Mikhailis's lips twitched. "You'd make a fantastic traveling companion if you'd just lighten up a bit, you know."
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—so now-forgotten rchant 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 mont, he hesitated, scanning for traps or magical wards. But the swirling mist in his veins, heightened by the Necrolord's senses, revealed no imdiate threat. If a magical snare was there, it was subtle enough to avoid detection.
He took that as a sign: now was the ti to move.
Rodion cautioned.
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 parchnt and stale air t his nostrils—remnants of what used to be an official space for comrce 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 soone had forcibly cleared the path, discarding everything that had no imdiate 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 ticulously, 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.
Mikhailis's fingers twitched. Finally. This was the sign he'd dreaded yet sought. He swallowed, heart pounding. Great. Another psycho with these sa ssed-up powers. He grit his teeth, summoning the calm that had served him so well so far. If soone else had the sa 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 movent 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 basent 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 tal 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 soone who orchestrated this betrayal. Another blow to Laethor's trust.
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 reerged 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 ti with a dull rhythm that set Mikhailis's nerves on edge. Each breath carried a faint tallic 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 ters 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 deanor was far from broken. There was a quiet defiance in his eyes, an edge of cool composure that signaled he wasn't giving up anyti soon.
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 mont, 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.
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