The cool evening breeze blows lazily. Not even the most delicate canopy branches bother to swing along. Ysá, exhausted after another day warming the earth with her wings of light, descends peacefully to the ground where she can rest in some hidden place, allowing the night to fall over the Oasis.

The whitish glow of fireflies flashes across the dark blue sky, subtly mirrored by the calm waters of the pond. Although far from its prime, it keeps nourishing the soil and the dense vegetation that grows near the edges.

Among the trees and bushes, an old jabuticaba tree proudly stands out, with its smooth trunk and long twisted branches, adorned all the way up with small clusters of white flowers that will soon mature into fruit.

Its roots, which grow downwards like wooden stakes, create cracks at the base of the tree. Within one of these cracks, a humble dirt mound partially covered by dry leaves is settled. An anthill.

From the outside, it may not look like much. But inside, its complex system of underground tunnels houses the descendants of an ancient civilization that, long before any warm-blooded animal, learned to grow its own food to sustain its population and expand its borders. The granddaughters of the first farmers. The leafcutter ants of the Queendom of Aurora.

Tonight, the colony welcomes a new generation of workers who have just hatched from their pupae.

Guided by the instincts present in their bodies since they were mere helpless larvae, they emerge ready to work and fight, disregarding any sort of mentorship. A true natural blessing for these insects who value cooperation and efficiency above all else.

So why, for Ysá's sake, are they being forced to stay in the nursery, listening to an unsympathetic veteran soldier recite rule after rule about how they should behave?

That is what one of the harvesters wonders as she shakes her antennae restlessly.

“… The queen you obey.

In line you stay.

With savages you don't talk.

Alone you do not walk…”

“… Our job, whether inside or outside this anthill, is to ensure the prosperity of the queendom!” the veteran hisses harshly as she marches in front of the crowd of frightened novices. “We are hundreds, but a single incompetent ant that doesn't obey her superiors, doesn't listen, doesn't follow the guidelines of the colony and the queen's pheromones, is more than enough to jeopardize an entire operation! This kind of behavior will not be tolerated, not even from inexperienced maggots like you!”

The youngest pretends to pay attention to such words, scratching the side of her head with one front leg while her small black eyes wander around the nursery.

Most of her newly emerged sisters are minims. Ants with weak jaws and long legs, born to work inside the anthill as gardeners and caretakers. The kind that would not mind staying underground listening to drivel.

But her? She was not designed for that. A harvester must go to the surface. Patrol along branches and bushes as she looks for leaves. Chew, chop, and carry the pieces back home, repeating this cycle until she is exhausted.

She looks at the other members of her caste, asking herself if they share the same feeling.

“… Workers work and do not complain.

Without retreat, the enemy is slain…”

“Do you understand me?”, the veteran passes by, rubbing the side of her abdomen against the tips of the harvester's antennae.

A shiver runs down the fine hairs of her body, and she quickly turns forward. It might have been fear, or irrational guilt for ignoring her older sister… But for a moment, the youngest feels unsafe standing in the front rows.

She decides it is best to retreat a few steps from the other harvesters and hide among the soldiers crowding near the earthen walls.

“And I thought the caretakers talked too much,” mutters an ant as big as the veteran.

Long spikes rise from her thorax, and her jaws are robust and sharp. But her unscarred, clean exoskeleton denounces her inexperience in combat.

“Right?”, the others say nothing, and some even react with annoyance by turning their butts to her and playing deaf. “Damn, that's some serious attitude for a first day on the job…”

The harvester watches, feeling bad that the soldier is left talking to herself, and approaches in a shy stutter:

“She does talk a lot… And loudly…”

“Huh?”, the soldier scans the surroundings with her antennae, taking a while to realize that whoever approached her is not at eye level. As a result, the other worker has to nibble on one of her legs to be spotted. “Now, who are you? You don't look like a soldier.”

“That's because I'm not.”

“Then what are you doing here? Not enjoying the company of your own caste?”

“Not that, I just… I agree with you, this veteran talks too much. I just wish I could get out and start working already.”

The harvester gestures towards the older one, who is now devoting parts of her sermon to the minims. Something about them not being allowed to leave the anthill without proper authorization from the army.

These rules are not directed specifically at her caste, but even so, she cannot resist the urge to nervously clamp her jaws together. Why would there be a need to control the movement of workers in and out of the colony? Are pheromone trails not enough?

A strange gut feeling consumes her, but any rationalization brewing in her mind is suddenly interrupted by the soldier's laughter.

“Hahaha, sweet! Good to know that at least someone agrees with me!”

Being loud seems to be the norm among these larger ants, thinks the youngest, trying to put her worries aside to resume the conversation.

“So, uh… what's your name?”, she asks, believing it is best to keep things casual.

“My… name? Oh, I haven't chosen it yet.”

“You still don't have a name?”

“I've never stopped to think of one.”

“But what if someone needs to call you during a patrol? Or ask for you in the tunnels?”, inquires the astonished harvester.

“I dunno, it didn't seem important to me, you see? Do you have your own name, by any chance?”

The harvester nods and answers cheerfully:

“Relva!”

Saying her own name out loud for the first time in her life is very fulfilling. Yes, Relva! Relva, a harvester worker from the Queendom of Aurora. This is who she is and how she wants to be known.

“Relva, Relva…”, the soldier repeats a few times. “Yeah, sounds like a good name.”

She has absolutely no excitement in her voice, but that is not stopping Relva from finding a chance to explain her choice as if it is the most incredible thing in the world.

“I chose this name when one of the caretakers arrived from the outside, she brought back so many different smells! I remember her telling stories about them to me and my sisters. Grass, flowers, pollen, wood… Didn't you listen to them?”

“A few, but I think I fell asleep during most of them,” admits the soldier. “The caretakers don't go out very often, do they? I think they only know the outskirts of the colony, and that bored me.”

“But it might still be enough to help you! You can do as I did and think of a smell you like, how about that?”

Relva insists, circling around the larger ant. She clearly will not leave her alone until she finds an identity to call her own.

“Alright, alright! If that's so important to you,” she rubs her antennae and scratches the nursery floor with one hind leg, as if it would help make her lazy brain work.

“Well… I like the smell of… Of…”

“I like the smell of flowers.”

An answer!

But not from who Relva had hoped.