The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

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Mikhailis exhaled sharply as the mist thickened around him, curling like ghostly tendrils seeking to ensnare his limbs. He and Vyrelda moved swiftly through the alleyways, their boots barely making a sound against the damp cobblestone. The city's fog had never felt this heavy before—unnaturally dense, as if it carried an intent of its own. Even in Luthadel's usual haze, visibility never shrank this drastically, and every breath tasted like static on his tongue, a sign that something was tampering with the city's air.

The sound of distant footsteps reverberated, ghostlike echoes that seemed too close one moment, too far the next. A tightness settled in Mikhailis's chest. Feels like we're walking through a beast's belly, and it's waiting to devour us.

<The mist's distribution is exhibiting irregular patterns. Calculating density variance... Conclusion: external interference detected. The phenomenon is localized to your vicinity.>

Rodion's voice was calm, but there was a hint of sarcasm laced between the crisp words. Mikhailis suppressed a smirk. Figures you'd find this entertaining.

He narrowed his eyes, noting how the mist thickened in some alleys while thinning out in narrow corridors ahead of them. Like a maze. Corridors shaped by invisible hands, almost like someone wanted to funnel them somewhere. Perhaps the Technomancers, or maybe a third party. Didn't matter. They needed to get out of here before they ran right into a trap.

"This isn't natural," he muttered, voice low as he fell into step behind Vyrelda. She was sharper than he was when it came to reading the flow of a battlefield, especially in close quarters. Her posture was tense, her eyes scanning every corner. Right now, Mikhailis was more than willing to let her instincts guide them.

Vyrelda threw a glance over her shoulder, red hair tied in a neat ponytail that swung with every sharp movement. "You think it's the Technomancers?"

Mikhailis flicked his fingers through the mist, watching it coil and wrap around his knuckles before dissipating in the damp air. "Not just them. Someone else is messing with the board."

Vyrelda scoffed. "You have a knack for attracting trouble."

He flashed her a grin despite the tension. "It's a gift. Should see how well it works on a dinner date."

She rolled her eyes, a barely suppressed snort escaping. "You're impossible."

A sudden, distant clatter of armored boots and mechanical whirs snapped their attention toward the main street ahead. Shadowed figures emerged through the swirling gray, silhouettes sharp against the dim glow of street lamps—Technomancer enforcers, accompanied by two mechanical sentinels scanning the area with eerie, pulsating red lights. The sentinels' joints hissed, their metal limbs shifting with mechanical precision, each movement too smooth and too purposeful.

Rodion's voice cut in.

<Hostiles detected. Immediate engagement inadvisable. Probability of escape via direct confrontation: 27.4%.>

Vyrelda's grip drifted toward the hilt of her sword. Her eyes narrowed, and for a heartbeat, Mikhailis wondered if she might charge in anyway. She'd done it before, a fearless rush that left foes reeling, but she wasn't reckless. Not entirely. She measured the odds like a seasoned warrior, and those were not good odds.

"We can take them," she muttered, but the hesitation in her voice betrayed caution.

Mikhailis shook his head, keeping his own voice low. "As much as I'd love to see you cleave through metal, we're not here for a street brawl." He glanced around, scanning the labyrinth of alleys. The main roads were blocked, heavy barricades and enforcers forming an iron cordon. Meanwhile, the alleyways were half-choked by swirling fog that seemed to shift on a whim.

His mind raced through possibilities. They could slip through the rooftops, but the mechanical sentinels might have scanning capabilities that reached upward. They could try to find a back alley, but the swirling fog was thickest there, a sign that might be a funneling trap.

"Merchant tunnels," he said suddenly, the memory sparking in his mind like a flash of inspiration. "They're rumored to exist beneath this district. Old smuggler routes that lead to the lower wards."

Vyrelda's brow furrowed. "What tunnels?"

Mikhailis moved toward a nondescript wooden panel on the side of a building, pressing his fingertips lightly against its edge. The wood felt damp, almost rotten, but upon closer inspection, he noticed hidden hinges. "Rumor says the old merchant guilds used them to move contraband when the Technomancers first took power. Never admitted it publicly, but the stories stuck."

She gave him a skeptical look, crossing her arms. "And how do you know about it?"

He winked, leaning in to pry the wooden panel. "Oh, you know, I've got my ways—charming barmaids, listening to rumors while acting like an idiot. Everyone always underestimates the talkative foreigner."

Vyrelda rolled her eyes. "You're incorrigible."

Before she could say anything else, the echo of heavy boots clanged from the adjacent alley. The enforcers were closing in, shadows stretching across the mist-laden ground as if reaching for them.

No time to argue.

Mikhailis pushed against the panel, half-expecting it to be stuck, but it gave way with a low groan. The narrow entrance behind it was dark—no torches, no glow-lamps. Just a yawning hole into an uncertain path.

"After you," he offered with a grin.

Vyrelda moved first, stepping into the shadows with the silent confidence of a seasoned warrior. Her sword, reflecting what little light remained, hovered at her side in a loose but ready grip. Mikhailis followed with far less urgency, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement despite the dire circumstances. Behind them, the tunnel entrance sealed shut just as the distant echoes of shouting enforcers reached their ears.

"Smooth escape," Mikhailis muttered.

Vyrelda shot him a look over her shoulder. "We're not out of danger yet."

The tunnel stretched before them, long and damp, the air thick with the scent of old stone and stagnant moisture. Their footsteps echoed in the narrow passage, the silence broken only by the occasional drip of water seeping through the cracked ceiling. Unlike the streets above, the air here was untainted by mist. It was clear, crisp—untouched by the artificial control imposed upon the city above.

Rodion's voice hummed to life in his mind, quieter this time, almost subdued.

<Environmental scan complete. No traces of artificial mist regulation detected. This area operates outside of known Technomancer control.>

Mikhailis rolled his shoulders. "Which means we just stumbled onto something they haven't touched yet."

Vyrelda's gaze was sharp, calculating. "Or something they've abandoned."

Mikhailis ran his fingers along the rough walls, his touch brushing over the faint grooves of carvings—ancient Serewynian script, long faded but still present. His lips curved upward as curiosity sparked through him.

"This isn't just a tunnel," he murmured, his fingers tracing the worn markings. "It's a piece of something much bigger."

The passage twisted ahead, dipping lower as the ground sloped downward. The further they ventured, the more the architecture shifted. At first, it was nothing more than cracked stone, but then came the remnants of metal—old pipes snaking along the walls, half-buried in the rock, their surfaces layered with dust and age. They stretched deeper into the darkness, vanishing into the shadows of the underground labyrinth.

Rodion immediately scanned the engravings.

<These inscriptions predate current city records. Probability of connection to pre-Technomancer infrastructure: 89.6%.>

Vyrelda crossed her arms, her grip on her sword tightening. "So, the city wasn't always like this."

"No," Mikhailis replied, stepping forward. "Before the Technomancers controlled the mist—before they forced this artificial system into place—something else was here."

He reached a panel embedded into the far wall. Though coated in layers of grime and dust, its shape was unmistakable. Unlike the rigid, precise machinery of the Technomancer relay stations, this design was more fluid, more organic—a blend of technology and magic interwoven as if it had once worked in harmony rather than force. A system that felt less like control and more like balance.

On a whim, he retrieved the stolen Technomancer badge from his coat and pressed it against the surface.

Nothing.

Rodion emitted something that could only be described as a mechanical scoff.

<Unsurprising. This system does not recognize modern Technomancer credentials. The network has flagged the badge as an intrusion attempt.>

Mikhailis clicked his tongue. "So much for shortcuts."

Before they could discuss their next move, a sound—soft, deliberate—broke the silence. Vyrelda reacted instantly, her blade flashing in the dim light as she shifted into a defensive stance.

From the far end of the chamber, a figure emerged.

They moved with quiet confidence, cloaked in deep grays, their hood obscuring their face. No visible weapons, yet something in their stance spoke of readiness. They were not surprised to see Mikhailis and Vyrelda—they had been waiting.

The stranger halted just beyond reach, studying them with an unreadable expression.

"You shouldn't be here," they said, their voice calm, assessing.

Now that's the same line he had just heard before.

Mikhailis tilted his head, flashing a lazy smile. "Funny, I was about to say the same thing."

A shift in the shadows revealed a glint beneath the figure's cloak—an insignia woven subtly into the fabric. Mikhailis recognized it instantly.

The Crownless House.

Vyrelda tensed, her knuckles whitening around the hilt of her sword. "What do you want?"

The figure exhaled softly, as if amused. "I should be asking you that."

Mikhailis let his smile widen. "We're tourists. The underground ruins seemed like a charming attraction."

The figure didn't react to the sarcasm. Instead, their gaze lingered on the walls, on the inscriptions, before finally settling back on them. "You're meddling with something even we don't fully understand."

Vyrelda's stance remained firm. "And yet, you think you understand it better than us."

A pause.

Then: "No. But we're closer than anyone else."

Mikhailis hummed, rubbing his chin. "That's not ominous at all."

The stranger ignored his amusement. "You've uncovered more than you should have. But you're missing the most important piece."

Mikhailis arched a brow. "And that is?"

The figure hesitated.

Then, at last, they spoke.

"The mist was never meant to be controlled by human hands."

The words settled into the chamber like a weight, heavy and unsettling. The stone walls, the dust-coated mechanisms, the very air itself seemed to press inward, as if the ruins whispered the same truth.

Before he could respond, a deep tremor ran through the ground.

A low rumbling noise, distant but growing.

Dust cascaded from the ceiling, disturbed by the sudden vibration. A faint pulse rippled through the air, almost imperceptible—something ancient, something awakening.

Rodion's voice sharpened.

<Warning: Structural instability detected. Unknown energy fluctuation approaching.>

Mikhailis and Vyrelda exchanged glances.

"Well," Mikhailis muttered, flexing his fingers, "I suppose we should decide whether we want to run or poke the thing that's causing this."

Vyrelda exhaled through her nose, gripping her sword tighter. "You already know my vote."

Mikhailis smirked. "Good thing I like trouble."

The ground quivered beneath their feet, the mist curling unnaturally in the tunnels beyond. It was no longer the stagnant stillness of an abandoned ruin—it was moving. Shifting. Alive.

And somewhere deep beneath them, something stirred.