The lift's winch let out a teeth-jarring screech as the car passed through the final isolation gate. The smell in the air changed. It wasn't the scent of the surface, with its hints of sea salt and fresh plants, but a mixture of ozone, chitin, and some kind of cloyingly sweet, fermented odor—the smell of the hive.
Velin stepped out of the lift car, his leather boots making a wet SQUELCH on the ground, which was covered in a fungal carpet.
This was five hundred meters underground, an absolute restricted zone.
Countless glowing sacs hung from the enormous dome, illuminating the subterranean palace in a shifting, flickering light. And in the central incubation pool, Sarah was submerged in a pale green nutrient fluid.
