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 sothing denser, sothing aware. The dim glow within the engravings pulsed brighter, illuminating the space in flickering patterns.
Rodion's voice turned sharp.
Mikhailis barely had ti to register the warning before he felt it.
A shift in the air. A pulse of sothing 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 ant.
The color drained from their face as realization sank in.
"It's awake."
The mist coalesced, shaping itself into sothing 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 mont, 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 et 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 mont the blade carved through its form, the mist parted and then re-ford, 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 deanor. "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 swordsn is too boring, obviously.
Rodion's crisp voice cut across his thoughts:
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