CHAPTER 783: THE TECHNO TEMPTATION (END)

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

The word was left to sit for a moment between them.

"Your queen need not know," she continued, voice smooth as glass. "Your Arcane Order need not know. You enter first. You explore. We will ensure our forces do not interfere. No Technomancer squad will cross your path."

Mikhailis’s jaw moved, just a little, as he shifted his teeth together in thought.

"And if I die?" he asked, tone conversational, as if asking about weather.

"If you die," she replied softly, "we will know you failed."

She took a step closer, eyes never leaving his.

"And if you lie," she added, voice lowering, "we will know that too. Lies leave marks in resonance patterns. Your mana, your emotional field, even your physical reactions—they all leave traces. We are very experienced in reading them."

He let a small, flat smile touch his mouth.

"Reassuring," he said. "You have a great way of making a man feel safe."

"I am not finished," she replied calmly.

Of course you’re not, he thought.

She uncurled one hand from her cloak, fingers long and graceful, nails short and clean, the kind of hand used to writing delicate runes and signing death orders.

"We are not blind to cost," she said. "The dungeon is dangerous. The war even more so. We are prepared to make it worth your risk."

Then she began listing their offers.

Not like some market hawker shouting about cheap produce, but like a woman emptying a box of expensive tools on a table—each one laid down carefully where he could see it.

"Wealth to rival kings," she said first. "Shares in artifact rights. Ownership cuts in every viable discovery from the dungeon. A personal vault under Technomancer law. Inheritance rights secured. You would not be a kept ornament, Mikhailis—you would be a benefactor."

"Good to know I won’t starve," he muttered.

She ignored the comment.

"Artifacts with your name inscribed on their research record," she continued. "Not buried under layers of committees. Not stolen by old men who take credit for their students’ work. You would stand at the center of the papers, not in the footnotes."

Ouch, he thought. Someone has seen my old academy files.

"And, yes," she added, as if ticking down a list, "companions."

She did not lower her voice for that word.

"Beautiful women from every race and nation under the League’s influence," she went on. "Courtesans trained in charm and art. Noblewomen with education. Sorceresses capable of matching your mind in discussion and your stamina in bed. You would not lack... variety."

Her eyes watched his face carefully as she spoke.

Mikhailis kept his expression calm and bored, the same way he looked at a pile of half-interesting insects.

Inside, he rolled his eyes.

You don’t even know about the court magician and the maid,

he thought, slightly amused. You’re late to that game.

Heart rate increased by 6%, Rodion noted. Slight dilation in pupils. Should I be concerned?

That’s irritation, not excitement, he replied inwardly. Learn the difference.

Outwardly, he just shrugged lightly.

"You’re very direct," he said. "Some people would try to dress that kind of offer with metaphors."

Ryline smiled faintly. "Some people are cowards with words," she said. "I am not."

But she did see something.

Because when she moved on, when she spoke the next part, she caught it—a small shift in his gaze, the way his eyes focused a fraction tighter. It was small. Very small. But she was trained to see small things.

"And then," she said, taking another step closer, "there is the research charter."

The words slid into the air like a knife into soft fruit.

"Full-spectrum. Cross-kingdom," she continued. "Unlimited access to our laboratories. Permission to design and run your own trials. Archives opened. Field sites allocated under your name. We would not only fund your work, Mikhailis. We would build around it."

There.

Just a flicker.

His pupils narrowed. His breath slowed like he had just seen something rare in a glass case.

A spark.

Her lips curved more genuinely now.

She leaned in, as if speaking to a colleague, not an enemy.

"You belong with the League, Mikhailis," she said softly. "You belong with us. With science. With people who understand what you are. Not with a kingdom still living beneath trees like frightened children, praying the sky won’t fall."

Her tone wasn’t mocking. It was... pitying.

She really believes this, he realized. She thinks Silvarion is a quaint forest story. She thinks I’m a man waiting to be collected like a misplaced book from the wrong shelf.

He let his eyes drift half-closed, gaze slipping to the side for a second, as if envisioning those laboratories, those halls, those limitless shelves of data. His throat moved in a small swallow he didn’t completely fake.

You are playing this very well, Rodion remarked. Also, you are not acting 100%.

Shut up, he told him.

Ryline watched, satisfied.

She extended her hand, palm up, fingers relaxed, in the universal gesture of invitation.

"Do we have an agreement?" she asked.

The question hung in the cold air between them.

Mikhailis looked at her hand.

Then at her face.

He let the silence stretch, just enough to make it seem like he was weighing everything. The queen sleeping behind him in the camp. The dungeons. The ants. The research. The war.

He forced his shoulders to loosen, allowed a flicker of tired desire—a desire for peace, for a place where everything was measured in data instead of blood—to cross his face.

In his chest, something clenched.

If I didn’t love her, I might actually say yes.

He lifted the folded letter he still held between his fingers.

Ryline’s eyes followed the movement, dark and intent.

He reached forward.

His hand hovered above hers for a heartbeat, close enough that he could feel the faint warmth of her skin and the cooler prickle of the wards resting just above it.

Then he lowered the letter onto her palm.

The instant the paper touched her skin, it dissolved—not into ash, but into thousands of tiny light motes that sank into the lines of her hand, then vanished up her wrist and under her sleeve like fireflies being swallowed.

Ryline’s smile sharpened at the corners.

"Then take this token," she said smoothly.

She closed her fingers briefly, then when she opened her hand again, something rested there—small, pale, and precise.

A thin crystalline ring lay in her palm, delicate and clear, almost invisible unless the light hit it right. When it did, faint lines appeared inside it, like hair-thin cracks. But those "cracks" were runes—tiny, microscopic, arranged in spirals only a Technomancer craftsman could make without going insane.

Even from a short distance, Mikhailis could feel the soft hum of its enchantment.

"A symbol of provisional protection," Ryline said. "While you are inside the dungeon, you will be marked as under Technomancer observation and interest. Our constructs and patrols have standing orders not to engage you."

"How comforting," he said dryly. "If I’m eaten by a dungeon, at least it won’t be by your people."

"Exactly," she said, not missing a beat.

He reached out and picked up the ring with two fingers.

It was colder than it looked.

The moment he touched it, a brief prickle ran up his fingers and into his wrist, like a tiny electric shock—not painful, just... registering.

Marking mana signature, Rodion guessed. They’re binding your resonance pattern to that thing. They’ll know if you break it. Or if your heart does.

Mikhailis rolled the ring between thumb and index finger, studying it.

"So this makes me yours?" he asked lightly.

"It makes you recognized," Ryline corrected. "You are not a soldier. You are an asset. We do not shoot at assets we have just invested in."

"Good policy," he said. "I should borrow it."

He did not put the ring on.

Instead, he slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat, the same place the letter had rested moments ago. The weight was small, almost nothing. The meaning was not.

Ryline watched him tuck it away, then stepped closer.

Close enough now that he could clearly smell her perfume—a mix of desert spices, faint smoke, and something sharp like citrus. It fit her. Warm and dangerous.

When she spoke again, her voice dropped, low enough that the words seemed meant just for the space between his ear and her mouth.

"If you betray us..." she whispered, "you are not the only one who will pay."

Her eyes stayed on his while she said it. No drama. No raised voice. Just a simple, horrifying fact.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Inside, something cold slid down his spine.

So they’ve done their homework, he thought. They know who I care about. Or at least, they suspect. Perfect.

He let a very small, very tight smile cross his lips.

"What if I simply fail?" he asked, tone almost casual. "No betrayal. No clever trick. Just... failure. Dungeon decides to squish me like a bug. Or I hit a wall I can’t pass."

Ryline’s eyes flicked briefly to his chest, as if imagining his heart there, then back up.

"Failure has a scent," she said quietly. "In mana patterns. In breath rhythm. In ambient residue. We will know that too."

"Well," he said, "now I’m really relaxed."

She didn’t react to the sarcasm.

She took two measured steps back, returning to that perfect distance again, as if some invisible circle around her demanded it.

Her cloak fell around her in a smooth motion, the fabric catching a faint breeze.

"We await your success, Prince Consort," she said, dipping her head slightly again. The title sounded almost mocking this time, though her tone stayed polite. "You know how to contact us, should new... questions arise."

The ripple between the trees shimmered again.

The air thickened, then folded.

Ryline’s edges blurred. For a second, he saw two versions of her, slightly misaligned, like a bad reflection in a broken mirror.

Then she was gone.

No flash.

No dramatic swirl.

One heartbeat she stood there.

The next, the space was empty, and the forest rushed back in to fill it.

Sound returned slowly—first a creak of a high branch, then the distant flap of a bird’s wings, then the soft, hesitant scuttle of some tiny creature deciding the monsters had left.

The air warmed a little, as if someone had opened a window.

Mikhailis didn’t move.

He stood in the same spot, staring at the space where she had been, hands still loose at his sides, breath coming out slow and even.

The ring pressed a small, hard circle against his chest from inside his pocket.

Rodion broke the silence.

Well. That was... enlightening, he said. Conclusion: she is dangerous, correct, and terrifyingly confident.

"Mm," Mikhailis hummed.

Secondary conclusion: they are very sure you will choose data over people.

Mikhailis’s lips curled at the edges, somewhere between tired and amused.

"They really are," he murmured.

He let his head tilt back against the tree trunk once more, eyes lifting to the thin patch of sky visible through the branches. It was a slightly lighter shade now, hinting that dawn wasn’t far.

"They’ve set their board," he murmured.