CHAPTER 784: THE FOOL CONSORT’S PLAN (1)

When he returned to the tent, the lamps were on.

The canvas flap fell shut behind him with a soft rustle, muting the distant sounds of the camp—boots on mud, low voices, the faint clink of armor being checked for the coming day. Inside, the royal tent felt like a different world. Warm. Close. Heavy with tension.

The mage-lamps had been turned up from their previous dim glow, hovering in the air like small captured suns. Their light spilled over cushions, maps, weapons, and people.

Elowen sat on her cushions near the central low table, a loose robe wrapped around her, the silken fabric pooling around her legs. Her silver hair was unbound, flowing over her shoulders and down her back, still slightly tangled from sleep and from him. She looked softer like that, more human—but the set of her shoulders said queen very clearly.

Serelith sat beside her, one leg folded, one knee raised, ankles crossed casually as if this was a tea gathering and not a war council in the middle of a crisis. Her expression, however, was alert. Her amethyst eyes tracked Mikhailis the second he stepped in.

Vyrelda leaned against one of the inner tent poles near the table, arms folded tightly across her chest. The position made her look like a sentry who had been standing there too long and refused to admit she was tired.

Cerys stood rigidly near the entrance he had just passed through, as if she had been guarding it. Back straight, one hand resting a little too close to her sword, her green eyes sharp and dark with worry.

Lira was near the side table where maps and documents usually lay. She didn’t seem to see any of them. Her fingers were gripping her skirt so tightly that the fabric wrinkled around her hands. Her long black ponytail fell over one shoulder, the tail end trembling slightly with her tension.

They had been waiting.

He could feel it in the air the moment he stepped inside. The kind of stillness that came when everyone had already been through the "what ifs" in their own heads and now needed real answers.

Elowen’s gaze met his.

For half a heartbeat, it softened—relief, quiet and raw, at seeing him there, alive, not a corpse being dragged back.

Then it sharpened, like a blade being turned.

"Mikhailis," she said quietly. "Tell us everything."

The words were calm.

The weight behind them wasn’t.

He let out a small breath and moved further inside, letting the flap fall fully shut behind him. The warmth of the tent wrapped around his cold clothes; his skin prickled as his body tried to decide if it was grateful or annoyed.

He thought about cracking a joke.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

He stopped near the center of the tent, close enough to see everybody’s faces clearly.

Serelith’s lips already held the ghost of a smile, but her eyes were serious. She was watching him the way she watched magical anomalies—interested, amused, already ready to dissect.

Vyrelda looked like she was measuring not him, but the consequences of whatever he was about to say. Calculations flickered in her gaze.

Cerys watched him like he was back from a dangerous mission—which he was. Her eyes scanned him quickly for injuries, lingering at his shoulders, his ribs, his hands, as if expecting to find blood hidden under his coat.

Lira’s gaze lifted just for a second, met his, then dropped again. There was something sharp there. Not anger. Not fully. Something like fear that had grown thorns to protect itself.

He rubbed his thumb once against the inside of his palm, grounding himself.

Then he started.

"They contacted me," he said. "The Technomancer League. Through a letter first. Then... in person."

Serelith’s brows rose. "In person?"

"Elaborate," Vyrelda added, eyes narrowing.

"Queen Ryline herself," Mikhailis said. "They didn’t send a messenger this time."

Cerys’s shoulders tensed.

Lira’s fingers tightened on her skirt.

Elowen’s face didn’t change much outwardly, but he knew her too well. The slight stillness, the tiny hitch in her breathing—those were her version of flinching.

He gave them the scene, piece by piece.

How the letter had appeared inside a warded space it shouldn’t have been able to enter. The way the seal had glowed with a high-tier League sigil. How the words had been written layered, coded, designed to evade scrying and standard detection.

He showed them the letter as he remembered it.

He told them about the dungeon offer first.

"They want me to go in," he said. "Alone. As their ’observer.’"

Serelith snorted softly. "Observer. That’s an elegant word for ’expendable probe.’"

"They promised their forces wouldn’t interfere while I was inside," he continued. "No Technomancer squad would move against me during the attempt. They would pull back, give me a clean path. At least from their side."

Vyrelda pushed off the pole just a little, weight shifting to the front of her feet. "Did they mention Silvarion’s troops?"

"No," Mikhailis said. "They only talked about what they can control. Us, they consider... noise."

"Of course," Vyrelda muttered. "Arrogant."

He moved on.

He told them about the wealth.

How Ryline had described vaults, rights to artifacts, co-authored research scrolls. Percentages. Shares. Long-term control over certain disrupted zones if his work changed the war.

It all sounded neat and formal and very tempting if you were the kind of man who wanted his name written in history books as many times as possible.

"I’ve read worse deals in contracts," he admitted. "For a scientist, it’s a very pretty cage."

Serelith tilted her head. "You just called unlimited research resources a cage."

He gave her a small smile. "A gilded cage is still a cage. It just has better furniture."

Elowen’s eyes flickered.

He kept going.

He told them about the women.

He didn’t dramatize it. He didn’t need to. The way Ryline had spoken had been enough.

"She said they can provide... companions," he said slowly. "From all over the League. Courtesans. Nobles. Sorceresses. Different races. Different kingdoms."

He didn’t look at Elowen when he said it.

He couldn’t.

He watched the others instead.

Serelith’s lips curled, amusement sparking instantly. "Well. At least they’re honest about knowing your weak points."

"Serelith," Elowen said, voice flat.

"What?" Serelith shrugged lazily. "They did their research. Insects, data, and women. It’s practically written on his forehead by now."

Vyrelda let out a low, disgusted sound. "They talk like they’re handing out weapons or horses," she said. "People as ’equipment.’ Disgusting."

Cerys’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping there. "Did you refuse that part?" she asked, tone sharp in a way that wasn’t quite fair but too honest to hide.

"I didn’t sign anything," he said quietly. "I listened."

Lira’s eyes lowered further, lashes casting dark shadows on her cheeks. Her fingers still hadn’t let go of her skirt. The fabric there was probably ruined.

He moved quickly past that part, even if his chest felt tight.

Then he told them about the threat.

How Ryline had leaned in closer.

How the faint scent of desert spices and ozone had filled the space between them as she said:

"If you die, we will know. If you lie, we will know. Failure and deceit both leave marks."

He repeated that line almost word for word, letting them hear the rhythm of it.

Cerys hissed under her breath. "So they’re already tying your life to their expectations."

"Resonance tracking," Serelith said immediately, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "She mentioned it?"

"She did," he confirmed. "They’ve got constructs reading mana patterns, emotion fluxes. They think lies have a different ’scent’ from honest failure."

"Mhm." Serelith’s eyes lit up, but in a cold way. "Interesting. Annoying. I want to break it."

Vyrelda frowned. "And they made all of this clear to you directly? No soft edges?"

"They want him to know," Elowen said quietly, eyes still fixed on Mikhailis. "They want the threat to sit in his mind while he makes decisions."

He kept speaking.

He told them how Ryline had said he belonged with them.

How she had gestured at the trees around them, at the forest camp, as if pointing at something primitive.

How she had called Silvarion a kingdom hiding under leaves like frightened children while the League built the future.

As he repeated those words, something flickered in Elowen’s eyes again. Something sharp and wounded flashed behind the calm surface.

She covered it as quickly as he had seen it, but it was there.

Lira’s brows knitted slightly. Her grip loosened on her skirt, then tightened again.

Cerys’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Vyrelda simply shook her head, a small humorless smile touching her mouth. "They see the forest and assume weakness," she said. "They’ll regret it eventually."

He finished with the last part.

"The ring," he said. "They gave me a token. Crystalline, layered with micro-runes. It marks me so their constructs won’t target me in the dungeon. Plus, it lets them watch my ’resonance’ more easily."

"Do you have it?" Vyrelda asked.

He tapped his inner pocket lightly. "Here."

Elowen’s gaze flicked to where he touched, then back up to his eyes.

"And that’s everything?" she asked.

He paused.

His tongue almost formed the words.

I was tempted.

He felt them rise—then he swallowed them.

"Yes,"