The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 395: We Need to Flee

Mikhailis stood tensely, heart pounding like a caged bird inside his chest. Broken stone and twisted metal lay strewn everywhere, the remnants of a once-grand chamber reduced to a haunting ruin. Even the flicker of dying embers among the rubble seemed to deepen the oppressive hush. A swirl of dust motes glimmered in the faint, erratic light, and every breath he drew tasted of scorched air and something bitter—like blood and old magic left to rot.

His gaze drifted warily across the room. On the far side loomed the Enforcer—a dark presence whose silence felt heavier than any threat spoken aloud. The man stood like a statue carved from obsidian, his unreadable face half-veiled in murky shadows. Near him, or at least not far enough for comfort, crouched Auron, grimacing as he scraped at the sticky remnants of necrotic webbing latching onto his arm and coat. Each time Auron tugged a piece free, his breath rattled unevenly, his jaw clenched as if every movement stabbed at his pride. Farther back, just within Mikhailis's peripheral vision, Laethor clutched his side, his face slick with sweat. Even from a distance, Mikhailis could see the prince's labored breathing—rapid, shallow gasps betraying the pain coursing through him. The battered man was alive, but at what cost? Mikhailis suspected Laethor had little strength left for a fight.

Mikhailis swallowed, throat raw. The tension radiating from the Enforcer pinned him like an insect beneath glass. He felt it in his bones: if he made one wrong step, that silent sentinel would pounce with lethal precision. Memories of earlier clashes still burned in his muscles. A part of him recalled with unwelcome clarity how the Enforcer's blade had slashed mere inches from his skin, how his instincts alone had kept him from certain death.

If I rush in to grab Laethor, the Enforcer will be on me before I blink.

He shifted his boots slightly, mindful of a twisted rod of metal jutting from the cracked floor. Each subtle movement sent a jolt of protest from the bruises he'd earned in the skirmish. Indeed, the near misses had come at a price—tight aches that flared with every breath. A single sweat droplet slid down his temple.

Rodion, assess, he thought, half-lidding his eyes to hide his anxiety behind a semblance of composure.

<We are inside a partially collapsed basement hall,>

<around thirty meters in radius, with multiple structural weak points. The brand's influence is stable for the moment, though your adrenaline levels are extremely high. Enforcer remains a prime threat, especially combined with Auron.>

A short, humorless grunt escaped Mikhailis's lips. That statement of facts didn't ease the tension knotted in his chest. The brand pulsed there—like a second heartbeat thrumming with ominous energy—making each breath feel precarious. His gaze drifted across the gloom to the Enforcer again, mentally labeling the man as a living countdown to chaos.

A swirl of dust flickered in the dim light, crossing his line of sight. He forced himself to inhale slowly, then exhale through his nose, once more grounding his nerves. But it was difficult, especially when he felt the brand's presence whispering dark possibilities at the fringes of his consciousness.

His eyes found Laethor again, noticing the battered prince's trembling fists. The man's face spoke of raw frustration, an anger that teetered between despair and defiance. Mikhailis wondered how many times Laethor had tried to stand against his twin, only to be cornered like this. A pang of sympathy pierced Mikhailis's chest.

I can't leave him to their mercy, he reflected, though he also recognized the lethal risk. The brand, the Enforcer, Auron… the air stank of looming disaster. If they stayed much longer, the cost might be fatal.

Retreat might be best,

we can regroup with the rest of the ants, and maybe—

<Yes, retreat,>

<the brand's mental corruption remains a factor. Also, the Enforcer's threat level is far beyond standard. We have no confirmation how many others might be lurking.>

The logic was sound. Mikhailis gave a minute nod, his heart still rattling like a drum in his chest. Even if it stung his pride to admit it, running might be their only sane option.

There's no point in heroic standoffs if it means dying for nothing, he told himself, though it felt hollow.

His gaze cut to Auron, who had finally pried off a particularly stubborn chunk of necrotic residue. Despite a sheen of sweat painting his forehead, the traitorous prince wore a half-smirk stretched tight across his lips, as if relishing Mikhailis's predicament. That mocking expression practically screamed:

<Go ahead. Try. You won't get far.>

Mikhailis's jaw tightened.

"Great," he muttered.

He ran his hand down his side, where faint pulses of energy from the entomancer gear reminded him that all was not lost. If we do slip away, we stand a chance—provided the brand doesn't sabotage me first.

He flicked a glance at Laethor. The battered prince's breathing still came in pained hisses, and a fresh line of crimson stained the ragged cloth pressed to his side. Mikhailis forced calm into his tone.

"Laethor, when I move, grab hold of me. We're leaving."

Laethor's reaction was immediate—a hardened stare, stubbornness laced with pain.

"Leaving them like this?"

"After all they've done?"

Mikhailis returned a stern glance, scanning the battered chamber with careful detachment. Broken arches drooped overhead, one sharp beam barely hanging from a cracked support. He noted how each pillar looked on the verge of collapse—one well-placed quake might bring the entire roof down. The brand gave another uneasy pulse, as if cautioning him about the environment itself.

"We can't fight them all," he replied softly, his voice steeled with regret. His gaze swept across the gloom: Auron's sneer, the Enforcer's ominous silhouette, and the half-collapsed corridor that might be their only route of escape.

"Not when the brand's messing with me and we have no backup."

He ended on that note, the words echoing in the stale air like a final confession of weakness. The brand in his chest flared once more, but this time the pain felt muted compared to the ache of leaving a job unfinished. Yet reason told him there was no choice: confronting the Enforcer head-on was suicide, and ignoring Auron's cunning would be equally disastrous. The battered chamber seemed to press in on him with every breath, thick with dust and old smoke, the lingering odor of burnt wood and broken dreams.

He stood there with a tightness in his shoulders, as though bracing against an invisible storm. In the corners of his vision, shadows flickered and shifted, cast by half-dead torches whose embers clung obstinately to their final sparks of life. The gloom swallowed everything more than a few paces away, turning broken pillars into looming silhouettes and fallen statues into half-seen phantoms.

Inside him, a swirl of emotions brewed: guilt over abandoning any immediate revenge for Luthadel's downfall, anger at Auron's smug assumption of victory, frustration that Elowen herself might be threatened if things went wrong, and an unsettling mix of fear and determination courtesy of the brand's persistent hum. As if in response, the brand fluttered a dull pulse against his ribcage—neither painful nor comforting, just a reminder of its presence. Despite it all, Mikhailis forced himself to remain outwardly calm, expression carefully neutral, posture steady.

A few steps behind him, Laethor's face twisted in conflict, caught between anguished fury and acceptance. The prince's shallow breathing and the slow dribble of blood at his side reminded Mikhailis that time was short. They couldn't stay for a prolonged fight. Laethor opened his mouth as if to argue further, but the flicker of resignation in Mikhailis's eyes made him pause. The battered prince lowered his gaze, swallowing back a protest that died in his throat.

Mikhailis could almost taste the bitterness on the man's breath. A regretful tension pulled at his own chest, but he steeled himself, letting the brand's quiet burn remind him that any rash decision could bring them both to ruin.

I'm sorry, Mikhailis thought, the words forming a fleeting whisper in his mind, but we can't save a kingdom if we die here tonight.

He readied himself to bolt, feeling every muscle coil tight, prepared to seize the moment. Beneath his battered coat, the entomancer gear vibrated ever so softly, as if urging him to trust in its hidden power. If the Enforcer so much as shifted, Mikhailis planned to surge forward, snatching Laethor along and darting for a corridor that might lead them somewhere safer. He imagined the necrolord cloak swirling around them, illusions hazing their forms, enough to buy those few critical seconds.

Yet a small voice in the back of his head whispered doubts, feeding his anxiety. The brand pulsed again, a faint quiver that traveled along his spine, reminding him that illusions or stealth might falter under the Enforcer's heightened senses. One slip, one faint hesitation—and a lethal blade could pierce him or cut Laethor down before they had the chance to fully vanish.

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But any risk was better than certain doom, he reasoned with forced calm. The brand didn't protest that conclusion; it simply smoldered.

He inhaled, deeper this time, letting the musty air fill his lungs. Adrenaline coursed through him, making his limbs feel oddly light even as his heart thundered in his ears. He parted his lips to speak—perhaps to finalize the plan with Laethor, to remind him of the exact second to cling on. But then, movement drew his eye.