The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"So that's our next route?"

Lira followed her gaze. The passage was narrow, the edges lined with more runic symbols that pulsed like the dying heartbeat of a slumbering beast. "Looks like it."

Mikhailis swallowed hard, ignoring the flutter of anxiety in his gut. One foot in front of the other, he told himself. No turning back now. The catacombs had already shown they were as unpredictable as they were ancient, but they had to press on. He needed to know what these visions meant, why the city was in such danger, and how the mist tied it all together.

He rubbed at his temples, still feeling the lingering ache from that sudden vision. The memory of that grand hall, the chanting, the robed figure—he felt sure it was more than a random hallucination. Something deep within these ruins connected to him, demanding his attention.

He let out a shaky breath, forcing a smile. "Shall we, ladies?" he quipped, though his tone lacked its usual carefree lilt. He was trying to be brave, or at least seem brave. Rhea narrowed her eyes like she wanted to ask if he was truly okay, but she stayed silent, stepping forward with her weapon at the ready. Lira took up position at his other side, scanning the darkness ahead.

The faint light that leaked into the new corridor was just enough to show that the walls there were damp, covered in patches of algae or mold that glistened under the flickering runes. A drip of water echoed from somewhere, reminding Mikhailis that they were far below the city's surface. I wonder if anyone's set foot in here for centuries, he thought.

They moved in unison, the tension thick enough to taste. Every step felt like it might trigger another hidden mechanism or break the fragile balance of the ancient stone. Mikhailis tried to keep his breathing steady, focusing on the slight warmth Lira and Rhea's presence offered. He was grateful he wasn't alone—though he might joke about how he always ended up in these dangerous situations, deep down, the thought of facing them without allies made his stomach twist in fear.

Eventually, they reached a slight widening in the corridor, a small alcove where the runes were carved more densely, as if telling a story. Mikhailis paused, running his hand over the carvings. His fingertips traced lines that formed shapes of people, beasts, and swirling patterns of mist. It felt important, but he couldn't decipher the meaning right away.

Just as he was about to look closer, a flicker of memory flashed behind his eyes—hooded figures, swirling chants, a voice telling him to awaken. He clenched his jaw, pushing it away. Not now. He couldn't afford to fall into another vision.@@novelbin@@

Rhea's voice startled him. "You alright?" she asked, her tone gruff but carrying an undertone of concern.

He forced a nod. "Yeah," he said, though his throat felt dry. "Just… thinking."

Lira stepped beside him, her gaze gentle but searching. "We can take a moment if you need to gather yourself," she offered quietly. "We won't rush."

He appreciated the kindness, yet the swirling sense of purpose he felt wouldn't let him rest. Something in this place called him. He could feel it in the gentle pull of the mist, in the dim glow of the runes, in the heavy silence of the walls. It was bigger than him—bigger than them all.

Gathering his resolve, he shook his head. "I'm fine," he whispered. "Let's keep going."

They pressed forward another few steps, the corridor gradually sloping downward. The tension only grew with each pace, as though they were descending into the very heart of the catacombs. He glanced at Lira and Rhea. They looked uneasy too, but determined, and that somehow bolstered his own courage.

Finally, they arrived at another small chamber, its entrance framed by intricate carvings depicting the robed figure again—always that figure, with mist swirling around them. Mikhailis's heart hammered at the sight. He could almost sense that a new wave of memory wanted to crash over him, but he fought it back. They needed to be ready for anything—traps, illusions, or worse.

He paused, feeling the weight of everything—the visions, the hidden corridor, the possibility of something monstrous waiting just beyond. Then he closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a long, slow breath. His nerves calmed, if only a fraction.

He exhaled, steadying himself. "Alright. Let's see what our mysterious key unlocks."

_____

Above, in the collapsed corridor, Cerys tightened her grip on her sword, her breath even despite the lingering dust clouding the air. Each inhale tasted of grit and stone, a reminder that the floor might cave in further if they made a wrong move. The shaft of light from above offered only enough illumination to see the silhouette of five Technomancers standing a short distance away, their stance rigid, runic armor crackling with contained energy. For a heartbeat, nobody spoke. The tension in the air felt heavier than the debris around them.

"You should surrender," the lead enforcer said, his voice echoing off the surrounding rubble. The glare in his eyes reflected a mixture of caution and arrogance. "Your prince is already lost."

A flicker of anger kindled in Cerys's chest. The memory of everything Mikhailis had accomplished—his determination, his sometimes goofy jokes, his surprising bravery—flashed through her mind. She'd seen him survive the impossible more than once, and if these Technomancers thought a little collapse would finish him off, they had no idea who he truly was. "You don't know him very well, do you?" she retorted. Then she lunged.

Her feet moved with practiced precision, boots sliding over dusty stones without faltering. The nearest Technomancer braced himself, lifting an armored arm to parry her blade. Cerys felt the jolt in her wrist as steel met reinforced metal, sparks dancing for an instant. She adjusted quickly, pivoting her weight. Instead of attempting a direct slash again, she slammed her knee into his ribs. The impact drew a grunt from the man, and he stumbled back, thrown off-balance. Cerys seized the opening and slashed horizontally. Her sword cut through the weakened runes on his chest plate. The flicker of light there dimmed as he collapsed to the floor, unconscious or worse.

Vyrelda had already slipped into the fray with a lethal grace that made her dark hair swirl around her face. She moved almost faster than Cerys's eyes could follow, daggers in hand. Each movement was controlled, elegant but deadly, more like a choreographed dance than a scuffle in a dusty corridor. One Technomancer raised a rune-powered weapon at her, but she sidestepped, driving her blade into the gap between his shoulder and neck guard. He went down soundlessly. Another tried to turn, panic evident in his eyes, but she was too swift. In a blur of motion, he too fell, leaving only two remaining enforcers alive and well.

The surviving pair exchanged glances. They looked unsure—caught between duty and the realization that they were outmatched. The faint crackle of their armor dulled as if they were losing the will to fight. The corridor reverberated with the sound of debris shifting, a reminder of how unstable the cavern was now that the floor had collapsed, separating them from Mikhailis and the others. Between the swirling dust and the flickering light, the entire place felt like a scene from a nightmare.

"Smart choice," Vyrelda said, smirking at the two enforcers as she tilted her dagger in warning. "Run."

They did. Without looking back, they sprinted toward the nearest intact tunnel, the glow from their runic plating bobbing in the dimness until it disappeared around a corner. In the hush that followed, Cerys heard her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. She exhaled, realizing she'd been half expecting more enemies to appear. Enjoy new tales from My Virtual Library Empire

She wiped her blade clean on a scrap of fabric from one of the fallen enforcers. Blood smeared across the cloth, but she forced herself not to dwell on it. She'd fought too many battles in her life to recoil now. The day she lost her family, she'd vowed never to hesitate in the face of violence. Even so, the lingering ache inside her chest—where her family's memory lay—never fully vanished.

Cerys turned her attention to the tunnel leading downward, partially obstructed by fallen debris. "They're below us," she said, thinking aloud. "We need to find another way down." The words came out calm, but an undercurrent of worry for Mikhailis and the others flared in her gut. She reminded herself that he was resourceful—clever in ways that surprised even her. Still, she couldn't help imagining him injured or trapped, waiting for them to rescue him.

Vyrelda crouched beside one of the fallen enforcers, rummaging through his belt pouches. She withdrew a small scroll, its edges singed by some kind of runic discharge. Her brows knitted together. "They knew Mikhailis was coming here," she muttered, unrolling the parchment. From Cerys's angle, the writing looked like a coded script, dotted with symbols and arrows pointing deeper into the catacombs. "This wasn't random. They were waiting."

Cerys set her jaw, old instincts telling her that time was running short. She could practically feel the pulse of the catacombs beneath her boots, like the entire place had its own heartbeat. "Then we'd better move fast."