Chapter 27 : Can I get my reward, Sir?
The slime coating on the walls beat like actual hearts the deeper we penetrated. Rhythmic contractions rippled beneath the translucent film, pushing bubbles of yellow-green fluid through narrow veins that branched like capillaries. The pulses didn’t even match my heartbeat but somehow found its way beneath my ribs anyway.
[DEX: – 3%]
Anabeth’s chin rested on my shoulder again. “Sir Henry,” she murmured, “you have the look of a man who has lost his way.”
“I have the look of a man dragging a scholar through a swamp,” I replied, fatigued enough to keep my words true. If I’m losing my way, we’re losing my way, Lady.
Stamina: 50%
“Ah, yes. Romantic and geographically disoriented.” Her voice was far too cheerful for someone surrounded by sentient mucus. “But don’t despair! I have a method. We ought to leave markers.”
I squinted at a patch of quivering wall. “You could just follow the nearest beating organ . . . because it’s about to realize it only has a few beats left.” Ceralis still decided to add the latter part for absolutely no reason.
“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t. They move.” Her tone brightened. “You, however, have lightning spells, do you not? We can scorch the path instead. Practical and aesthetically dramatic.”
Except I don’t.
Stamina: 49%
[Silver Tongue (Lv.7) can now be reliably activated]
Great. The one time there was no need for me to use my own voice, I’d have to do it. At least, the task was fairly simple (hopefully): to mimic Ceralis’ speech pattern and convince her to leave markers for me.
“Lightning?” I scoffed. “Lady Anabeth, I would not demean this endeavor with so crude a mark. To scar the stone with mere voltage would be the work of a hedge‑witch with a spark fetish.”
Her hands tightened gently on my shoulders. She perked, as she always did when she sensed either incoming nonsense or a holy pronouncement.
I pressed on, affecting the imperious timbre that Ceralis always used. “No. If one intends to leave a proper trail through a living labyrinth, one requires precision. Authority.” I angled my chin as though lecturing an assembly hall. “One requires the discipline of stonecraft.”
“Ohhh? Is this another challenge, Sir?”
“A challenge?” I echoed. “Lady Anabeth, this is no mere challenge. This is a trial of mastery. Only the worthy thaumaturge can impress their will upon such a capricious substrate. Slime-warped stone respects nothing less than mastery.”
She hummed, clearly delighted by the word worthy. I continued before reason could catch up with me.
“To etch a path here is not the task of the reckless,” I intoned. “It is the privilege of one whose craft carries lineage, rigor, and the resonance of tradition. Only a true adept of the Stone can command the maze to heed them.”
Her breath brushed my ear, warm enough to short-circuit thought. She leaned closer, arms tightening around my shoulders like a noose made of curiosity and weirdly floral perfume that she definitely didn’t wear on her yesterday.
“And what,” she purred, “do I get if I pass this challenge of yours, Sir Knight?”
Before Silver Tongue could manufacture a response, the ceiling above us issued a wet glorp.
I had precisely one second to recognize it as a warning.
A wobbling glob of yellow‑green slime detached itself like a sinner falling from grace and landed squarely on the bridge of her nose with a soft pffthk. It slowly oozed, dividing around her nostrils like it was trying to follow the path of least dignity.
I exhaled. Finally, I thought, even she can’t possibly flirt with a slime blob dangling off her nose. Not in this . . . this swampy cathedral of goo.
Anabeth merely wiped the slime off with two fingers, flicked it aside, and leaned even closer. “As I was saying,” she continued, “I saw you had a rather intimate collection of quartz on your gauntlet. Perhaps I could . . . personally inspect them? To ensure they are arranged with proper care, of course. It would be terribly irresponsible not to verify.”
Another drop of slime wobbled from the ceiling before falling. Anabeth held out her small glass vial, and slime plopped directly into it, completely contained.
“Splendid,” she chirped. “Perhaps this sample can summon Durand.”
I felt a chill down my spine at the utter audacity of this woman, yet I forced my posture to remain equally calm. “Lady Anabeth,” I boomed, “your diligence is commendable, Lady Anabeth. Truly. And yet, one must consider the appropriate application of skill, lest even the finest thaumaturge squander her talents on trifles.”
“Hmph. Fine, Sir Knight.” Her voice was just on the edge of teasing whine, “but I do expect my reward when this trifling task is completed.”
“Rest assured,” I said, carefully measured, ““Rest assured,” I declared, letting the words crack like stone splitting under a hammer, “any reward must be earned, and any misstep shall face divine retribution.” Is this what Ceralis would have said? Or have I added too much flourish?
“Oooh, no downside to this.” She happily hopped off my back and knelt gracefully before the quivering wall. In one fluid motion, she traced a short, rhyming mnemonic in the air:
“Stone and rune, align with me,
Mark the path, so all may see.”
A thin green spark leapt from her fingertip to the wall, hanging in the air for a heartbeat before sinking into the stone like a nail driven by unseen force. The stone itself seemed to drink the magic, forming a crisp glowing glyph without a single cut or scratch.
The glyph said: One.
“What,” I boomed, letting the resonance scrape down the corridor, “is the nature of that green ignition, Lady Anabeth?” I stepped pace closer. “Explain its function at once.”
She turned back to me and curled her lips in an exceedingly proud smile. “This is my method for marking stone without so much as maring its surface. We call it ‘imprinting’, but you must have already known!”
[DEX: – 4%]
“Impressive,” I allowed. “We must proceed now.”
Her proud smile morphed into a pout. Before I could so much as blink, she had re‑latched onto my back with the clingy precision of a barnacle born for aristocracy. Her breath hit my ear again, warm and weirdly distracting, like she was doing it purely to destabilize my remaining sanity.
I stiffened. “Lady Anabeth—”
She hooked her arms around my shoulders. “Onward, Sir Henry.”
I took three begrudging steps before a belated realization slapped me in the face. “You,” I said slowly, “claimed your legs were poisoned.”
There was a beat of eerie stillness, before she yelled, “—AH!”
She clutched one leg dramatically, nearly tumbling off me as she folded forward.
“Oh heavens—OH!” she wailed. “It burns! It must have been—agh!—my unshakeable commitment to our mission that dulled the agony earlier!” She leaned heavier into my shoulders like a dying swan. “But now— now that you’ve acknowledged my efforts— the pain returns with devastating clarity!” Then she tightened her grip on me. “You must carry me harder, Sir Henry! Harder! Now that you’ve witnessed my devotion, it would be unbecoming— nay, cruel— to expect me to walk!”
Stamina: 49% → 48%
I stared at a nearby beating wall, briefly wishing the slime would knock me unconscious.