CHAPTER 631: MAPPING THE QUIET (3)

Mikhailis blinked against dim amber light, trying to remember how he had fallen asleep on something that was technically a wall. The surface under his cheek felt soft—almost springy—and smelled faintly of cedar sap mixed with a sweeter, herbal scent. He pushed himself upright. A low groan escaped his lips as vertebrae cracked one after another.

The room greeted him in slow, glowing ripples. Every inch was alive. Roots thicker than his arm ran across the ceiling, curling down the corners like decorative supports. Smaller fibers crisscrossed those main coils, weaving a lattice that pulsed faintly, as if liquid light flowed inside. Tiny globes of resin clung to the bark, catching whatever illumination seeped out and bouncing it back in soft golden hues. It reminded him of sunrise bleeding through honey.

He placed a palm on the floor. It was warm—unnervingly so—and each second he lingered he could feel a mild vibration, like a heart beating deep beneath. A living signal: You are on someone else’s skin.

Mikhailis shivered, more fascinated than afraid. He loved strangeness; it made the world feel large. Still, his scientific mind kicked in, cataloging stimuli. Temperature steady at around twenty-two degrees. Humidity... high but tolerable. Vibrations at roughly sixty beats per minute. Maybe sap diffusion? Or a natural mana pump?

He rose and stretched, arms brushing the moss-coated ceiling. Loose curls of his dark hair, messy from sleep, tickled his brow. He brushed them aside just as a faint click sounded in his ear. Rodion had powered up, ever punctual.

"Aesthetic rating: seven out of ten. Comfort rating: two point four. Threat level: subdued. Prison grade: High-Elven Luxury Detention."

He chuckled. "At least they picked high-end detention. I’ve slept in worse barns."

If I mess this up, I’ll stay a glorified houseplant, he thought, rolling his shoulders. But if I impress them—access. Freedom. Data.

To his right stood a narrow table grown from a single branch. On it rested a carved wooden cup filled with pale blue water and a plate of leaf-wrapped pastries. Steam carried a hint of mint and citrus. At least the elves wanted him healthy before they grilled him like a trout.

He ignored the food for now. The walls were calling. He walked the perimeter, fingers gliding over lacquered sap. In the corners, he noted spiral patterns etched into the bark—runes that shifted color as his fingertips passed. Protective sigils, he guessed, or maybe security sensors disguised as decor.

Near the door, green-leaf curtains draped over what should have been a window: instead, translucent resin created a false pane, showing only swirling light—no outside view. Clever. No chance of gauging height or landmark. He hummed, impressed.

Two shapes moved just beyond the doorway slit. Hooded elves, tall and unnervingly motionless, stood like statues, their leaf-patterned cloaks blending almost perfectly with the hallway. Even their breaths were silent. Only the occasional flicker of cloak hem betrayed life.

"Morning!" he called in Common, voice light. No answer. They did not even glance in. He shrugged, pacing once more. The chimera ants hidden in his boots began to stir, responding to his micro-motions. He tapped a code on the heel—three short, two long—and imagined them fanning out through cracks in the floor.

The ants can scout, he mused, but they don’t read mana frequencies or chlorophyll ratios. And definitely don’t appreciate root symbiosis. He paused, fingers drumming a beat. I need my own readings. I need to touch, test, observe... and hunt some bugs.

A crisp knock drew him out of thought. The door cracked open without a creak—roots bending like heat-soft wax. A slender elf stepped in. Her robe, woven of moss, spider-silk, and strands of something that glittered like starlight, fit her lithe frame elegantly. Long silver hair spilled over one shoulder. Her face was open but unreadable.

"The Elders will receive you now," she said, voice low, almost musical.

Mikhailis offered a languid salute. "And here I was getting comfortable. Lead the way."

He followed her through the threshold. The hall beyond twisted downward in a gentle corkscrew. Walls flowed like wood softened into ribbons then refrozen mid-wave. He felt the floor soften with each step. Where his weight pressed, faint circles of blue light bloomed, fading as soon as he lifted his foot. The effect was both beautiful and unsettling.

His escort—Thalatha, he recalled—walked in measured silence. Her braided hair swayed, scattering tiny seed-puffs with each movement. They drifted and vanished in the soft glow. He wanted to ask about the seed puffs, but decided questions could wait.

"This place is gorgeous," he said, voice bouncing off roots. "Faintly terrifying, but gorgeous."

She did not turn. "It is home."

Ahead, the corridor opened into an airy dome lit by small orbs fastened to thick vines. Something glimmered at the periphery of his vision. Mikhailis glanced sideways—and nearly stumbled.

Nestled between curling tendrils were cages not made of metal but woven from living vines. They held insects— scores of them. Some had bodies of translucent glass with flickering lightning inside. Some sported three pairs of wings shimmering in fractal color. Others looked like walking shards of crystal, legs jointed like praying mantises.

His heart skipped, a giddy thrill punching through his nervous stomach. He slowed, eyes shining with excitement, hands itching toward his belt for nonexistent vials.

Those are magical species... I haven’t seen a single record of these.

Rodion’s dry tone snapped through. "Focus. You can drool over bugs later."

Let me live, Rodion. He forced feet to keep pace, though his gaze kept darting back.

Thalatha halted at a set of wide root-doors. The passage beyond them glowed brighter. She rested a palm on the bark; patterns rippled outward like rings on water. The doors unfurled, parting to reveal an open plaza.

Mikhailis stepped out—and forgot to breathe.

A colossal tree dominated the space. Its trunk was wider than Silvarion’s palace boulevard. Bark plates overlapped like scales, each lit from within by threads of pale green light. The entire trunk pulsed slowly—thoom... thoom—like a titanic heartbeat. Above, branches soared beyond sight, forming a canopy that blocked natural sky. Instead, points of light flickered between leaves, as if stars had taken root in the wood.

The leaves did not merely rustle. They vibrated, releasing faint harmonic chords. He felt them in his chest more than heard them. A song older than any court anthem.

"Leyline convergence detected. Mana levels: two hundred forty-eight percent above Silvarion baseline. This tree is... singing."

Mikhailis stared, lips parted. "So that’s what a living leyline choir looks like."

Around the tree’s base, smaller trunks spiraled, interlocking to form branching halls, terraces, and balconies. Elves glided along natural stairways, robes trailing sparks of blue or violet. Vined wisp-creatures flickered overhead, scattering pollen like glitter.

He exhaled slowly, chest tight. Not just a tree. It’s the heart of something... ancient.

Ward-creatures ringed the trunk like living statues—massive constructs woven from vines, toadstool caps, and bark plates polished to a dull bronze. Their torsos resembled hollow logs bound with creeping ivy. Each kept four branch-arms folded over its chest, and in the center of every wooden face glowed a single gemstone eye. The gems cycled through colors—amber to teal to violet—slow as the turning of seasons. Every so often a creature’s head would tick side-to-side, as though sniffing the air for danger, then freeze again.

Mikhailis slowed, studying the closest sentinel. Slim filaments of mycelium pulsed beneath its bark, ferrying bioluminescent motes between joints. Sentient? Semi-sentient? he wondered, cataloging posture, energy output, rune anchor points. No visible heart-knot. They’re probably grown guardians tuned to song-commands. Stone me if they aren’t masterpieces.

There were no spear points. No sword belts. Just nature staring back—quiet, unblinking, immeasurably old. Something about the trust in that defenseless power unsettled him more than a phalanx of blades.

Thalatha motioned onward up a curling ramp that sprouted from the main trunk like a generous vine. The pathway had no rails, yet the living wood rose at their approach to form short ridges on either side, protecting against a stumble into dizzy space. As they climbed, the air brightened to a tender jade. Mikhailis felt subtle pressure changes in his ears; each meter upward carried stronger leyline resonance, a warm buzz that tingled under his skin and jittered against the rune in his forearm.

He stole a glance over the railing-ridge. Below, smaller branches twisted together into streets where elven children darted between pools of soft light. Bioluminescent fish—transparent save for drifting silver bones—arched through those pools, splashing zero water yet leaving rings of shimmering dust. Adults in moss-green robes stopped to watch the fish leap, voices blending with the leaves’ quiet harmony.

Whole civilization in the canopy, he thought, chest tightening with a cocktail of awe and hunger. Imagine the ecological notes alone. Imagine the ant nests.

"Your pupils are dilated twenty-one percent. Try not to look like an excited tourist."

That’s rich, coming from a furball who wants to scan every leaf. He bit back a grin and adjusted the fall of his coat, assuming a calmer stride.

At the ramp’s apex, natural balustrades bowed outward into a wide balcony. Here the branch flattened into a platform that looked grown for the single purpose of receiving guests. Vines formed a gentle archway, each leaf veined with silver glyphs. A faint smell of cold rain settled over the wood; somewhere distant, thunder rumbled, yet no cloud marred the air.

Thalatha parted the vines with a whisper-soft gesture. "Elders’ Hall,"