CHAPTER 636: THE MYSTERIOUS ENCOUNTER (3)

Energy integration complete. Tattoo resonance stratum plus one. Additional functions locked—analysis pending. Rodion’s tone had softened, almost respectful.

Eyes open, Mikhailis flexed fingers. Sensation normal—maybe sharper. Colors in the chamber seemed fractionally richer, as though someone upped saturation by a notch only he could perceive. He could smell the mineral thread in the air now, a metallic tang beneath cedar.

He rose carefully, mindful not to wrench the delicate rapport. Moss flecks clung to knees; he brushed them away, paused to feel their softness, marveling at how present every tiny touch felt.

"Well," he breathed, throat raw from quiet awe, "that was... enlightening."

Rodion’s sarcasm landed like a welcome nudge.

Bravo. Oscar-worthy poker face. Perhaps next time add jazz-hands.

A laugh burst free before he could censor it, bright and boyish. "Next time I might faint instead," he confessed in a stage-whisper, then straightened as fabric rustled at corridor’s mouth.

Two robed guardians glided into view, hoods shadowing faces. They stopped when they sensed him watching—perfect statues again. No sign they’d noticed the intimacy just performed in plain sight.

He offered a casual nod, the type nobles trade at garden parties. Nothing to see here.

Sleeve tugged lower; tattoo vanished into shadows. Runes along hallway walls stayed dormant—unlike earlier, they didn’t flare as he passed. Permission granted. Thank you, he thought toward the root, unsure if it heard. A warmth pulsed once beneath skin—response or imagination, he couldn’t tell.

Somewhere farther off a bell chimed, silver on wood. Summons. He smoothed hair, wiped moss dust from lapels, composing the mask of an unruffled scholar. Boots tapped measured rhythm, cloak swayed in dignified arcs.

Rodion flicked a note into the corner of his sight:

New escort inbound. Shall I suppress tattoo glow for discretion?

"Already hidden," he muttered. "But thank you for worrying."

A soft mental chuckle—Rodion seldom laughed, but the polite datapoint implied amusement. Outside senses sharpened: he could hear water trickling through inner canals, detect faint heartbeat of the tree in the soles of his shoes.

From a side tunnel an elf emerged—graceful, coral-hued robes shimmering like sunrise on a calm sea. She carried a rod carved of still-living root; its lines pulsed faintly, resonating with the signature cloaked under his glove. Recognition flickered in her wide, luminous eyes. She offered a bow refined by centuries of practice—long enough to honor, short enough to show control.

Mikhailis mirrored with scholar-court precision. "Let us not keep them pacing," he quipped, adding a half-smile that crinkled dark eyelashes. She inclined her head just a fraction deeper—the tiniest acknowledgment of humor offered in these solemn halls.

They descended the spiral, roots entwined beneath footfalls. Each tread vibrated under his bonded skin, as though the staircase whispered personal greetings Welcome... welcome...

He noted subtle variations in light lattices; this close, the veins inside each step funneled a liquid that glimmered like crushed moonstone.

He kept mental notes: Density 1.3 times maple, tensile strength unknown. Ideas zipped—could root-crystal filaments be spliced into ant chitin shells? Could he coax them into lattice-growing armor on command? He nearly tripped with anticipation before catching himself.

At the base stood a living door, vines twined tight. The attendant lifted her rod. The tattoo beneath his glove pulsed once in answer. Vines slackened, curling aside like ribbons of silk, perfume of fresh sap wafting out.

Door’s response latency: zero. Full integration detected. Potential irreversible bond, Rodion informed.

Mikhailis exhaled calmly. Irreversible? Sounds like marriage number two, he joked inside, but seriousness pooled under the joke—another promise etched onto his bones.

He stepped through.

Cool air brushed cheeks, carrying spice of old stone and faint incense. Ten elder seats formed a circle, lit by soft pools of bioluminescence. He felt their gazes home in on his forearm though cloth. Matria’s stare, sharp as lacquered arrowheads, latched where the root’s glow had shone seconds earlier.

"The root-mark deepens... unexpected," someone murmured, maybe Sevrin judging by the dryness.

A hush fell, heavy as thick snow. No one spoke. Instead, the floor beneath answered—a deep, resonant thoom matching the root-pulse that still echoed in his chest. The message required no translation: the tree vouched for him now.

He drifted to the star-center, cloak whispering over living boards. He raised his chin, letting confidence settle like well-fitted armor. Somewhere in his blood, the new glyph pulsed steady encouragement.

"Shall we begin?" he asked, voice poised at the cliff between deference and challenge.

The first words of judgment had yet to fall, but a silent pact of sap and spirit now threaded through him, whispering that he would not stand alone.

"Shut up and let me commune with my new friend."

The playful hiss left Mikhailis’s lips before he could think twice. A second later, heat surged up his arm—swift, liquid warmth that reminded him of spiced wine sliding down the throat on mid-winter nights. The root’s emerald glow steadied, no longer flickering but beating in a slow, deliberate cadence. Each pulse pushed the warmth farther: palm, wrist, forearm, elbow. He swore he could feel tiny valves in his veins opening one by one to welcome the alien current.

Under his glove, the tattoo responded like hot metal meeting a blacksmith’s hammer. The old lines—thin, star-blue veins tracing ant-queen geometry—tightened into razor-precise angles. A brand-new glyph unfurled, ivy-curled and confident, slinking toward his elbow as if staking extra territory.

Confirmed: Tattoo strata enhancement. Depth Level plus one. Energetic resonance now includes Root-Pact baseline. Data stream stabilizing, Rodion intoned, the words laced with a faint crackle of static that sounded suspiciously like excitement.

Mikhailis flexed his fingers. "Depth level plus one," he echoed, a little breathless. "I feel like a game character who just leveled up."

Suggest refraining from shouting ’ding’ in celebration. Local guardians remain armed.

"Noted."

He rose carefully. Moss crumbs clung to his trouser knees. He brushed them off, heartbeat steady but limbs still humming with fresh charge. The corridor, moments ago taut as a crossbow string, now radiated the languid calm of a forest clearing after rain. Sentinel statues at the far end reverted to décor—wooden shoulders relaxed, gemstone eyes dark and empty.

"...That was enlightening," he muttered, rolling his neck until vertebrae popped.

Bravo. Oscar-worthy poker face. A pause. If statues had popcorn, they would have enjoyed the show.

Footsteps echoed—soft but definite. Instinct spun him around. Two robed elves, faces half-hidden beneath hoods dyed night-blue, watched from the bend. They bore no weapons visible, but posture alone told him they were not the average corridor attendants.

Mikhailis tipped his head in greeting, a gesture halfway between courtly nod and casual salute. Act normal, he reminded himself. Normal-ish, anyway.

Hands laced behind his back, he resumed walking with deliberate ease. Every step felt different now—lighter, as though the floor compensated for his weight, or perhaps the new bond subtly buoyed him. He told his face to hold an idle smile, one a bored scholar might wear while strolling a library.

New escort inbound. Shall I suppress tattoo glow for discretion? Rodion offered.

"Already covered by the sleeve. But thanks for the thought," he whispered, tugging fabric an extra millimeter down.

A tiny emerald checkmark blinked at the edge of vision—Rodion acknowledging.

The corridor runes, once eager to spark at his presence, lay dormant. He walked through their silent approval like a man passing rows of sleeping fireflies. Only the faint hum of tree-song accompanied him, rising and falling in distant chords.

A bell chimed—one clear note that lingered in the wood. Rodion tagged it instantly:

Signal: Elders await. Time index plus four minutes thirty-two seconds. Punctuality advisable.

"Their clocks are better than mine," Mikhailis murmured.

From a side passage emerged a third elf, this one cloaked in robes woven of coral and pearl thread. She held a long key carved from living root—the same pulsing green as his hidden glyph. The key’s gemstone core throbbed once, then settled, mirroring the rhythm under his skin.

Her bow was brief, elegant, and a hair shallower than courtesy demanded—either a sign of authority or suspicion. He matched it precisely, letting the movement speak: I am a guest with equal dignity, no more, no less.

Rodion flashed another note—Convenient. Mikhailis almost smirked; the AI’s understatement never failed to amuse.

The attendant gestured soundlessly. He followed, shadows peeling off walls to escort in a loose diamond formation—two ahead, two behind, the silent watchers from earlier now flanking.

They entered a spiral stair tunneled through the trunk, carved not by hand but by patient, coaxed growth. Thick roots braided into steps underfoot, their surfaces sanded to silk. With every downward tread, faint light bled from the fibers, as though his presence woke bioluminescent veins.

Mikhailis angled his head, peering at a glowing inch-wide cord running just under the stair’s surface. "Light-conducting hyphae," he breathed. "Organic fiber-optic lines." He could almost visualize data pulses streaming alongside sap: perhaps messages, perhaps songs, perhaps raw memory.

Confirmed. Optical attenuation negligible within fifteen meters. This entire staircase doubles as a data conduit, Rodion replied. Imagine the maintenance schedule.

They wound lower. The air thickened, fragrant with resin and something metallic—ironwood perhaps, laced with trace elements. Far above, a deep thrumming vibrated the walls. The root-pact’s pulse? Or the tree’s curiosity following him downward?

He stole quick glances at his silent guards. One bore a subtle crest burned into the shoulder of his cloak: three interlocking rings, each ring a different shade of green. Another carried a wand holstered at hip—the wood still sprouting two living leaves near its grip. Weapons that photosynthesize, he mused, Why not?

Midway down, the attendant noticed his subtle gawk. "Do you find the descent unsettling, Outsider?" she asked, voice low but clear.

"I find it fascinating," he corrected, letting genuine wonder color the words. "Your staircase sings underfoot. My city stairs only squeak."

A flicker, almost a smile, ghosted across her sharp features. The guards did not react.

They reached a landing sealed by an enormous root-wall, knotted so tight the surface looked like ironwood metal. The attendant stepped aside, raising the living key between slender fingers. "Your hand, please."

Mikhailis extended his gloved palm. Light leaked through cloth despite his caution, lines shining like gold filigree. The attendant’s eyes narrowed a fraction—no hostility, just notes for later conversation. She pressed the key to the hidden tattoo.

A soft harmonic chord resonated—two notes weaving, then snapping into perfect unison. Vines uncurled in a graceful spiral, releasing rich sap fragrance. Like curtains pulled aside, they revealed the Elders’ Hall—dim, quiet, cold.

Rodion whispered against his nerve endings:

Door’s response latency: zero. Full integration detected. Potential irreversible bond.

Irreversible, he echoed internally. The notion didn’t frighten him as much as it should have. Too late now to worry; curiosity already outweighed caution.

He stepped through.

The temperature drop slapped cheeks like a winter breeze off a frozen lake. On the polished floor—grown, not laid—ten seats formed a perfect circle. Each seat looked hewn from heartwood shot through with silver veins, and each cradled an Elder wrapped in centuries.

All shifted as one when he entered. There was no hiding the collective inhale.

Mikhailis’s boots tapped softly, echo rolling into the high dome overhead. He paced inward, sensing those many eyes trace invisible lines: forehead, shoulders, forearm, palm. Shields raised behind calm gazes.

Matria sat in the northernmost seat, cloak of smoke-leaf curling like cold mist around her slender frame. Her stare fixed on the lump beneath his glove; lips tightened an instant then smoothed, as if she shaved emotion with a thought.

Somewhere to her left, Sevrin—he of mirrored sap—tilted his head. Reflective panes behind him glimmered, catching and refracting the faint tattoo glow.

"The root-mark deepens... unexpected," a softer Elder murmured, perhaps Vyra, her liquid-metal moons orbiting slower than usual.

Mikhailis reached the star-center, marked by a subtle convergence of grain on the floor. He bowed—not deeply but with undeniable respect—then straightened, shoulders back, chin raised. The hush was immediate and immense.

Under soles, a pulse answered—thoom—subtle but strong, the same heartbeat he had come to recognize. The floorboards beneath him shimmered green for an instant before fading. The tree offered silent testimony: He is mine. I am his.

The Elders exchanged looks, the sort of glance that spoke volumes but needed no words. Did they fear? Marvel? Calculate? Likely all three—politics rarely allowed singular emotions.

Mikhailis inhaled, tasting the air: cold, laced with ancient incense of cedar and star-resin. Each breath grounded him, tightened focus. The new glyph throbbed encouragement: steady, steady.

He broke the silence first, voice level but edged with eager intellect. "Shall we begin?"

And the chamber felt suddenly smaller—no longer a tribunal but a lecture hall awaiting theory, or a negotiation table waiting for stakes. Whatever their judgment, he stood anchored by sap and root, and knew he would not sail alone into their verdict.

"Shall we begin?"