Chapter 639: Blending With The Elves (2)
Beneath the Archive-Tree’s crystalline canopy, the air tasted of cool resin and faint citrus—a smell that always reminded Mikhailis of freshly split cedar back in the palace workshops. Shafts of late-afternoon light pierced gaps in the leaves overhead, scattering coins of brightness that drifted across the polished root-floor whenever a breeze stirred. High above, song-beetles chimed in uneven patterns, improvising a lazy counterpoint to the deeper heartbeat of the tree.
The raised platform at the center felt like the bridge of a living ship. Veins of pale gold ran through its surface, pulsing in gentle waves that matched the cadence of Mikhailis’s own pulse. At his gesture a swirl of living filaments rose like fountain spray, weaving into a three-dimensional map. It looked almost fragile, as though a careless breath could blow the whole construct away, yet every line carried the weight of roots and tunnels too ancient for any tool to cut.
He reached out, index finger hovering until the interface recognized him. A knot of crimson near the top left quadrant brightened, expanding into a jagged sphere riddled with branching fractures.
"These are the Blight-Core Vents," Lorian said, stepping close enough that the glow painted soft emerald across his cheekbones. The spore-lanterns sewn into his cloak brightened in sympathy, tiny bulbs rising and falling with his words like curious fish. He used two fingers to mark three heated points. "Northern fissure. Here, here, and here. You’ll deploy the arrays, bind them to the ley pulse, then seal the rift with Root-Wards carved from heartwood."
Mikhailis angled his head, pushing round glasses higher on his nose. "Deploy, bind, seal, and come back in one piece." He enlarged the central vent until it filled half the projection. The interior cavity resembled a melted honeycomb—hollow pockets and twisting ducts in every direction, each throbbing in poisonous red. "Looks like a dragon’s sinus cavity. Does it sneeze fire, too?"
Lorian puffed a short breath that might have been a laugh or disbelief. "If it did we would have smelled ash long before now."
<Statistical models suggest a forty-seven percent fatality rate,> Rodion announced, his digital voice cool and unbearably calm. <Margin of error plus or minus six, influenced by variables such as unstable geology, mana spikes, and your tendency to improvise. However, we have skewed worse odds before.>
Always the optimist, Mikhailis thought, hiding a grin behind a thoughtful hum. He rotated the vent again. The glow reflected in his lenses, turning his irises bright jade.
A soft clack of armored boots cut through the map’s gentle hum. Thalatha strode up the small ramp, her silhouette framed by the prismatic canopy. Hollowbone pauldron plates overlapped like petals, each line etched with runic vines that shimmered when she moved. In one gloved hand she cradled a translucent pod. It pulsed with golden life, casting rippling circles across the plank-floor.
"Seed of Binding," she declared, voice low but certain. She did not raise the pod for effect; she simply held it steady, as though it were a sleeping creature. "Plant it in the heart of the Blight after the arrays take hold. Should your pact remain intact, it will push ward-roots through corrupted strata in under an hour."
Mikhailis accepted the pod carefully. Heat radiated through his gloves, gentle yet insistent, like a small sun begging to hatch. Within, faint tendrils twitched, as if the seed dreamed of soil. "Pretty gift," he murmured, turning it so light scattered across the map. "Let’s hope it doesn’t explode. I only packed one spare coat."
"Don’t drop it," Thalatha replied, one eyebrow tilting upward. Amusement flickered quick as lightning in her green-gold eyes and was gone.