CHAPTER 625: THE SUDDEN HAZARD (2)

Mikhailis barely managed to brace, boots skidding on loose shards. He caught one last glimpse of his own palm as the sigil blazed into a miniature sun. From within the translucent shield, it painted the chamber in a storm of blood-red strobe—pulsing so bright he could see the bones in Rodion’s arms through the panels.

He tried to shout—Elowen, Rodion, anyone—but the moment he opened his mouth the sound evaporated. Air fled his lungs as if the chamber itself had gulped it down.

A second flash eclipsed the first. Where light had been only unbearable, it now became total, filling every crevice until there was no up, no down, no color—just scalding white. It felt like falling into the heart of a star and finding nothing there but glare.

Then the floor vanished.

He had enough presence of mind to realize he was airborne—Rodion still clamped around him—before a g-force punch knocked thought loose. Wind roared past, cold as glacier runoff. His stomach tried to claw its way through his spine. If Rodion hadn’t been fused to him, he might have tumbled end over end into who-knew-where.

Incoming. Defensive maneuver initiated.

Rodion’s voice rang inside his skull, crisp yet echoing, as though coming through three layers of crystal.

What the hell is this?! The thought screamed through his head but never reached his lips. Another flare—briefer, a camera flash compared to the earlier supernova—and then darkness, absolute and immediate. Stars exploded in his vision, but whether real or retinal he could not tell.

Air returned with a vengeance, whipping hair against his cheeks. Before he could orient, gravity snapped back.

Impact.

They hit something soft but unyielding—spongy turf overlaying hard-packed earth. Rodion absorbed the worst of it, servos whining under stress as metallic limbs dug into moss and loam to cushion the landing. The shield plates folded back with a hiss of depressurization, leaving him blinking in the dim.

The first thing he noticed: smell. Rich humus, wet stone, a faint tang of bioluminescent fungus. A forest scent—but unlike any canopy breeze he’d known. Cooler, damper, weightier, as though trapped under miles of rock.

The second thing: light. Not daylight, but a diffuse emerald glow rising from lichen-encrusted boulders and cap-sized mushrooms. Veins of quartz snaked through trunk-thick roots overhead, pulsing with a lazy inner luminescence that made the air shimmer like heat ripples.

Mikhailis sucked in a shaky breath. "...This isn’t Verdant Canopy," he whispered, voice raw. The words steamed in the chill, dissolving against the irregular stone columns that ringed the clearing.

Rodion pivoted, photoreceptors adjusting. The construct’s outer carapace bore spider-web cracks now lit by internal coolant, but its stance remained steady. Before it could offer analysis, the ambient hush changed. A subtle harmony—the background drip of unseen water, the distant hush of subterranean wind—gained a new note: dry leaves rasping against leather.

Not wind. Footsteps.

Mikhailis’s hackles rose. Every survival lesson Cerys had ever drilled into him screamed: find cover, drop low, scan for movement. But the clearing offered only waist-high mushrooms and root ridges. He lifted his hands instead, palms out.

Figures melted from the tree-root shadows—tall, willowy silhouettes with a pale sheen that seemed to drink the green glow and give it back as moonlight. A dozen, at least; maybe more among the columns he couldn’t see. The nearer ones stepped into clearer view, and breath fled his lungs for the second time tonight.

They were beautiful in the way carved ice is beautiful—a perfection that hints at fragility until you remember ice can cut.

Skin: porcelain white, marked with faint cobalt sigils that pulsed in time with some internal rhythm—like living circuits.

Hair: pure argent, braided with slivers of leaf-silver and strands of faintly glowing thread.

Ears: pointed, longer than any folklore carving, tapering so fine he was sure a stiff breeze could break them.

Their weapons looked grown rather than forged. Longbows of ivory vine curled like serpents around their owners’ arms; the string was not gut or fiber but glowing filament that thrummed with waiting force. Spear shafts resembled polished saplings sprouting crystalline blades that refracted the scattered light into pinwheels of color.

One step back. Two. Still surrounded. Rodion shuffled sideways, widening its stance, shield emitters warming, but holding fire.

Mikhailis glanced left, right, heart banging warnings. No gaps. No friendly hum of his chimera scouts—only the measured breathing of beings taller than he, eyes glacial and unblinking.

His palms tingled from the lingering heat of the sigil, but he resisted curling them into fists.

"Greetings," he tried, voice thin. "I’m—"

The nearest warrior tightened bowstring with a whispering thrnnk. A crystalline arrowhead gleamed, haloed in cool blue. No spoken threat needed.

Rodion’s tone dropped to an emergency hush.

Threat count: fourteen. Projectile readiness confirmed. Suggest diplomatic protocol.

"Diplomatic." He swallowed. "Right." He forced his shoulders to relax, copying the non-threat posture he’d practiced with Elowen’s envoys: arms lowered, fingers spread, spine straight, eyes lowered but alert.

The circle beneath his skin chose that moment to flicker—a soft ember glow escaping through his sleeve. Instantly three bows shifted target from chest to hand. Soft murmurs flowed between the warriors, fluid and musical yet carrying sharp edges he could feel in his ribs.

"Easy," he breathed, though he doubted they understood. "It’s an accident. Not a weapon."

One figure stepped forward—a woman, if the delicate frame meant anything. Her armor resembled interlocking leaves of polished opal. She raised a hand, palm outward, and the other archers shifted; bows stayed drawn but angled off his heart. A concession.

Her voice, when it came, vibrated like wind through glass chimes—alien syllables laced with a cadence older than the canopy. He caught only patterns, no meaning. She finished with an upward lilt—a question.

Rodion, quick as ever, translated snatches via sub-vocal analyzer.

Inquiry: identity, origin, purpose of intrusion. Tone: controlled, cautious curiosity.

Mikhailis wet his lips. "I am Mikhailis Volkov. Researcher. Prince—Consort, actually. Not important right now." He grimaced; the words sounded absurd even to him. "We were... pulled here. Accident. Cross-dimensional transport, maybe? I honestly don’t know."

The opal-armored leader tilted her head, silver hair sliding over one shoulder like water. She spoke again, slower, perhaps hoping to bridge the gap. Rodion whispered partial meanings—"blood-brand," "gate stone," "forbidden." Each term chilled him further.

"Look," he said, lifting his marked hand cautiously, "this thing activated on its own. If you can help—"

At the sight of the glowing glyph, half the company recoiled. Two spears dipped lower, tips hovering inches from his ribcage. The leader barked a sharp phrase, and they froze—but tension thickened until every breath tasted like sparks before a storm.

Rodion’s shield matrix brightened, blue tiles interlocking over its limbs.

Warning: combat likelihood escalating. I can intercept three, maybe four projectiles. Recommend tactical retreat.

"Retreat to where?" he hissed.

The leader gestured. Two warriors glided forward, steps soundless on moss, Seizing perhaps? No—escorting. Their spears didn’t poke; they guided. A clear command: Move, or be moved.

Mikhailis exhaled, hands still raised. One step, two—steered along a winding path between glowing fungi. Rodion kept close, pivoting to guard his back.

From the corner of his eye he saw other shapes flit among roots—silent watchers, maybe more archers, maybe something worse. The deeper they went, the more the air felt charged, as though the forest itself breathed arcane currents.

He stumbled on a slick patch of moss, steadied by Rodion’s quick brace. The leader glanced over a porcelain shoulder, gaze narrowing at the construct’s protective proximity. Curious, not hostile—for now.

After several minutes they entered a broader clearing. Marble pylons—ancient and vine-wrapped—formed a broken ring around an abyssal pool. The water glowed faintly, mirroring a sky that did not exist. It felt like standing inside someone else’s memory.

The warriors fanned out, bows lowering but strings still taut. The leader approached the pool’s edge, spoke a single syllable that resonated through root and stone. The surface of the water flared, and an image rose—crystal fractals arranging into a sigil almost identical to the one burning in his palm.

Mikhailis’s heartbeat stuttered.

He lifted the marked hand for comparison. The pool answered, glyph shifting to match the exact timing of his pulse. On the shore, the warriors exchanged uneasy glances.

Rodion murmured:

Correlation confirmed. This site is keyed to your mark. Probability of deliberate summons: high.

Mikhailis swallowed, throat dry as desiccated parchment. That made him... what, a key? A beacon? A trespasser called on purpose by forces unknown?

He felt eyes—dozens of them—boring into his skin, waiting to see if he would open the door or break it.

His lips parted, voice barely a breath.

"...Elves?"