Chapter 638: Blending With The Elves (1)
The priest reclaimed the chalice with a nod. No judgment showed on the mask—but Mikhailis could almost feel amusement radiating from behind the carved smile.
A second priest beckoned him forward. The altar’s flat crest had been cleaned of lichen and polished to a subtle sheen. In its center, ancient glyphs rested dormant, shallow as finger grooves worn by centuries of supplicants. Mikhailis extended his marked hand—hesitation flickered, but curiosity shoved it aside.
The moment skin touched bark, the glyphs flared. Lines blazed mint-green, then gold. His tattoo—normally a quiet blue hexagon web—answered with its own flare, brighter than he’d ever seen. Light braided up his wrist in thin filaments before sinking beneath skin.
No words pierced the hall; no chant guided the surge. Instead, a resonant thrum rolled from altar through floorboards, up pillars, all the way into the high vents of the ceiling. Dust drifted loose, sparkling in sunlight.
The watching elves gasped in staggered waves. That single elderly scholar—white moss for eyebrows—clutched his chest, eyes damp. "He walks among us now," he whispered, voice more prayer than statement.
Above the altar, pollen motes swirled, sweeping into a brief silhouette—arms outstretched, hair in a lazy halo—an echoed ghost of the man standing there. The figure shimmered then fell apart into gold dust that rained down gently, collecting on shoulders and in the folds of robes.
Mikhailis drew his hand back. The bark cooled, closing the glyphs like a heartbeat settling. Okay, he thought, flexing fingers. I’m not on fire. Good sign.
<Acceptable outcome,> Rodion noted. <Vital signs steady, though adrenaline has spiked by 23 %. Recommend slow exhalation before you attempt a dramatic speech.>
He fought a grin and exhaled through pursed lips, letting shoulders relax by degrees. The priests stepped aside, signalling completion of the rite. Instantly the surrounding air buzzed—conversation lit up like mid-summer crickets.
A pair of young artisans clasped hands, eyes shining. A tutor scribbled notes on a strip of parchment with such speed the quill squeaked. Somewhere in the back, an older guard whispered, "I saw the glyph circle the altar twice—did you?"
Over the heads of the crowd, Matria climbed a small rise of root-steps and lifted her staff. Silence fell as naturally as fog. In the hush, the amber Memory pillar in the council vestibule above pulsed, as though listening from afar.
"The Root-Binder walks among us," Matria declared, voice amplified not by shouting but by something inside the staff—a clear, ringing resonance. "His task is clear: to bridge our ancient song with the new hum of the Hive."