Chapter 632: Mapping The Quiet (4)
Thalatha parted the vines with a whisper-soft gesture. "Elders’ Hall," she announced, voice almost reverent.
Inside awaited a dome of living crystal bark. Threads of light ran through the grain like molten metal under glass. Five circular platforms rose from the floor in a star pattern, each host to an Elder. They looked less like leaders and more like elemental forces wearing elf-shaped shells.
The first Elder floated several inches above his platform. Spores drifted from his sleeves in lazy drifts, catching the green glow and turning it milk-white. With every exhale the motes formed swirling diagrams before dissolving—living cloud mathematics. A subtle perfume of crushed pine needles surrounded him.
Another Elder stood barefoot in a swirl of hummingbirds, each bird no bigger than Mikhailis’s thumb. Their feathers blinked between colors—turquoise, then rose, then a shade of ultraviolet most eyes could never name. When one bird landed on her wrist, her skin glittered as if her blood momentarily turned to starlight.
The mirror Elder was perhaps the most disconcerting: twin panes of perfectly clear sap rose behind him, reflecting layer upon layer of tangled roots. Each mirror showed a slightly different future—Mikhailis glimpsed himself bowing deeper in one, refusing outright in another, and vanishing into a cloud of ants in a third. He shuddered, pushing down nausea.
Two other Elders completed the star: one shrouded in a cloak of gently smoking leaves, the other haloed by drifting motes of liquid metal that orbited her head like small moons. Each Elder’s circle was marked with runes burnt deep into the bark, their patterns pulsing to a private rhythm.
Mikhailis stepped into the center of the star, resisting the urge to tug at his collar. He offered a short bow—deep enough to convey respect, shallow enough to keep his dignity.
Say little. Reveal less. Keep them curious, not suspicious.
Elder Matria, smoke-leaf cloak billowing in some unfelt breeze, spoke first. Her voice was winter wind across frozen silk. "Mikhailis Volkov, by what will did you come here?"
He straightened, meeting her glacier-green eyes. "I didn’t," he said. "Something outside either of our plans pulled me here. Planar instability, perhaps triggered by your own summons."
Rodion floated a hand-sized projection beside him: translucent leyline schematics that twisted like tangled yarn. Edges blurred deliberately; coordinates slid when stared at. The illusion flickered just erratically enough to appear genuine.
Across the chamber, Elder Sevrin—wrapped in mirrored sap reflections—leaned forward, a half-smile tugging one corner of his mouth. "And you are a prince consort?" His tone coated the title in velvet mockery.