This was supposed to be a nice day.
Ballistas were being built in all our hives—both large immobile ones and a smaller type that several bees could haul over air. The First Train, according to reports, had almost reached Hive Rich despite suffering three storms on the way, where everybody was already excited to see it and get its cargo.
Good news all around, except this one.
A visibly tired and dirty (not from her camouflage) Beehound Quietstep brought a written report to the Royal Chambers, and, with my blessing, slunk away from the crowds and the hive. I inwardly wished her to have a good rest—hers wasn't a simple journey by any means.
"I should arrange a separate living space built for them," I muttered absentmindedly. "Let's add this to the orders pile."
The organization was really working well recently. I just had to write an order on the wax tablet, sign it "Father", and pass it to one of my many Attendants—or to Ambrosia, whoever was closest.
