CHAPTER 652: BONE AND WHISPER (2)

"I trust the least terrible death," he said with a wry grin.

Without another word, they turned right, descending a staircase formed from spirals of calcified root. With each step, he noticed the grooves resembled vertebrae, ribs twisting around the shaft. The steps were narrow and uneven; he had to grip the rail of living root to keep his balance.

"Is it just me," he panted, "or do these look like spinal columns?"

Confirmed. Composed of calcified organic matter. Possibly giant vertebrae.

He gave a hollow laugh. "Wonderful."

A screech echoed above. Wraiths—paler and more ragged than before—clawed themselves free from wall niches and gave chase. Thalatha fired two arrows in rapid succession, each thudding into spectral flesh. Mikhailis lobbed a drone capsule; swarms of firefly-like beetle-ants unfurled an illusionary bridge of light that diverted their pursuers for a precious moment.

They pressed upward, limbs burning, only to reach a balcony that overlooked a shaft suffused with pale "daylight." A cool breeze brushed Mikhailis’s face. He stepped forward, heart leaping.

Rodion pulsed red. Warning. Light contains no solar spectrum. Mana-lure confirmed.

Hands on his hips, he studied the glow. "It’s fake," he said, voice brittle. "A trap."

Thalatha drew an arrow and didn’t hesitate. "We keep going."

They passed through a final corridor where walls pulsed in time with distant root-heartbeats. Mikhailis’s legs shook so badly he nearly fell. His ribs burned with each breath. He glanced at his glove—ant-map threads blinked weakly, flickering from green to amber.

Then they blinked out entirely.

Mikhailis froze. "This path...."

The hallway curved, and the glow from above faded to black. The ground shuddered. Roots split, floor cracked. Lantern-fungi gutters flared, then sputtered out.

They found themselves back at the edge of an abyss deeper than any they’d seen.

No way up—only down.

Only down.

Finally, the hall opened into a chamber of ossuaries. Walls were cut into shelving, each compartment stuffed with bones—skulls, femurs, ribs—stacked with solemn care. Every cubby bore a small carved nameplate, names in elegant Elven script.

Thalatha moved to one niche, her breath catching. Mikhailis followed, heart tightening at the sight of her face.

"My great-aunt," she whispered. Her fingers trembled as they hovered over the name: Aralethia Silverroot. "They said she vanished in the Blight Wars."

Mikhailis placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. No words passed; his eyes spoke empathy. He let her grief have its moment, the soft glow of their fungus lanterns illuminating her tears.

After a long pause, she nodded once, stiffly gathering resolve. She turned away, shoulders squared in silent determination.

They rounded a corner into two more corridors: one sloped upward, a faint hint of daylight at its end; the other plunged into deeper darkness. Mikhailis studied his ant-map projection—green threads faintly dancing along both paths. The upward route’s signal flickered and faded in the shadows.

Rodion’s voice cut in softly: Recommendation: upward path probability of escape, 72 percent. Yet all ancient exit routes show signs of collapse or warding. Alternative paths uncharted to the north.

Mikhailis glanced at Thalatha; she met his gaze with a steady look. "You trust your bugs or your gut?"

He grinned, ribs protesting. "I trust the least terrible death."

She gave a curt nod. "Right."

They took the right-hand corridor, climbing a staircase of spiraled root that felt like vertebrae beneath their boots. Screeches echoed as wraiths detached from the walls, closing in. Mikhailis tossed a drone capsule: firefly-like ants swarmed, weaving a living bridge of light that mesmerized their pursuers.

Thalatha leapt onto a higher step, limping but determined. Her bow rose, string humming, and arrows found gaps in the wraiths’ shifting forms. Mikhailis followed, pressing the drone swarm forward to clear a path.

At the top, they emerged onto a balcony overlooking a yawning shaft. Pale daylight glowed from far above—yet the air smelled stale, as though the light was conjured. A breeze stirred their hair, mocking their hope.

Rodion’s lens flashed red. Warning. Light contains no solar spectrum. Mana-lure confirmed.

Mikhailis’s grin faded. "Fake sunshine. Classic."

Thalatha’s arrow pinned a loose shard of curved root to the wall. "We go until we find real sky."

They pushed on through a final corridor, walls throbbing with slow pulses of bio-luminescent fungus. Each beat synchronized with Mikhailis’s pounding heart. His ribs burned with every breath; his legs threatened to give.

Then the corridor brightened as fungus lamps flared in a dawn rhythm—gentle at first, then stronger, like morning sunlight spilling in. Mikhailis paused, relief flickering. We’re almost there... he thought.

But the glow was a trick. The lamps pulsed without warmth; their light bore no true day. His ant-map flickered and then shifted: the path he had climbed curving downward, not up.

Mikhailis froze. "This path..." His voice trailed off as vertigo seized him.

Behind him, Thalatha stumbled, eyes wide.

Rodion’s calm metallic voice broke the tension. Alert. Current vertical gradient: twenty-three degrees downward. Spiral trajectory confirms descent. Surface: not reachable from here. Immediate re-prioritization advised.

A tremor ran through the corridor. Roots quaked, fungus lights sputtered, and the walls groaned as if the dungeon itself was shaking them loose. Darkness surged at the edge of their vision.

Mikhailis’s pulse thundered in his ears. He exchanged a glance with Thalatha—exhaustion, fear, and fierce determination shining equally in her eyes.

Then the lamps died. Darkness swallowed them whole in a heartbeat—no sputter of dying lamps, no glow of phosphorescent fungi, just an all-consuming blackness that draped around them like a suffocating shroud.

Mikhailis felt the cold press in first, seeping through his cloak and chilling the sweat on his skin. Thalatha’s breath was a soft hiss at his side, her arrowhand trembling just enough for him to hear the tension in her fingertips. He reached out, searching blindly until his palm found hers, warm and steady against his glove.

They stood motionless at the brink of a void so deep it swallowed the faint echo of their own heartbeats. Mikhailis dared a silent prayer to the root-spirit that once guided his steps. This isn’t the end, he promised inwardly, not while breath moves and blade still sings.

A minute—or perhaps a lifetime—passed in perfect stillness before Thalatha tightened her grip and nodded once, resolute. She uncurled her hand and moved forward, each step a conscious decision in the empty black.

Now two corridors stretched before them. To the left, the stone floor inclined gently upward; at its far end, a faint glow teased with the promise of sky. To the right, the corridor plunged deeper into shadow, roots arching overhead like ribs in a tomb.

Rodion’s single optic flared, bathing the gloom in pale white light as it ran simultaneous scans.

Ambient gradient: left path rises by six degrees; right path descends by twelve. Light source detection: left—no solar markers; right—ambient mana below threshold.

Mikhailis exchanged a glance with Thalatha. The silence held questions neither dared speak.

Finally, she raised an eyebrow, a ghost of her usual defiance cutting through the muted dread. "You trust your bugs or your gut?"

He smiled, bitter and tired, every inhale lending fire to his ribs. "I trust the least terrible death."

She returned his grin with a tilt of her head. "Then right it is."

Together they stepped into the descending corridor. The air grew cooler with every meter, carrying a scent that sickened: damp earth, rotted bark, and something faintly metallic—like blood long dried.

Their boots found purchase on a staircase carved impossible-thin from living root, each step winding in a spiral so tight Mikhailis felt as though he were climbing a giant’s backbone. He tested the steps carefully.

"Is it just me," he gasped between breaths, "or do these look like spinal columns?"

Confirmed. Composition: fused organic mineral, akin to vertebrae. Rodion’s tone was dry. "Possibly once a creature of great size."

"Wonderful," Mikhailis muttered, pressing through the twisting steps.

A distant screech split the air, brittle as broken glass. Thalatha’s bow was at her shoulder in a fluid motion, arrow notched.

"Wraiths," she whispered. "They’ve followed."

Mikhailis’s hand dipped to his belt, releasing a capsule. He crushed it underfoot and threw himself back. Blue flame spat upward, casting the staircase in erratic strobe. From the shadows, skeletal forms lunged—gaunt, arm-thick limbs snapping at the air. But where Mikhailis had exploded the psycho-gel, they halted, disoriented.

"Now," he shouted. "Move!"

Ant-drone swarms erupted from his pack, hundreds of tiny lights scuttling along the rails and bannisters. Their phosphorescent bodies wove a bridge of living lanterns, illusions dancing ahead of the pursuers. The wraiths hesitated in the flicker, confusion etched in their silent, eyeless faces.

Thalatha darted upward, one boot finding a hidden notch in the root-bone. Mikhailis followed, shoulders brushing the carved walls. Rodion slithered behind, plating retracting and reshaping to maintain balance.

At the top, they spilled onto a broken balcony. A shaft yawned beneath them, shafts of pale daylight leaking from high above. A breeze—cold and hollow—stirred their cloaks.

Mikhailis stepped forward, heart clenching. Grey light fractured across the stone floor. "It’s fake," he said, voice low. "A trap."

Behind him, Rodion’s single lens pulsed red. Warning. Spectrum analysis: no solar signature detected. Mana-lure mechanism active.

Thalatha lowered her bow. "We keep going," she said softly, unwavering.

They passed through a final corridor, its walls alive with fungus that pulsed in a slow, rhythmic glow—as if the dungeon itself inhaled and exhaled. Mikhailis’s boots slipped twice on the wet floor; his ribs sang with each step. Rodion’s map overlay shimmered in his vision: green lines stretched upward, then blinked out.

Mikhailis froze, eyes flicking to the corridor’s far curve. The walls darkened again, the glow fading like a snuffed candle.

Rodion’s voice cut through the hush. Alert. Current vertical gradient: twenty-three degrees downward. Spiral trajectory confirmed descent. Surface ascent not possible.

The floor quaked, fissures snaking beneath their feet. Roots split apart, spilling shards of crystal bark. Fungal lanterns guttered, sparks dancing across the black.

Darkness swallowed everything once more.

They stood at the edge of a pit—an abyss that yawned wider than any they’d faced. No path up. Only the vertigo of a descent yet deeper into the dungeon’s hungry heart.