The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort Chapter 628: The Sudden Hazard (End)

"We did not bring you rely for stories."

"I guessed." He set aside the fruit.

She rose and gestured toward the center of the floor, where a circular gap gaped between roots. A faint chill crept from it. He followed, Rodion gliding close.

The fissure was no wider than a man’s shoulders, yet depth swallowed light. Black tendrils pulsed along its walls—roots twisted into rope, slick with oily sheen. Each pulse sent dim crimson ripples through the cracks. The air slled of rot under incense, old blood beneath perfu.

Mikhailis knelt, bracing a hand on slick bark. He peered in. The tendrils didn’t writhe like vines in wind; they quivered in slow waves, as if sothing gulped life from them in lazy sips.

A bead of sweat slid along his temple despite the cool air.

Rodion’s optics flashed, scanning.

He pressed a gloved finger to his lips, thinking fast. If Thalatha suspects I’ll run tattling to the human court, they’ll close every door. The right angle: shared problem, shared risk.

He rose, wiping damp palm on his coat. t Thalatha’s steady gaze. "I propose a joint study. My leyline arrays combined with your root magic. Together we can map the corruption and starve it."

From the back, a gray-haired elf snorted. "Humans once felled our groves for cheap ships!"

Mikhailis nodded, conceding past sins. "Humans also grow wiser, one conversation at a ti." He opened both hands—empty. "Let earn trust."

Thalatha lifted a palm, halting further protest. Her eyes held storms and sunlight both. "One chance," she said. "You will remain until Elders consent."

He bowed without hesitation. "I accept." Better to be a welco prisoner than an exiled spy.

She stepped closer, nodding toward the fissure. "Place your hand on the heart of the Blight."

Mikhailis braced his fingertips against the dank rim of the fissure. The bark felt slick, almost fever-warm, and every heartbeat sent a tremor through the wood beneath his palm. As soon as he pressed down, the ember-red rune branded on his wrist flared, answering the Blight’s pulse in eerie synchrony—like two drums on opposite sides of a valley suddenly beating in ti.

A soft gasp rippled through the gathered elves. It wasn’t quite fear, not quite awe—sothing balanced between the two. Thalatha’s stern eyes searched his face, as if hunting for any flicker of deception. He steadied his breathing and let his shoulders loosen, signaling trust.

Around the fissure, the Hollowguard ford a wide ring. Boots shuffled against moss, robes whispered. One by one they laid right hands over their hearts and began to chant. The words were hushed, syllables flowing like a mountain stream at dusk, lilting up and down a narrow scale. Mikhailis didn’t recognize the language, but aning threaded underneath: sorrow, plea, stubborn hope.

With every phrase their skin-glyphs ignited: little pinpoints of light traveling vein-like patterns, converging toward their palms. Soon, thin strands of azure mana rose from each elf, drifting toward the circle’s center where his hand touched the wound.

Rodion, standing guard at his back, tensed.

Noted, he replied inwardly, tightening his fingers. A low thrum built in his bones—mild at first, then strong enough to make his teeth vibrate. It wasn’t pain; more like being dunked in icy riverwater: shocking, bracing, alive.

Before his eyes, the black tendrils writhing in the fissure slowed. Where they touched the rim, charred bark began to lighten, shifting from coal gray to deep caral. Among that renewed tissue, spots of bright green winked open—tiny buds pushing apart slick wood. One bud unfurled into a miniature leaf no bigger than a thumbnail, its surface trembling.

A hum of relief swept the circle. Elven shoulders sagged, jaws unclenched. The chant’s tone lifted, transforming sorrow into sothing nearly triumphant.

"Sprouts..." Thalatha whispered, awe cracking her formal mask. "We have not seen new green in ten seasons."

Mikhailis dared a small grin. "Roots like complints," he said, voice low. Sweat pricked under his collar; the rune burned dull but steady now, like a coal banked in ash. "But this is only the opening step."

Rodion chid, diagnostic glyphs flickering across its eyes.

Thalatha t the construct’s glow, understanding the gist. She squared her shoulders. "Then we must learn the rest from your arrays, Prince."

He nodded but felt a wave of fatigue tug at his knees. Draining, yes, but nothing he couldn’t mask with a deep breath. He removed his hand; the fissure’s edge stead gently, sap oozing where fresh growth pushed out decay.

The commander raised her hands, and the chanting ceased. Silence rolled across the pavilion, broken only by the distant trickle of springwater. For a count of three heartbeats no one moved. Then, all at once, the guards dipped their heads—not a full bow, but genuine recognition.

Thalatha stepped close, her voice soft now. "You have given the Hollowguard a breath. We... owe you."

He inclined his head. "Duty repaid for a kindness long past." A mory flashed—her chained wrists, his borrowed goblin hands prying iron apart. He let the ghost of that night drift away.

__

They escorted him to a side alcove woven from plush erald moss and the looping roots of a young heart-sapling. The chamber slled of damp leaves and faint spice—like cinnamon left on a windowsill overnight. Two guards posted themselves at the archway. They didn’t frown or threaten; they simply stood sentinel, eyes forward, ensuring their guest both safety and containnt.

A steward wearing a rose-gold circlet appeared, bearing a carved tray. On it sat a deep cup of warm blossom-wine—liquid the color of ripe peaches at dusk—and a wedge of moon-basil flatbread. The bread was braided, still steaming, its surface dusted with glimring green crystals of herb-salt.

Mikhailis accepted them with a grateful nod. He downed a cautious sip; flavors burst across his palate: honey, llow floral, a spark of sothing peppery underneath. Comfort blood down his throat, traveling to settle low in his stomach.

The steward hovered. "Is warmth sufficient?" she asked, voice like velvet scraped against marble.

"It’s perfect," he assured her. "The bread slls heavenly." He tore a piece; steam curled, carrying notes of anise and sweet basil. The crumb was light—almost cloudlike—and he found himself humming with appreciation.

A flicker of amusent touched the steward’s eyes. She bowed and slipped away, her bare feet whispering across spongy ground.

Rodion settled beside the fountain: a statue-of-sorts shaped by coiling roots that poured silver water into a shallow basin. Moonlight lamps glimred in each ripple. In their reflection, Mikhailis caught his own face: shadows under eyes, sweat dampening dark curls at his brow, a sar of pale sap along his glove.

He closed his eyes and pictured Elowen—her calm certainty, the way she tilted her head when teasing, the quiet pride she wore like an invisible crown. Stay safe, he whispered inwardly, the prayer drifting from mind to mind across unknown miles. He imagined her perched on a balcony high in Silvarion, looking at the moonlit canopy, sohow sensing his thoughts.

Rodion shifted.

He chuckled softly. "You’re a mother hen."

He stretched, feeling vertebrae pop. "Keep watch, friend. I need a mont to think."

Rodion’s ears—rounded tufts—perked.

With the fountain’s hush as soundtrack, Mikhailis considered the impossible politics looming ahead. Should the surface realms learn of a hidden elven nation—rich in mythic timber, lost magic, and beauty rare enough to start wars—kingdoms would flock like vultures. Traders would scent profit, lords would fancy trophies, so zealot would label them demons to be purged. History repeated whenever new wonders erged.

But keep them hidden, he counter-argued, and they might die under this blight. Twenty-three percent stabilization wasn’t victory. It was a lifeline stretched across a chasm. He needed proper equipnt, samples, cross-planar maps—tools waiting back in his own lab. Tools the elves might never allow him to retrieve.

A low horn moaned in the distance—mournful, layered—which Rodion tagged as a "summons signal: high authority." Footfalls—multiple, deliberate—thudded along the corridor, vibrating through the root floor.

Mikhailis rose, brushing crumbs from his lap. He set the cup on the tray—wine half-finished, warmth lingering in his chest. He rolled his shoulders once, then twice, letting tension lt into readiness.

The doorway draped with leaf-curtains parted. Four elders entered in tight formation. Their robes were woven from twilight—deep purples and dusty blues—each thread inscribed with runic seed patterns that glowed like embers. Silver hair cascaded down backs, so braided with crystal beads, others unbound, streaked with pale gold. Tattoos coiled around wrists, necks, temples: stories in ink and mana.

Their leader stepped forward. Her presence felt like stepping close to an old, living tree—a gravity of years. Her eyes were a deep river-green, and in their reflection Mikhailis saw storm clouds.

She studied him in silence for a long three breaths. Around them the very air thickened; even the fountain’s fall dulled, as if water itself listened.

When she spoke, her voice carried an echo, as though halls and mories repeated each syllable. "Goblin-blooded or not," she said, letting each consonant hang like a leaf in still air, "you must answer for your trespass."

Sowhere behind her a guard drew a careful inhale; tension rippled outward.

Mikhailis lifted his chin. Every lesson in diplomacy, every lecture from Elowen about posture and presence, guided the set of his shoulders. "Then ask," he answered, keeping his tone even. "I will give truth." His pulse drumd in his ears, but his voice held steady.

He inhaled. Cool breath filled his lungs, tinged with basil and stone. Tomorrow, he realized, two worlds will shift forever.