The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

<Innovatively reckless.>

Before he could respond—before he could so much as move—the ruins reacted.

A tremor shuddered through the chamber, deep and resonant, like the earth itself had drawn breath. The mist surged, no longer an idle force but something denser, something aware. The dim glow within the engravings pulsed brighter, illuminating the space in flickering patterns.

Rodion's voice turned sharp.

<Mikhailis, external energy fluctuations are spiking. The system is no longer dormant. Something is being activated.>

Mikhailis barely had time to register the warning before he felt it.@@novelbin@@

A shift in the air. A pulse of something deeper than magic, older than recorded history. The weight of an unseen force pressing against the edges of reality.

The Crownless operative stiffened, their earlier wariness turning to outright alarm. Their eyes darted to the shifting mist, their breath coming faster.

They knew what this meant.

The color drained from their face as realization sank in.

"It's awake."

The mist coalesced, shaping itself into something humanoid, featureless yet undeniably watching. It moved with a careful, deliberate slowness at first, as though it were testing the air, sampling the tension in the chamber. Mikhailis felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp underground. Even through the haze of flickering lamplight, he could sense the entity's attention turning toward them, centering on every twitch of muscle, every flutter of breath. In that moment, the echo of old magic hung thick like smoke, a warning rattling in the back of his mind.

Then, without warning, it attacked.

The thing lunged with a swiftness that defied its foggy composition, limbs lashing out in sweeping arcs of condensed vapor. To a casual observer, it might have appeared sluggish, but there was purpose in every motion—a dreadful precision that betrayed its inhuman nature.

Vyrelda reacted first, instincts honed from countless battles. She was nothing but a blur of steel and determination, her body twisting to meet the entity's lunge. The slash of her sword cut a silver trail through the air, and for a heartbeat, Mikhailis thought she might cleave the thing in two. Yet the moment the blade carved through its form, the mist parted and then re-formed, as if her sword had been wielded against water. The entity's torso flowed back into place, leaving no trace of a wound.

She landed with feline grace, her crimson eyes wide. "It's not solid," she said, a hint of frustration slipping through her usually stoic demeanor. "Physical attacks aren't going to work."

Mikhailis, a few paces behind, dodged just as a tendril of mist swiped at him—a near-invisible blade of vapor that would've taken his head off if he'd reacted a second too late. He rolled across the damp floor, coat dragging against the dust, then sprang back to his feet with a flourish that looked more theatrical than it had any right to be.

"Oh good," he drawled, voice tinged with dry humor, "an enemy we can't hit. My favorite."

Because fighting normal swordsmen is too boring, obviously.

Rodion's crisp voice cut across his thoughts:

<The entity is likely a remnant of the ruins' original defense system, programmed to repel intruders. Standard combat will be ineffective.>

Mikhailis mentally scoffed, rolling his shoulder to alleviate the dull ache from his abrupt dodge. "And you're telling me this now?" he muttered under his breath, sidestepping another vicious slash. The entity's arm stretched like a spearing tentacle, seeking an opening, but Mikhailis ducked beneath it, feeling a cold swirl of mist graze his hair.

Across the chamber, the Crownless House operative watched, tense and uncertain. Mikhailis caught their eyes for a fraction of a second—fear mixed with a kind of grim resignation. They seemed to know more than they'd let on, but right now, survival mattered more than explaining mysteries.

Vyrelda snarled something under her breath, hacking at the entity's flank once more. The blow was futile, passing cleanly through. The being's form rippled around the blade, reforming instantly. No hiss of pain, no sign of damage, just a continuous, silent progression forward.

Mikhailis forced a wry grin, trying to keep the tension from swallowing him whole. "Right," he announced to no one in particular, "if I can't poke it, let's try shutting it down at the source."

He spun on his heel, scanning the curved walls for anything that resembled a control panel. The lines of ancient script glimmered faintly in the dim light, etched into the rock with near-reverent artistry. He'd seen these inscriptions before—less detailed, but similar—on a different part of the ruin. The shapes reminded him of a puzzle that might unlock a door or break a seal. Maybe they could break this guardian.

Rodion's tone sharpened:

<Recommend locating the primary interface. Physical confrontation yields a negligible chance of success.>

Mikhailis let out a quiet, half-laughing breath. "And once again, your brilliance astounds me." He pivoted, eyes catching on a faint glow behind a half-collapsed archway. That had to be it—the same organic console he'd noticed earlier, the one that seemed fused to the architecture of the chamber.

He sprinted across uneven stone, the wetness from the mist-laden air making every step precarious. The entity lurched, sensing his movement, and part of its torso elongated into a vicious spike, aiming directly for his chest. In that split second, Mikhailis's heart thudded in his ears. If I slip now…

But Vyrelda intervened. She threw herself in the path, sword meeting the swirling vapor in a diagonal block. It was a purely defensive maneuver, but it served its purpose: halting the creature's attack long enough for Mikhailis to slip by. She grunted with effort, her boots sliding a fraction on the slick floor, but her stance held.

"Don't die on me," she growled over her shoulder. "I can't handle Elowen's wrath and burying your body."

Mikhailis allowed himself a chuckle, adrenaline spiking his humor. "I'll do my best to stay alive for your sake."

He reached the console—a tall, curved construction of stone and metal seamlessly fused. Dust clung to the grooves, but beneath that, an inner radiance pulsed like a heartbeat. Each time the guardian shifted, the glow seemed to match its tempo. A single large glyph stood at chest height, softly illuminated. Instinct told him this was the key.

The Crownless operative suddenly appeared beside him, their face pale but determined. "If you want to fix this," they hissed, pressing a trembling hand to the edge of the interface, "stop it from killing us first."

Mikhailis flashed a quick grin, more muscle memory than actual cheer. "Now you're speaking my language." He pressed his palm against the glyph, feeling a slight warmth through his gloves, reminiscent of the earlier console he'd touched. Almost like the place recognized him.

A pulse of energy coursed through his arm, making him gasp. It wasn't painful—more like a sudden jolt of awareness. In his mind's eye, he glimpsed a labyrinth of passages, vast and intricate, as though he were seeing the entire network that made up the Serewynian ruins. Ghostly arcs of luminous script threaded through the stone, converging on a central nexus of power. This is how they regulated the mist, he realized, by tapping directly into these lines…

Rodion's cold, analytical tone rumbled:

<Analyzing system architecture… Attempting override…>

He watched the ancient engravings under his hand shift color, from pale blue to a deeper, urgent crimson. The console beeped—a low, somber tone that resonated in the pit of his stomach.

The mist guardian shrieked, its faceless head tilting back in silent fury. A swirl of vapor spiraled around its form, thickening until it resembled a living tempest. Vyrelda gasped, fighting to keep her balance as the creature lashed out with newfound aggression. It no longer just swung at them; it hammered the walls, causing more rubble to fall from the ceiling.

Cracks splintered through the chamber, raining dust and debris. The ground shook again, a rumble that threatened to bring the entire place down. Mikhailis spared a quick look at Vyrelda. She was pinned on the defensive, each slash of her sword proving useless, forced to dodge and parry intangible limbs.

She's doing everything she can…

The operative hovered near Mikhailis, their eyes darting between the guardian and the console. "Hurry!"

He cursed under his breath, forcing his mind to focus on the inscriptions. He recognized some base patterns from the earlier data—a system that connected lines of runes to command sequences. If the guardian was a security measure, then there had to be a command phrase or sequence to subdue it. Your next read awaits at My Virtual Library Empire

A low, distant thunder vibrated through the stone, and Mikhailis felt the entire console pulse against his hand. The glyphs rearranged, forming new shapes. He tried to follow them, to piece together the arcs of script, but it was like deciphering an alien language at high speed. The presence he'd felt earlier—like an echo of something ancient—pressed at the edges of his thoughts, as though it wanted to guide him.

He relented, letting that odd sense of direction steer his fingers. Instead of forcing logic, he let intuition lead. Come on, come on…

The guardian screeched again, a terrible, voiceless roar. Mist exploded outward, nearly engulfing Vyrelda. She stumbled back with a ragged breath, her sword arm trembling. Mikhailis's heart pounded. Another few seconds and she'd be overwhelmed.

I have to do this now.