The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 387 : Zealots in the Dark (3)

<The southwestern corridor is momentarily under-guarded. Two Crownless House sentries left their posts for a shift rotation. You have a thirty-second window to pass undetected.>

Mikhailis's lips twitched. "You'd make a fantastic traveling companion if you'd just lighten up a bit, you know."

<I might say the same about you, were I programmed to care about your mood.>

He snorted softly, half in humor, half in exasperation. Rodion's dryness is part of his charm. Without wasting another breath, he seized the opening, sprinting forward in near silence. The darkness embraced him, and the cloak shifted fluidly as he dashed behind the battered remains of a statue that had once graced the hall's courtyard—some now-forgotten merchant figure, broken at the waist, forever cast down into rubble.

In the dim glow, he could see the southwestern entrance—a smaller side door that presumably led to storehouses or administrative offices. Two guards had indeed vacated their post there, leaving behind only flickering torches set into rusted sconces. The passage yawned open, beckoning him to slip inside. For a moment, he hesitated, scanning for traps or magical wards. But the swirling mist in his veins, heightened by the Necrolord's senses, revealed no immediate threat. If a magical snare was there, it was subtle enough to avoid detection.

He took that as a sign: now was the time to move.

<Be aware, the interior layout has not been fully scanned,> Rodion cautioned. <Expect the possibility of additional wards or illusions.>

Mikhailis nodded to himself, lips pressed into a firm line. "I'll keep that in mind."

Shadows clung to him as he darted through the narrow doorway. The corridor beyond was dark, lit only by an occasional lantern. Voices echoed faintly, footsteps tapping across distant stone floors. The musty odor of old parchment and stale air met his nostrils—remnants of what used to be an official space for commerce and debates now twisted into a staging ground for treachery.

He paused briefly, letting his eyes adjust. Dust motes danced in the faint golden beams that lanced sporadically through the gloom. The ceiling above was intact, though spiderweb cracks marred its once-elegant plaster. Broken furniture—chairs, tables, crates—lay toppled along the hall, as if someone had forcibly cleared the path, discarding everything that had no immediate use.

This was no chaotic aftermath. The rubble had been pushed aside systematically, leaving enough space for disciplined squads to move. They've been here a while, he realized with a sour feeling. They planned this infiltration meticulously, maybe even before the catacombs collapsed. The knowledge angered him—a cunning plot that had turned Luthadel's downfall into the perfect smokescreen for capturing Laethor.

Then Rodion's next words made his blood run cold.

<The barrier is confirmed to be below you, consistent with advanced wards connected to the city's old vaults. Move with caution—there's a strong reading of the same mist energy you possess. If they harnessed it as well, you may encounter a significant foe.>

Mikhailis's fingers twitched. Finally. This was the sign he'd dreaded yet sought. He swallowed, heart pounding. Great. Another psycho with these same messed-up powers. He grit his teeth, summoning the calm that had served him so well so far. If someone else had the same brand of mist-based magic, it might amplify the risk—and the unpredictability. He wouldn't back down. Not now. Not after coming this far.

Another flicker of movement caught his eye. Down the corridor, the flickering glow of a torch revealed a lone guard, tall and broad-shouldered, arms crossed as he leaned near a half-collapsed office door. Beyond him, the corridor likely led to a stairwell descending into the basement or vault. Perfect. Mikhailis dropped into a crouch. He prepared to circumvent or dispatch the guard quickly—stealth if possible, lethal force if necessary.

Then a glint of metal caught the corner of his vision—distinctive armor beneath the guard's cloak. The crest wasn't Crownless House, but Serewyn's. Mikhailis's stomach churned, the final puzzle piece clicking. A Serewyn royal knight, loyal to someone who orchestrated this betrayal. Another blow to Laethor's trust.

<Decision time, Your Highness. Do you want to play this slow and careful, or are we embracing your usual brand of dramatic chaos?>

Mikhailis grinned, rolling his shoulders. "Why not both?"

With a flick of his wrist, the Riftborne Necrolord's power engulfed him, and he disappeared into the shadows.

_____

He reemerged within the underground chamber, seamlessly slipping past the mist-infused barrier without disturbing its intricate weave. The air changed the instant he crossed the threshold, growing colder and oddly weighty, as though the darkness itself possessed a physical presence. The quiet hum of magic ran through the walls, pulsating in time with a dull rhythm that set Mikhailis's nerves on edge. Each breath carried a faint metallic tang, like old blood staining the stale air.

Rodion's data flashed across his vision, scanning the chamber's boundaries in rapid bursts of infrared and magical resonance. Stone pillars, slick with moisture, rose toward a low ceiling marred by cracks and dripping water. Cold lanterns flickered weakly, casting tremulous shadows that stretched across the uneven floor. The corners of the chamber lay thick with darkness—pockets where anything or anyone could lurk, unseen but not unfelt.

Standing at the room's heart was Laethor, shackled in the center, bound by what looked like thick enchanted chains. They pulsed with a sickly light—pale greens and yellows swirling beneath faint glyphs. Even from several meters away, Mikhailis could sense the aura of oppression they radiated, a deadening hush that pressed on the senses. Laethor looked battered, bruises staining his jaw and arms. His royal attire was torn, the once-lavish fabrics marred by dried blood and soot. Yet his demeanor was far from broken. There was a quiet defiance in his eyes, an edge of cool composure that signaled he wasn't giving up anytime soon.

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Mikhailis took a silent step forward, letting the Necrolord's cloak blend him further into the dimness. He expected Laethor to stare blankly into space or be unaware of his surroundings. Instead, the prince's head snapped around with razor-sharp alertness. Laethor could see him—no, more than that, he sensed him. In that fleeting moment, their eyes locked, and Mikhailis felt a wave of surprise course through him. The stealth cloak was supposed to hide him completely from normal sight, but Laethor's gaze burned with recognition.

Before Mikhailis could process the how or why, Rodion's warning blared in his ear, the AI's tone laced with an unfamiliar urgency.

<The mist barrier is a suppression field. If Laethor remains inside for too long, he won't just be unable to use magic—he may lose it permanently.>

That cold statement rattled him. Taking away Laethor's magic altogether would be a devastating blow, especially if the Crownless House's plan involved removing any threat to their newly gained control.

If I get too close to that barrier, what'll happen to me? Mikhailis thought with a grim shudder. The brand on his forearm gave a faint twinge, as though warning him not to be reckless with this unknown magic. I can't risk letting it drain me. But at the same time, leaving Laethor trapped was unthinkable. The man had reached out for help; to fail him now felt like a betrayal of everything Mikhailis claimed to stand for.

He braced himself to move, heart pounding in an uncharacteristically erratic rhythm—adrenaline mixing with the silent thrumming of the mist in his veins. Then, a voice echoed through the chamber, cutting through the stillness like a jagged blade:

"You're exactly where we wanted you, Prince Volkov."

Mikhailis whirled, cloak rippling in an almost liquid motion as he pivoted to face the intruder. In the faint lantern glow, he saw a figure stepping from behind a half-collapsed column: a Serewyn knight, clad in armor that bore faint traces of insignia—but the usual coat of arms had been scorched off, replaced with a rough outline of the Crownless House crest. Betrayal indeed. The knight's expression was unreadable, cold, but the set of his shoulders exuded confidence, borderline arrogance.

What sent a ripple of true alarm through Mikhailis's gut was the man standing beside him: tall, robed in dark fabric with intricate swirling patterns embroidered along the sleeves. Mist curled around his fingers in lazy tendrils, ghostly and alive, as though responding to his every heartbeat. There was a subtle air of command about him—an Enforcer, Rodion called it. The idea that someone besides Mikhailis could wield the mist so deliberately made his skin crawl.

Rodion spoke again, voice sharp like a cautionary whisper:

<That man is an Enforcer. And he doesn't just use the mist—he controls it.>

Controlling the mist was a step beyond anything Mikhailis had achieved. He'd harnessed it, sure, or channeled it at best. But "control" implied a mastery that might overshadow his own precarious bond. He felt his mouth go dry, half from fascination, half from alarm.

The Serewyn knight smirked, stepping closer, his boots echoing softly against damp stone. "Laethor was never meant to sit on the throne," he said, each word dripping with contempt. "The King has been compromised. The Crownless House already has agents within the palace. Your little interference forced us to accelerate the plan. It's almost amusing—had you done nothing, we might have taken Laethor quietly. But you had to play hero."

Mikhailis felt a wave of anger coil in his chest, hot and sudden. "You talk too much,"