CHAPTER 782: THE TECHNO TEMPTATION (3)

No ethics council raising their hands and saying, "But what if this is morally questionable?" right when the experiment started to get interesting.

No fears about taboo magic when he mixed necromancy, insects, and arcane engineering in ways that made normal scholars pale.

Just pure science.

They wrote, in a line that glowed faintly brighter than the others as he read it:

We know who you are, Mikhailis Volkov. A man of science. How has a mind like yours stayed in a forest kingdom that fears what it cannot bless? Come to those who worship progress, not bloodlines.

He stared at that line for a long time.

The forest around him felt even quieter.

He could almost see it for a moment—another life, another version of himself. Walking down polished metal corridors lined with glass tubes. Standing in front of a massive observation window while mechanical constructs moved according to his designs. Holding a stylus over a glass tablet as rows of data poured in from experiments across three kingdoms.

Rodion unrestricted, plugged into League systems, dancing happily between arrays of calculation.

His chimera ants not being hidden monsters in the dark, but recognized as a breakthrough in combined magic and biology.

In that life, no one flinched when he mentioned necromancy and insects in the same sentence. No one looked at Elowen and whispered that her consort was strange.

In that life... there might not even be an Elowen.

He exhaled slowly, the breath shaking just a little as it left him.

His thumb traced the edge of the paper again, almost unconsciously.

They think science means being hollow of loyalty, he thought. That curiosity must come with empty hands, no one held onto. That to be a "pure researcher," you must have nothing you’re not willing to trade.

He glanced back toward where the camp was, even though he couldn’t see it through the trees. Somewhere behind him, Elowen was still sleeping, her hand reaching for the space where he had been. Somewhere far below that, under stone and root, the ants were waiting for his next command. Somewhere, in the castle back home, children were probably still laughing about the funny prince who liked bugs.

He felt something pull in two directions inside his chest.

One part of him wanted to spit on the letter, crumple it, and grind the sigil into the dirt. Another part wanted to press it flat, smooth it out, and ask a thousand practical questions: What are the exact limits of this research charter? How binding is this in League law? Can I bring my own hive?

He let out a small breath.

He was tempted.

That was the annoying part. Temptation didn’t disappear just because he decided to act loyal. It stayed. Sat in the corner of his mind. Raised its hand sometimes and suggested "But what if..."

You can be tempted and still choose, he reminded himself. That’s what makes it a choice and not just... habit.

He folded the letter neatly, pressing the creases smooth with his thumb, then slid it partly between his fingers in a practiced motion.

At chest height, carved into the bark of the tree, there was a shallow, almost invisible groove that looped in a strange half-circle. You would miss it if you weren’t looking for it. A mark the letter had said to find. A place to "respond."

He stared at it.

You’re really going to do this, he told himself.

His hand lifted.

For a heartbeat, he hovered there, the letter a breath away from the bark.

Last chance to throw this into a river and pretend you never saw it.

His thumb tightened.

"Too late," he whispered to himself, and pressed the folded letter against the groove.

The moment the paper touched the bark, the carved line flared with faint, pale light—so dim it didn’t even reach his face, but bright enough to trace the symbol for anyone standing this close. It was a circle but not closed, with a jagged break on one side, like a mouth half-opened in a silent word.

The light sank into the tree.

The forest’s air shifted immediately.

It grew colder, like the temperature dropped just enough to make his skin prickle.

The soft distant noises—the occasional creak of wood, the rustle of a bird, the tiny scamper of something in the underbrush—faded one by one, as if someone gently turned the world’s volume down.

Silence stretched between the trunks, not empty, but full. Waiting. It felt like standing inside a held breath.

Mikhailis straightened away from the tree, shoulders rolling back, expression smoothing into something calm, curious, and a little bit amused. The kind of face people expected from him when he was handling "interesting trouble."

His fingers loosened around the letter.

It didn’t fall.

The folded paper evaporated between his hands, turning into thin, smoky light that seeped into the air like ink dispersing in water.

The ground beneath his feet hummed once, a very soft vibration, as if some hidden mechanism far below had just been nudged awake.

Then the space between two nearby trees... shifted.

It wasn’t a bright flash or dramatic swirl. Just a small ripple in the air, like heat above a flame, except this one moved sideways, the way a curtain might move when someone pulled it from behind. The trunks seemed to bend apart, not physically, but in perception; the darkness between them deepened, then folded inward.

A narrow seam opened.

From that seam, a figure stepped out as if the forest had decided to give birth to a person.

Queen Ryline of Aradia did not stumble, did not blink at the change of environment, did not even pause to seem impressed by the forest she had just walked into. She simply arrived, as if she had always been there, and reality was just catching up.

She wore a traveling cloak of deep desert blue, the hem lightly dusted with a shimmer of arcane sand that faded as she moved. Her hood was up at first, shadowing her face, but as she approached him, slender fingers lifted the fabric back.

Moonlight—or whatever faint light filtered through the pre-dawn clouds—caught her features.

High cheekbones. Smooth brown skin that had seen sun and spells and still looked untouched. Dark eyes that watched everything, sharp and reflective, giving nothing away. Her lips curved in a shape that might be called a smile, if someone liked lies.

Sophisticated.

Beautiful.

Deadly.

Mikhailis took all that in quickly. The angle of her shoulders. The ease in her movements. The absence of visible guards. Either she was arrogant enough to come alone... or she had protection he couldn’t see.

Nothing about this woman says ’low risk,’ he thought lazily. Great. The night was missing a highly intelligent snake.

"Prince Consort," she greeted, her voice smooth, carried easily without needing to be loud. She inclined her head with the kind of elegant nod that said she had practiced etiquette until it turned into muscle memory. "Or should I say..." Her eyes glinted with deliberate amusement. "Misallocated resource?"

Mikhailis raised a brow.

"Misallocated resources can be surprisingly efficient," he replied, tone light. "Nobody knows where to look for them. Less paperwork too."

Her smile widened a fraction, but only at the edges. Her eyes didn’t soften. They stayed busy, cataloguing him—the disheveled hair, the coat thrown on in a hurry, the faint exhaustion still clinging to his shoulders, the way his hands were empty and open.

She was measuring him like he measured magical fields.

"You read our offer," she said, not quite a question.

"I did," he answered simply.

"And?" she asked, taking a few unhurried steps closer. The ground made no sound under her boots. "What does the prince-consort of a forest queen think of it?"

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering.

"That depends," he said. "Are you here to negotiate... or threaten me first?"

A soft huff of amusement escaped her.

"I find it efficient to do both at once," she replied. "Saves time."

She’s honest. That’s new, Rodion observed. I expected more ceremonial nonsense.

Please don’t say that out loud, Mikhailis thought.

He kept his hands loose at his sides, body language casual, almost lazy. Inside, his mind was working fast. He watched the faint shimmer of wards around her shoulders, almost like heat distortion. They were thin, but layered, and felt more like sensors than shields.

Ryline stopped at a conversational distance from him, not too close, not too far. Close enough that he could see the fine gold thread woven into the edges of her cloak. Far enough that if he tried anything physical, she’d have a full second to react.

Her gaze flicked briefly over his shoulder, taking in the forest behind him, then returned to his face.

"We want you in the dungeon," she said simply. No gentle introduction now. No more pretty wrapping. "Alone."