Chapter 647: Claws in the Dark Below (2)
"Not done yet," Mikhailis agreed, forcing a shaky grin.
No reply—she’d already limped forward, grabbing his uninjured arm and yanking him to his feet. Even hurt, she moved with soldier’s urgency. "Cover," she ordered, nodding toward a colossal fungal bulb slumped against the wall. The thing glistened an unhealthy violet, skin pulsing as though something inside breathed slow and shallow. Good enough.
They dragged Rodion—who managed a lurching half-hop on his one stable leg—behind the bulb’s shadow. Its rubbery flesh exhaled a bitter scent when they brushed it; Mikhailis tried not to imagine spores nesting in his sinuses.
He patted his belt. Psycho-gel grenades clinked softly in their loops, netting tight. He slid a finger beneath one cloth band to be certain—three left. "Loaded," he whispered, mostly to reassure himself.
High above, skeletal archers oozed from hollows in the ceiling. They looked like marionettes cut from darkness: rib cages strung with brittle root, cracked blades fused for arms, mana filaments twitching like the last nerves of a dying beast. Their eye sockets glowed faint indigo, tracking any flicker of motion below.
He tapped Thalatha’s pauldron and pointed at a narrow corridor mouth twenty paces ahead. The entrance almost vanished beneath mats of sickly moss that glowed faintly, like bruised skin under candlelight.
"Runes," he whispered. "Give me a second."
Thalatha crouched to cover him, sheathing her sword long enough to nock an arrow. Muscles in her wounded shoulder quivered; she grimaced but kept the bow steady.
Mikhailis darted across the open space, cloak whipping cold air at his heels. A hiss—arrow striking stone—ricocheted off the bulb where Thalatha hid. He reached the moss-choked arch and flattened a palm against the carved frame. Under the slime, faint lines bit through the rock in looping script.
His fingers traced each groove. Some runes were chipped, others overgrown, but patterns nudged memory. Elven archivists loved poetic code—he’d skimmed enough dusty tomes to catch fragments. He brushed grime away, breathing the words:
"Glade... of Silent Steps."
The glyph responded, flaring pale green, then bled color down the moss like ink in water. The overgrowth wilted, peeling back to reveal a veil of translucent vines strung across the passage like cobweb made of moonlight. A gap formed—thin but passable.