and anticipation.

" oh inara, kellen how I've missed you."

"No worries." Inara responded as she gave Lara a deep hug. "Yes we've missed you too my goodness that vespid gives me the creeps." Kellen stated.

Lara chuckled softly, though the sound held a wry edge. She drew Inara into a firm embrace, breathing in the faint trace of jasmine woven into her robes—a scent as familiar as the countless nights they'd spent whispering secrets in hushed tones. "Inara, you've no idea how I've missed proper conversation. Even if it's about..." She tilted her head toward the grim figure of Commander Verdot, who stood apart, his gaze sharp as a whetted blade, his presence a stormcloud brooding over the room. "... him."

Kellen smirked from where he lounged against a stone pillar, arms crossed in that casual defiance that always drew side-eyes from the more disciplined members of the guard. "Don't fret, Lara. If he starts brooding too loudly, I'll handle it with my legendary 'dramatic collapse.' Never fails."

Inara groaned, the corners of her mouth betraying a smirk. "Kellen, it worked once. Once. And only because the guards thought you were choking on your tongue. I had to pour my entire flask over your head to stop them from fetching a healer."

"Exactly," Kellen shot back, his grin widening. "Timing and commitment. Nobody expects an inexplicable fainting spell. Keeps everyone guessing."

Lara couldn't help the giggle that escaped her lips, though her gaze flicked cautiously toward Verdot. The commander's iron-gray eyes swept the chamber like an executioner scanning the headsman's block. "Something tells me he'd just step over your corpse and carry on."

Kellen's grin didn't falter. "You know, I think you're right. And that's what makes him such a charming man."

But before Lara could answer, a figure approached from the far end of the room. His stride was too self-assured, his smile too bright, the polished badge of the Civility Order glinting on his breast like a star someone had torn from the heavens and shoved into his hands. His robes were crisp and formal, but the arrogance he carried weighed heavier than his finery.

"Princess Lara," the man said with a bow that was more calculated than courteous. "I am Orin Tal, appointed as your educator for the duration of this journey. My task is to guide you in the principles of law and order."

Lara regarded him coolly, her lips curving into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. It wasn't his arrogance that rankled—she'd grown up surrounded by men who strutted through the world as if the gods had shaped it solely for their pleasure. No, what she despised was the way his words coiled around her like chains, the promise of control barely veiled beneath his polished tone. He was exactly the kind of man who'd delight in tightening those chair.

"Yes, of course," she said lightly, the steel hidden in her tone like a dagger behind silk. "I am certain I will benefit greatly from your... wisdom."

His smile widened in a way that made her stomach churn. She hadn't thought it possible for someone to grin so smugly without splitting their face in half. "Of course, Princess. I look forward to the experience."

Before she could muster a retort, Commander Verdot's voice thundered through the chamber, cutting through the murmur of conversation like a warhorn on the battlefield. "All preparations are complete. We leave within five."

Lara felt her heart tighten. Excitement, yes, but unease as well. This was no mere journey—it was a gambit, a chance for freedom that dangled before her like a promise made in whispers. Her friends were here, her brother, her trusted house guard. Whatever awaited them in Ferran, she would face it. The secrets buried there were hers to uncover, and she would let no man—be it the commander, the educator, or any other—stand in her way.