CHAPTER 645: THE DEAD COMPANY (END)

"One breath at a time."

She squeezed his forearm, a soldier’s thanks. Together they stepped into the gulf of shadow.

"Keep your eyes down. It’s not real. It wants you to want it."

The stench of the chamber clawed down their throats the longer they stood in it, a sticky mélange of iron-rich blood and swamp-rot that coated the tongue like spoiled syrup. Mikhailis fought the urge to gag. Every shallow breath rasped, the air so humid it felt half liquid, beads of moisture forming on his lashes. Beneath his boots, sap and half-congealed ichor mixed into a slick, treacherous skin; each step squelched, the sound muffled by the cavern’s swollen hush.

For one frozen instant he simply stared at the colossus, mind refusing to stitch the pieces together. It was an elf—had been an elf—broad-shouldered and tall enough to dwarf Rodion’s battle frame, yet hollowed by decay until the ribcage yawned open like a cathedral door. Bark had grown where muscle should be, black knots jutting from vertebrae, and shards of antler sprouted along the spine in grotesque imitation of a crown. When it breathed, stolen air wheezed through those ruptured ribs in a chorus of whistles and moans, as though wind raced through broken pipes.

Thalatha’s gasp lingered, a brittle thread in the damp air. Under her helm of focus he saw sorrow ignite—a flicker of memory for some nameless ancestor whose corpse now served the Blight. She pressed a fist to her sternum, an old Hollowguard salute for fallen heroes. The gesture trembled, but she finished it.

Mikhailis’s tattoo opened like a furnace behind his glove: white-hot lines spider-webbed to his fingertips, each pulse rippling under skin in sync with a thunderous drumming—the creature’s heart, or the root’s? Hard to tell. Sweat pooled at his collarbone, sliding cold down his spine even as heat roared in his arm.

Rodion’s right, he thought, jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. Hesitate and the whole hive of nightmares wakes up. Yet his feet wouldn’t move. The choice boiled his thoughts: burn the flowering root, sever its grip, risk the mana backlash tearing half the complex apart. Bind it, hope the seed contained the corruption—and pray it didn’t use the link to crawl into every other root for miles.

Thalatha noticed his twitching hand. "Mik," she breathed, voice stripped of rank, just raw urgency. "Whatever you do, choose fast."

"Fast, right." His grin was shaky, a cracked mask. "Speed is my middle name. Somewhere between reckless and terrifying."

The joke fell flat. Even he barely heard it over the bone-deep groan that vibrated through the dais as the colossus began to move. Chunks of dried sap fell from its shoulders like snow. One colossal arm—fingers fused into clawed roots—pushed against the floor. Nails gouged channels through stone, sparks of green flame trailing each groove.

Mikhailis’s instincts screamed. He ripped the charged capacitor coil from his belt, thumb flicking the arming rune. Violet phosphors crawled across the glassy casing, feeding on pheromones distilled from the queen’s brood. If this doesn’t slow you, I’m out of ideas. His arm snapped forward; the coil sailed in a perfect arc, spinning end-over-end until it sank against the titan’s chest with a dull thunk.

For half a heartbeat nothing happened. Then the coil’s runes detonated, discharging a silent shock wave that turned the sap sheath to obsidian. Splinters of glassy bark showered the cavern. Static whined through the air, raising every hair on his arms. The titan reeled, torso arching backward as fractures raced like lightning across its frame.

The roar that followed shook marrow. It wasn’t a scream of pain; it sounded offended, indignant that mere mortals dared strike it. Shattered ribs snapped shut with a wooden clack, sealing the vulnerable chest again.

Rodion barreled forward, servos keening. Plating spread over limbs until he looked more beast than construct—eight legs anchoring into cracks, forelimbs braced like a siege ram. He hit the colossus waist-high, pistons firing. The impact echoed like felled timber. For a glorious second the titan slid back, root-feet scoring the floor.

"Hold him!" Mikhailis yelled, sprinting. Roots as thick as his arm erupted from the dais, snatching at his ankles. He leaped the first, ducked the second; a third looped around his calf. He slashed with a short blade, sap splattering, momentum barely intact. The seed case banged against his hip, a fragile hope threatening to slip free.

Elven chants tangled with insect psalm on his tongue—phrases he’d practiced only hours, now hurled out with desperate certainty. Each syllable vibrated the brand beneath his glove. The seed in his palm warmed, petals of translucent crystal unfurling to sip the ambient mana. Almost there, little miracle—hold together.

Spectral archers rose from the dais rim, eyes green embers, root-bows already drawn. Thalatha intercepted, cloak snapping like a hawk’s wing as she vaulted onto a half-crumbled column. Twin blades flickered—one parrying, the other stabbing between cracked armor segments. Each kill released a sigh of spores, but she kept breathing shallow, disciplined, turning her head so the toxin drifted past.

A razor-vine arrow hissed toward Mikhailis, point first. He felt, rather than saw, the wind of its passage. Reflex dropped him to a slide; the arrow clipped a lock of his hair, embedding in a pillar with a sound like ripping cloth. Splinters peppered his cheek.

He rolled, came up on one knee at the bloom’s base. Up close the root-flower was monstrous art: petals layered like dragon scales, every edge dripping tar-black resin. At the core, a slow spiral of pulsing veins pumped corruption through the cavern floor. Sickly green light suffused the chamber each time it throbbed.

"Here goes." He stabbed the Seed of Binding into a spongy node between two petals. The seed drilled itself deeper with a crystalline tch-tch-tch, rooting threads of violet energy that raced along the vile veins. Symbols burst to life—runes grown from his ant-brand merged with ancient elf glyphs he didn’t consciously know. Power surged, bleach-bright, forcing his eyes shut.

The root convulsed, a soundless shriek radiating outward. Energy slammed into him, flinging him backward like a doll. He hit the plaza’s cracked flagstones, lungs empty, stars blinding. Still, through ringing ears he heard the root scream on a frequency deeper than din—an agony that rattled ceiling fungus loose.

Boulders of spongy, glowing fungus plummeted. One the size of a cart smashed beside Rodion, exploding in a geyser of spores. The construct’s shields flashed cobalt, then flickered. Another boulder, heavier, struck Rodion’s back. Metal groaned; legs buckled. He dropped, half-buried under debris, servos grinding in protest.

Thalatha spun to see, terror crackling across her face. In that heartbeat an undead archer loosed at her unguarded flank. She pivoted but too late—the thorn-barbed shaft pierced her pauldron, skidding along ribs. She snarled, ripped it out, and flung it back like a javelin. The archer dissolved into ash.

"Mik!" she called, voice raw.

He staggered upright, knees wobbling. The floor beneath him rippled, seams spider-cracking into a starburst pattern centered on the wounded bloom. Sap fountains sprayed like volcanic vents, each jet sizzling as violet ward-light fought to purify it mid-air.

Then the ground roared and split. A fault line carved across the dais, widening in inches that felt like miles. Slabs of stone sank into newborn dark, the abyss yawning hungry between.

Mikhailis’s footing gave. He pin-wheeled arms, skidding toward the edge. One boot slipped past crumbling rock. Weightlessness punched his gut—then rough fingers latched his wrist.

Thalatha, braced on her belly, dagger buried in a crack for leverage. Dust rained, streaking her hair grey-white. Her wounded thigh quivered from strain, blood pattering onto his sleeve. Their eyes met: hers blazing fear and stubborn resolve, his wide as saucers reflecting the golden glow of his tattoo.

Below, Rodion struggled beneath fungus slabs, optic lens cracked. Warning: structural integrity down 78 percent. Prioritizing mission success. Proceed without this unit. The message carried a brittle undertone—half apology, half command.

The titan, partly stunned, began to wrench free of violet chains. Each flex splintered another pillar. If it stood again, everything collapsed. He needed Rodion’s strength—or Thalatha’s sword—or the seed’s new wardlines—he couldn’t have all three.

The chasm spat pebbles as it widened. Thalatha’s grip slipped a fraction. Mikhailis felt gravity tug the sinews in his shoulder, promised the snap of bones if he didn’t act. Down in the pit, beyond Rodion, darkness pulsed gold—his tattoo’s reflection on raw mana—beckoning or warning, he could not tell.

One choice, he realized, throat tight. Save the guardian who has protected me since childhood, or the warrior who trusted me minutes ago, or try to salvage the wards before the colossus rises again. Each option cost the other two. And I can’t math my way out.

Sweat stung his eyes. He pictured Elowen’s calm smile, Lira’s gentle sarcasm, Serelith’s wicked grin, Cerys’s stoic nod. All of them counting on him to come back whole. He pictured the chimera queen, antennae brushing the air, humming through their bond: she wanted progress, evolution—but at what price?

Thalatha’s voice cracked, ragged with pain and determination. "Decide!"

His heart thundered a frantic beat. The brand on his palm flared gold, casting them both in a halo that made the falling dust look like molten snow. Light winked along fractured wardlines, as if time itself waited, holding a breath with them.

And he did not yet know which way his heart would break.