CHAPTER 633: MAPPING THE QUIET (END)

"I’ll sweet-talk them," he said, stepping toward a set of bell-jars with embedded runes. One jar held what looked like a violet beetle suspended midair by static mana. The creature’s wings beat so slowly it might have been swimming through syrup.

"Caution. Unknown containment protocols."

"I’m just looking," he whispered.

He knelt, eyes level with the beetle. At each wingbeat, micro-sparks blossomed along its carapace and vanished. The sparks traced fractal paths—too orderly to be random, too organic to be engineered. He pulled a thin stylus from his sleeve, holding it like a pen near the glass. Almost instantly, the sparks changed trajectory, clustering toward the stylus tip as though curious.

"Well, hello there," he murmured. "Do you write code too?"

Thalatha edged closer. "You speak to them?"

"Habit." He straightened. "Sometimes they answer. Sometimes they bite. Occupational hazard."

He moved on, fingers hovering above a rows of crystal vials containing sand-fine dust. Each vial glowed a slightly different hue. He recognized at least four types of luminescent spore and two that defied classification. He was half-tempted to open one, but decided not to ruin the goodwill Thalatha had just spent guiding him.

His gaze landed on a shelf of bound folios—bark-spine books with living pages. He reached for the nearest volume. The cover was cool, pulsing faintly under his hand as if echoing the beat of the tree. When he opened it, letters rose from the page like embossed ink and rearranged into Common script. He blinked. Adaptive translation? Nice!

Text scrolled across:

Symbiotic Lattice Solutions for Hardened Heartwood Fungus—by Elder Vyra.

He skimmed an illustration: cross-sections of root tissue overrun by black tendrils. Blight research. He almost forgot to breathe. This single folio might save him months of trial.

"A reminder," Thalatha said gently, startling him. "Any copy made of those pages will burn itself to ash upon leaving the tree."

Mikhailis clapped the book shut. "Copy? I would never," he lied with a too-innocent face. Inwardly, he calculated how quickly the ants could micro-photograph pages for a neural archive.

He replaced the book and continued exploring. Near the back of the chamber, an entire alcove housed telescopic vines like metallic reeds protruding from the floor. Each vine terminated in a lens that tracked moving points in the canopy beyond the window. Below the lenses lay a table strewn with parchment covered in swirling diagrams. He recognized star charts—but not of any sky he’d mapped. Some constellations formed fractals within fractals, impossible under normal celestial geometry.

Rodion flashed a line of data in his vision. "Recording spectral anomalies. These stars do not match surface coordinates. Probable sub-plane overlay."

Dimensional offsets, he thought. Of course. This place might be perched halfway between worlds.

Thalatha waited near the doorway, expression unreadable. He realized he’d been pacing and muttering for several minutes. With an apologetic half-bow, he joined her.

"I could spend decades cataloging this room," he admitted.

"You may not have decades," she said, matter-of-fact. "The Blight’s acceleration outpaces our older charts. Elders hope you will quicken understanding."

He sobered. "Then I’d better not waste daylight—assuming there is daylight here."

"There is," she replied. "The tree cycles illumination internally." She gestured at the ceiling. Faint pale threads glowed, imitating a dawn that never fell. "We still keep time in song."

He tilted his head. "Will I be required to sing?"

"Only if you wish the doors to respond."

"That... wasn’t a no."

For the first time, her lips curved into almost-smile. "Rest. Instruments calibrate to your presence more quickly when you carry fewer anxieties."

She bowed and withdrew, doors sealing behind her with a quiet hush. Wooden seams vanished.

Alone, Mikhailis spun once, arms wide. "Home away from home."

"A laboratory prison is still a prison."

He sighed. Fair point. He crossed to a central pedestal—a waist-high stand holding a sphere of clear resin. Inside the globe, a miniature root system pulsed crimson. Every throb expelled microscopic runes that floated upward like sparks and clung to the inner surface before dissolving.

He pressed two fingers to the sphere; warmth seeped into his skin, and the rune in his arm answered with a subtle ache. He pulled away quickly.

Bonded to the tree, he realized. Monitoring node, maybe. He made another note: Potential override? Investigate later.

Next, he inspected a series of drawers that slid free without hinges—wood parted as if remembering its earlier shape. Inside, he found measuring crystals, tiny spindles that hummed at contact, and a coil of fine silver thread that crawled like living wire. He set each piece gently aside, respecting the craftsmanship.

Among the tools lay a slim bone-white stylus unlike the others. Curious, he lifted it. Runes lit along its length and a thin filament of green energy unspooled from the tip. A pen, he concluded, for writing in pure mana. It would etch lines into the air and likely record them into the tree’s memory.

He flicked his wrist. The filament traced a luminous curve midair; when he finished, the line hovered, shimmering like a neon ribbon. He drew a second curve—together they formed a rudimentary Möbius loop. He grinned, pleased. With a snap of his fingers, the loop folded, twisting until it dissolved into particles that sank into the floorboards. Interactive vector notation. Delightful.

"Incoming ant telemetry."

A quick overlay appeared: tiny blips moving along a glowing map, tracing tunnels beneath his room. Two units stalled in flashing red.

"Blockage?" he whispered.

"Blight variants. They have halted to avoid detection. Units safe for now."

He exhaled. "Keep them away from those ward-creatures. Last thing I need is a diplomatic incident involving my ants gnawing on sacred roots."

"Instruction relayed."

He paced to the balcony—a half-circle platform open to forest air. The moment he stepped outside, wind tugged at his hair. It carried a chorus of scents: resin, morning dew, and an undercurrent of ozone crackling with mana. Beyond the balcony rail, glittering insects drifted like confetti thrown in slow motion.

He leaned over, elbows on living railing. A dragonfly variant zoomed past, its wings prismatic and multi-layered. Each beat produced a soft chord, like harp strings plucked in sequence. When it whizzed by his ear, the chord transposed into a perfect major third before fading.

He laughed. "Musical insects. Imagine concerts composed entirely of bugs."

A bulky beetle lumbered into view. Its shell mirrored the surroundings—branch, leaf, sky—then flickered to new colors as his gaze fixed on it. It looked as though the creature adapted its camouflage based on watchers. He extended a hand, palm up.

The beetle hovered. Its wings hummed at a frequency that rattled his teeth. Slowly, it descended, antennae tasting the air. Just as it was about to land on his wrist, Rodion whispered.

"Caution. Mana saturation at ninety percent. Contact could trigger unpredictable resonance."

He stilled. The beetle paused, antennae flicking. Instead of landing, it drifted sideways and perched on the balcony rail. Up close, its carapace was translucent—latticed like stained glass. Within that glass, motes of light zipped along capillary-thin lines, reminding him of traffic in a city seen from orbit.

He studied its patterns, already planning capture methods: a glass jar lined with mana-dampening silk; sugar-sap bait; perhaps a song to lure it. The Queen would adore integrating this camouflage blueprint.

Just behind the beetle, another lifeform emerged: a moth the size of his palm, wings black but dusted with constellations of gold specks that drifted off into the air. Each fleck became a flicker of star-light before extinguishing. The moth settled on a vine and flexed, scattering more specks.

The ant queen could replicate that light dust, he mused. Imagine infiltration units sparkling like galaxies—

"Priorities, prince. Escape first. Insects later."

He sighed. "Can I at least admire the inventory?"

The door behind him rumpled softly. Alarm shot through him, but when he turned, no figure entered. The tree simply breathed; panels in the wall opened and closed as if adjusting ventilation. Calm down, he told his racing pulse.

A metallic clink drew his eye to a corner stand. He approached and found a tray of slender needles—some tipped with sapphires, others with dried leaves shaped like arrowheads. Notes beside them listed measurements in a curving script. He skimmed: Transpiration rate... toxin filtration... symbiotic nematodes. A broad grin crept across his face.

"Thalatha wasn’t kidding. They tailored this lab for me." He rummaged until he found a compact scale—spiral gear, quartz plates. It balanced perfectly without calibration. Next to it sat parchment rolls and glyph-stamps preloaded with ink that glimmered like dew. Perfect for field diaries.

He tugged off his coat, slung it over a vine, and rolled up sleeves. "Right. Step one: baseline mana density of ambient air." He lifted a small spherical vial, popped the cork, and waved it through the doorway. The solution inside shimmered from clear to pale aqua. He jotted numbers onto parchment, translating color to unit scale. "Rodion, record: baseline MD equals 4.3 crystals per liter—roughly triple Silvarion ambient."

Behind him, the beetle let out a soft chiming buzz, as if approving.

He set the vial down and grabbed a pair of bone-handled tweezers. "Let’s see what you’re made of," he said to the beetle, inching closer.

A second insect—a dragonfly with webs of light between its wings—dive-bombed past his nose. He jerked, nearly dropping the tweezers. It zipped in a figure-eight, then hovered at eye level. The creature’s body was segmented by glowing bands that flashed like signal lights.

Rodion processed the motion instantly. "Pattern resembles Morse code variant."

Mikhailis chuckled. "Hello to you, too."

As he spoke, the dragonfly darted onto the balcony rail next to the beetle. It snapped its wings once, twice, and then changed color—bands flaring from gold to crimson before fading. The beetle responded with a soft trill. He realized with delight that the insects communicated in visible pulses.

"Rodion, start recording wingbeat frequencies."

"Already capturing. Also, local humidity rising. Potential rain scheduled?"

He glanced at the sky, if one could call the misty weave of canopy a sky. A faint roar rumbled far off—maybe thunder, maybe the tree’s great lungs.

As he turned back, a smaller creature glided in—thin and translucent, like a jellyfish made of petals. It drifted around his head, tentacles trailing faint sparks that pricked the air with static. One filament brushed his cheek; a pleasant warmth remained, as though kissed by sunshine.

He exhaled, awestruck. This place is every entomologist’s dream, every chemist’s treasure chest, he mused while scribbling more notes. No wonder the Elders think human science could help. They don’t need me; they need an outside obsession. He chuckled. Lucky for them, I’m obsessive.

He pocketed a handful of empty vials. I’ll fill these later when no one’s looking. He cast a cautious glance inside—the walls still sealed, no Thalatha. Good.

He raised a palm to the beetle again, slower this time. It rotated, eye facets focusing on him. He sensed decision in that pause. But before either could act, motion flickered in peripheral vision.

A translucent insect the size of a walnut landed on the exterior of the crystal window. Its body—more polygon than organic—refracted light in harsh angles. Instead of wings, thin plates fanned out like origami. Three glossy compound eyes turned in perfect unison to stare directly at him. Something about that steady gaze pinned his breath in his throat.

Time stretched. He felt, rather than saw, a coil of magic swirling around the creature. Not hunger, not curiosity—awareness. Intelligent awareness.

He whispered, "Rodion, scan."

"Energy signature: non-phylum. Conclusion: familiar-class entity."

The insect’s plates shivered. With no warning, it burst into a cloud of iridescent spores. They scattered like shimmering dust, then were swept away on an unseen wind. No body remained.

Mikhailis’ heart hammered. A familiar spying on me. Elders? Or something else?

He glanced over the balcony. Spores drifted downward, dissolving into motes of green light that sank through leaves. He exhaled slowly, a grin curving despite his pulse. "Oh, we’re going to have so much fun."