CHAPTER 632: MAPPING THE QUIET (4)

Thalatha parted the vines with a whisper-soft gesture. "Elders’ Hall," she announced, voice almost reverent.

Inside awaited a dome of living crystal bark. Threads of light ran through the grain like molten metal under glass. Five circular platforms rose from the floor in a star pattern, each host to an Elder. They looked less like leaders and more like elemental forces wearing elf-shaped shells.

The first Elder floated several inches above his platform. Spores drifted from his sleeves in lazy drifts, catching the green glow and turning it milk-white. With every exhale the motes formed swirling diagrams before dissolving—living cloud mathematics. A subtle perfume of crushed pine needles surrounded him.

Another Elder stood barefoot in a swirl of hummingbirds, each bird no bigger than Mikhailis’s thumb. Their feathers blinked between colors—turquoise, then rose, then a shade of ultraviolet most eyes could never name. When one bird landed on her wrist, her skin glittered as if her blood momentarily turned to starlight.

The mirror Elder was perhaps the most disconcerting: twin panes of perfectly clear sap rose behind him, reflecting layer upon layer of tangled roots. Each mirror showed a slightly different future—Mikhailis glimpsed himself bowing deeper in one, refusing outright in another, and vanishing into a cloud of ants in a third. He shuddered, pushing down nausea.

Two other Elders completed the star: one shrouded in a cloak of gently smoking leaves, the other haloed by drifting motes of liquid metal that orbited her head like small moons. Each Elder’s circle was marked with runes burnt deep into the bark, their patterns pulsing to a private rhythm.

Mikhailis stepped into the center of the star, resisting the urge to tug at his collar. He offered a short bow—deep enough to convey respect, shallow enough to keep his dignity.

Say little. Reveal less. Keep them curious, not suspicious.

Elder Matria, smoke-leaf cloak billowing in some unfelt breeze, spoke first. Her voice was winter wind across frozen silk. "Mikhailis Volkov, by what will did you come here?"

He straightened, meeting her glacier-green eyes. "I didn’t," he said. "Something outside either of our plans pulled me here. Planar instability, perhaps triggered by your own summons."

Rodion floated a hand-sized projection beside him: translucent leyline schematics that twisted like tangled yarn. Edges blurred deliberately; coordinates slid when stared at. The illusion flickered just erratically enough to appear genuine.

Across the chamber, Elder Sevrin—wrapped in mirrored sap reflections—leaned forward, a half-smile tugging one corner of his mouth. "And you are a prince consort?" His tone coated the title in velvet mockery.

Mikhailis let out a short laugh. "Apparently, yes. I married a woman who terrifies me and everyone else. Personal survival plan. Beats marrying for scandal."

A younger Elder—the one orbited by hummingbirds—covered her mouth, hiding an amused curve of lips. Tiny birds chirped in what sounded suspiciously like giggles.

Sevrin’s eyebrow arched higher. "So you married into power?"

Mikhailis rolled one shoulder, relaxed. "I married into survival. Power just tagged along like an enthusiastic puppy. Frankly, responsibility keeps biting my ankles."

That got a subdued ripple of laughter from two Elders; even Matria’s stern face softened by a millimeter. Encouraged, Mikhailis tucked his hands behind his back, posture open but not complacent.

The questioning began in earnest. Matria fired the first volley—requests for the political map of Silvarion Thalor, the dimensions of its walls, the weight of its armies. He parried with half-truths: "We’re a forest kingdom, trade-oriented, preferring treaties to sieges."

Elder Vyra, haloed by liquid metal orbs, spoke in lilting cadence. "What is your standing army’s composition?"

"Flexible," he said, shrugging, "like polite paranoia in plate armor."

Sevrin tapped a slender finger against one sap mirror. "How many mages guard your Queen?"

"Depends who’s counting," Mikhailis answered cheerfully. "Our cooks dabble in protective wards; our gardeners can coax roots to trip intruders. True numbers are always in motion."

Rodion drifted behind him, unseen by all. "Injecting thirteen percent static into local mana currents. If they attempt a Location Divination, they’ll see a delightful illusion of you picnicking on a beach."

Mikhailis smirked inwardly. Let them watch me sip coconut juice.

Elder Lorian—he of the spores—tried a gentler tack. Spores swirled, forming scenes of past visitors: a rough-hewn human explorer laughing with elves, a human child sharing sweetbread with a sapling. "Humans have come here before," Lorian said, voice hopeful. "They left richer for it. Would you not share your world’s stories in return?"

Nice carrot, Mikhailis mused. Aloud he answered, "Stories I have plenty of. Coordinates and troop maps, fewer." His smile stayed friendly but unmoved. "Let’s trade once I’m not under threat of judgment."

A rustle of amusement drifted through the dome. Elder Vyra snapped her fingers; the metal moons around her shifted into new orbits. "How bold," she murmured, but did not press.

Sevrin tried another angle—ego. He conjured illusions of advanced elven forges, curving blades etched with runes that bled light. "Our craft surpasses surface steel. Share your Queen’s metallurgies and we might gift you a blade worthy of legend."

Mikhailis raised his hands. "I’ve got more chance cutting myself than cutting enemies. Pass. Unless your sword can brew tea."

This time even Matria’s frost cracked. A faint chuff of laughter escaped her. Sevrin’s smile thinned but his eyes held reluctant respect.

Minutes stretched into nearly an hour. Questions wove like rivers around stones, each Elder trying to erode his calm. Matria switched to emotional pressure—mentioning the starving towns beyond Silvarion’s borders. Vyra tempted him with shimmering vials of sap said to grant prophetic dreams. Lorian’s spores showed him images of insects he could study—some bigger than his hand, wings jeweled like stained glass.

Each time he felt his curiosity tug, he reminded himself of Elowen’s steady gaze and Cerys’s cautionary scowl. He let interest show, yes—never disdain—but always reined it beneath a layer of diplomatic calm.

They want to see if I break, he realized. They want leverage before they sign any pact.

Finally, Matria raised her leaf-smoke cloak-arm. Silence settled like dew. "We have debated," she announced. Her voice echoed as if the tree itself carried her words through its veins. "You are not to be executed."

A breath he hadn’t noticed holding slipped out. He still raised an eyebrow. "That’s comforting. Pancakes for everyone?"

A few hummingbirds chirped—a sound suspiciously like laughter.

Matria continued, ignoring his quip. "Instead, we offer binding collaboration. Our magic stalls against the Blight. We believe your science—alien though it is—may lend fresh sight. You will work beside us."

Vyra’s metal moons rotated faster, casting ripples of quicksilver light across the floor. "You succeed, we celebrate together. You fail, we reassess your value."

Sevrin folded his arms. "Demonstrate relevance, Prince Consort. Or become compost for the roots."

He considered a barb in return, swallowed it. Instead he offered a shallow bow. "I accept your terms. Let’s shine some light in dark places." And find my path home while I’m at it.

Rodion hummed an approving chord. "Practical."

As the Elders dispersed, Thalatha reappeared. She gestured toward an ascending ramp. "Your residence awaits. Follow me."

Once out of earshot, Mikhailis murmured under breath, "Rodion, status?"

"Already dispatched Tempestrike and Riftborne. Mapping leyline tunnels. This tree might be dimensional. Finding its anchor will place us on the world grid."

Good, he thought. I need my lab. My queen needs fresh genomes.

"Scrambling local etheric channels. They won’t get a read on us unless they tear a hole in the sky."

Mikhailis followed Thalatha up the coiling corridor, shoes tapping a quiet rhythm against living wood. Each step triggered a faint shimmer that streamed away from his soles like ripples over a lake. The effect made him feel as though he were walking on gentle starlight rather than bark. Something about the path—its gradual incline, the controlled angle of the spirals—reminded him of a seashell; whoever shaped this place understood how to steer travelers without them noticing.

The air thinned as they climbed. Not dangerously—just enough to carry a subtle sweetness, like fresh-cut pears. Every inhalation tasted of chlorophyll and old books in equal measure. Mikhailis fought the urge to whistle. He was one misstep from shattering the veneer of polite detachment, and he refused to give Sevrin the satisfaction of imagining the human tourist gawking.

They passed small balconies, each a hollow embraced by flowering branches. In one of them, a group of young elves gathered around a floating luminescent orb. At a gesture from one youth, the orb shrank and split into ten tiny spheres that flew apart, painting constellations in mid-air. Another flicked their wrist and each point burst, showering illusionary petals that drifted out of sight. The children cheered—a sound like silver bells colliding—and dispersed.

Mikhailis slowed, drawn in by the play of light. These people teach differential rune mechanics to toddlers, he thought, both jealous and inspired. Imagine their school curriculum. He made a mental note to inspect any classroom he could sneak into.

Thalatha noticed his lagging steps. "The Elders thought you would prefer workspace over royal finery," she said without turning.

"Oh, workspace definitely beats velvet cushions," he answered, resuming pace. "Although a velvet lab bench... I could compromise."

A faint exhale—something halfway between a sigh and a laugh—escaped her. Progress.

Far above, daylight (or what passed for it in this sky-less domain) sifted down through leaf canopies in slanted emerald stripes. Particles of dust—or pollen?—danced in the beams and shimmered out again. He glanced up often, mapping where the densest magic currents flowed. The rune in his arm tingled whenever they crossed a hot spot, almost as if the tree prodded him: Notice this, creature of iron and circuits. Remember who built this world.

I’m noticing, he conceded silently. No need for pins and needles.

By the time they reached the topmost archway, a faint dew had formed along the collar of his shirt. Either the air cooled or nerves warmed him—he couldn’t tell which. Thalatha pressed her palm to a smooth bulge in the wall. Vines retreated like obedient serpents, revealing polished stone steps descending into a circular antechamber. A pastel glow spilled outward.

"Your residence," she announced, stepping aside with a small incline of her head.

Mikhailis inched forward until the door’s magic recognized his presence and widened completely. Instantly, dozens of faint crystal lights flared on—no brighter than birthday candles, yet collectively illuminating every nook.

The chamber was enormous, easily fifty strides across. Its interior skin resembled pearl; no two portions reflected light the same way, so colors drifted over the dome like lazy clouds. Along the walls, vine-curtains hung in gentle arcs, each leaf half-translucent. When wind stirred outside, the curtains billowed inward and spilled filtered light that danced across the floor in mottled patterns.

Tables—grown rather than carved—waited around the perimeter, each shaped to cradle specific tools. One held an array of glass spirals that trapped motes of magic like fireflies in liquor. Another sported a copper apparatus with rings that rotated as if sniffing unseen particles. A third bore what looked like an alchemical kiln: instead of flames, a tiny swirl of blue vapor spun inside its core.

He took a full revolution, head swiveling like a child in a sweetshop. Focus, Mikhailis, he scolded, but couldn’t hold the straight face. A wide grin broke through.

Behind him, Thalatha cleared her throat. "These instruments are calibrated for elven resonance. They may not respond to you."

"I’ll sweet-talk them,"