Chapter 640: Blending With The Elves (End)
Mikhailis stepped out of the Archive-Tree’s crystalline dome, the living wood archway closing behind him with a breath-like sigh that fluttered the ends of his coat. A hush swallowed him the instant that crystalline glow disappeared. Out here, the corridor swam in twilight greens and bruised violets, every curve of bark bathed in the slow pulse of lantern-fungi. Some caps burned bright jade, others ember-orange, and together they mottled the tunnel like stained glass on wet stone. Far below, sap-flows thumped in steady percussion—distant drums for a procession that felt half funeral, half parade.
The Hollowguard took their first steps in perfect cadence. Their vine-etched pauldrons creaked—a subtle leathery groan that reminded him of old library door hinges. Two warriors led, long spears angled just enough to clear low-hanging roots. Two mirrored them at the rear. In that quartet, Thalatha walked last, head held high, braid swaying like a golden pendulum that never lost rhythm. The only thing sharper than her focus was the bone-white dagger she wore cross-drawn at her spine.
Mikhailis drifted somewhere between them, equal parts guest and cargo. Focus, Mik. Keep the brain busy; ignore the heartbeat trying to jump the fence. His gaze shifted to the translucent overlay projected on his glasses. Neon dots flared and faded over a ghost map of root corridors. Green dots—worker ants—fanned out like spilled pepper. Amber—soldier units—clustered around chokepoints. Red triangles blinked wherever Rodion tagged "unknown variables." Those triangles pulsed slightly faster tonight.
<Update: swarm telemetry at 72 percent completion. Uplink to Silvarion Thalor remains non-functional. Interference source undetermined.>
Rodion’s clipped voice crackled straight into Mikhailis’s earbone implant. Not loud enough for the guards to hear, but plenty loud for his nerves. "Yeah, no joke." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Static still hissed on every channel. Three nights of that hiss felt like sandpaper inside the skull.
<Re-summarizing interference hypotheses. One: ley-line dampeners woven into canopy lattice. Two: cloaking fields from dormant Elder wards. Three: sabotage via external Blight tendrils. A fourth possibility remains: your personal luck index.>
Ha-ha. He didn’t answer out loud; instead, he narrowed his eyes at a fresh cluster of red blips edging the map’s periphery. If these keep popping, we’ll run out of map before we run out of trouble.
Ahead, the corridor bent downward, roots forming a natural spiral stair. The air thickened with cold earth and old compost. Lantern-fungi thinned, so Thalatha gestured, and the forward guards snapped wrist-torches alight. Blue-white flames licked along living wood, illuminating carved glyphs every few paces—ward runes, but many looked scabbed over as if the tree itself tried to heal cracks.
Mikhailis brushed knuckles along one of those scars as he passed. The surface was smooth, but a warmth pulsed beneath, unnervingly close to his own heartbeat. Like the roots remember last week’s pain. He pulled his hand back quickly.
Their descent deepened: one spiral flight, then another. Each turn tightened the corridor until it felt like walking through the windpipe of a giant creature that refused to breathe. The hush down here was heavier—thicker than silence, seasoned with whispers of things that lived too long in the dark.