Chapter 627: The Sudden Hazard (4)
Rodion’s soft click confirmed translation. Mikhailis exhaled, tension draining.
Elven lanterns flickered among tall ferns that glowed as softly as night-lights in a nursery. Each lantern was fashioned from a dried seed-pod, its papery skin etched with swirling runes that siphoned light from the fungus-beds and pulsed it outward in steady breaths. Beneath their gentle shimmer Thalatha led the procession, her opal armor whispering like rain against glass.
Mikhailis followed at a respectful distance. He kept his stride measured—heels coming down softly, shoulders back, never quite turning his head far enough to expose his spine. The elves behind him hummed in low harmony, voices weaving through the roots overhead. The melody rose and fell like a tide: three clear notes, one minor glide, then hush. A work chant, he guessed, or maybe a traveling prayer. Either way, the sound settled his nerves more than silence ever could.
Rodion padded at his right flank, paws disturbing flecks of blue pollen that drifted up and fell again in lazy spirals. The construct’s fur absorbed the scattered light, so it appeared like a small starless void floating beside its master.
Observation: The air smells of cedar sap and salt stone. High humidity, yet no condensation on armor—likely stable temperatures maintained through rune vents in the ceilings,* Mikhailis noted inwardly. The scientist in him catalogued everything: the faint crackle of mana on each lantern rune, the way the ferns angled their fronds to face passing elves as if seeking familiar faces.
They passed beneath a low arch formed by two braided vines. Beneath the arch a carved tablet rested, its pictographs depicting squat, toothy goblins and tall elves exchanging spears. The goblins looked laughably heroic—backs straight, fangs gleaming—very different from the snarling raiders he’d fought in his own world. Mikhailis’s gaze lingered on the central goblin, a stylized hero who bore a sword almost his height. A faint flush touched his cheeks. They really did record that alliance, he mused. Even if the history books back home forgot.
Ahead, the path narrowed into a bridge stitched from living roots. Each strand, thicker than a man’s thigh, twisted over the next, leaving gaps where faint green water shimmered far below. Thalatha stepped onto the bridge without hesitation. Wind—or perhaps some subterranean draft—tugged at her silver hair, sending loose strands fluttering like pennants.
Mikhailis followed, swallowing unease. The bridge swayed under his weight, groaning in a language of stressed fibers. Reflex had him stretch an arm for balance. Rodion jumped lightly behind him, claws clinking on slick bark.
About halfway across, a chorus of childlike voices drifted upward. He glanced down through the roots. Small figures—elf children, maybe—danced around glowing lily pads on water’s surface. They pointed at the procession, laughter bubbling like springwater. One girl waved, tiny hand bright against the dark water.
Without thinking, Mikhailis lifted his fingers and waggled them in return. The child squealed, covering her mouth with both hands. Immediately the humming escorts broke rhythm; a few chuckled under their breath. Even Thalatha’s shoulders loosened a shade.