Chapter 631: Mapping The Quiet (3)
Mikhailis blinked against dim amber light, trying to remember how he had fallen asleep on something that was technically a wall. The surface under his cheek felt soft—almost springy—and smelled faintly of cedar sap mixed with a sweeter, herbal scent. He pushed himself upright. A low groan escaped his lips as vertebrae cracked one after another.
The room greeted him in slow, glowing ripples. Every inch was alive. Roots thicker than his arm ran across the ceiling, curling down the corners like decorative supports. Smaller fibers crisscrossed those main coils, weaving a lattice that pulsed faintly, as if liquid light flowed inside. Tiny globes of resin clung to the bark, catching whatever illumination seeped out and bouncing it back in soft golden hues. It reminded him of sunrise bleeding through honey.
He placed a palm on the floor. It was warm—unnervingly so—and each second he lingered he could feel a mild vibration, like a heart beating deep beneath. A living signal: You are on someone else’s skin.
Mikhailis shivered, more fascinated than afraid. He loved strangeness; it made the world feel large. Still, his scientific mind kicked in, cataloging stimuli. Temperature steady at around twenty-two degrees. Humidity... high but tolerable. Vibrations at roughly sixty beats per minute. Maybe sap diffusion? Or a natural mana pump?
He rose and stretched, arms brushing the moss-coated ceiling. Loose curls of his dark hair, messy from sleep, tickled his brow. He brushed them aside just as a faint click sounded in his ear. Rodion had powered up, ever punctual.
<"Aesthetic rating: seven out of ten. Comfort rating: two point four. Threat level: subdued. Prison grade: High-Elven Luxury Detention.">
He chuckled. "At least they picked high-end detention. I’ve slept in worse barns."
If I mess this up, I’ll stay a glorified houseplant, he thought, rolling his shoulders. But if I impress them—access. Freedom. Data.
To his right stood a narrow table grown from a single branch. On it rested a carved wooden cup filled with pale blue water and a plate of leaf-wrapped pastries. Steam carried a hint of mint and citrus. At least the elves wanted him healthy before they grilled him like a trout.
He ignored the food for now. The walls were calling. He walked the perimeter, fingers gliding over lacquered sap. In the corners, he noted spiral patterns etched into the bark—runes that shifted color as his fingertips passed. Protective sigils, he guessed, or maybe security sensors disguised as decor.
Near the door, green-leaf curtains draped over what should have been a window: instead, translucent resin created a false pane, showing only swirling light—no outside view. Clever. No chance of gauging height or landmark. He hummed, impressed.
Two shapes moved just beyond the doorway slit. Hooded elves, tall and unnervingly motionless, stood like statues, their leaf-patterned cloaks blending almost perfectly with the hallway. Even their breaths were silent. Only the occasional flicker of cloak hem betrayed life.