The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"Alright, ladies. Time to see what secrets the dead have left behind." The words felt like a promise and a challenge, echoing softly along the ancient stone walls. And with that final statement, he turned to face the corridor leading deeper into the catacombs, bracing himself for whatever awaited them below.

The descent was slow and treacherous. The tunnel ahead sloped downward, its once-smooth walls rough and worn by centuries of neglect. Mikhailis walked at the front, the runic key in his hand pulsing with a steady glow that pushed back the darkness. Every step he took released a soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots, echoing ominously in the cramped space. His breath came shallow, not just from the stale air, but from the tension building in his chest. He had never liked tight, enclosed places—not that he would ever say it out loud with Rhea and Lira watching him so carefully.

The deeper they went, the heavier the air became, thick with an unnatural mist that curled around their feet like grasping fingers. It felt almost alive, as if it wanted to pull them down into some hidden abyss. The flicker of torchlight reflected off tiny beads of moisture on the walls, casting dancing shadows that made the corridor seem even more narrow. Mikhailis tried to ignore the way his heart sped up. Stay calm, he reminded himself. It's just a place. It can't actually crush me… unless it collapses.

Rhea walked close at his side, her sword unsheathed and ready. She looked tense, her eyes darting around as if expecting an ambush. Now and then, her gaze flicked to him, concern briefly flashing in her dark irises. Lira followed behind, her posture upright and graceful despite the damp chill. She kept a dagger in each hand, the silver metal glinting whenever the runic key's light reached it. Mikhailis was painfully aware of how little space they had to maneuver if something—or someone—attacked.

Farther along, the corridor opened into a small chamber, but the relief was short-lived. The chamber felt colder, the mist thicker. The runic key pulsed brighter with every step, guiding them deeper, almost urging them onward with each steady glow. Mikhailis glanced at Lira, who met his look with a silent nod. No one spoke. The hush pressed down on them as though even the slightest whisper might awaken something best left sleeping.

Then the illusions began.

It started as a ripple in the air. The walls shimmered, shifting like water reflecting a distorted reality. Faint whispers echoed, incomprehensible yet strangely familiar, like voices half-remembered from a dream. Mikhailis clenched his teeth as flickers of color and shape danced at the edge of his vision. Not real. Just illusions. He'd seen illusions before, but the catacombs added a layer of dread that gnawed at the back of his mind.

A soft hiss, like distant laughter, slid through the tunnel. Mikhailis froze. He didn't want to show his unease, but he tightened his grip on the key. He felt the old stone under his fingertips, the subtle throbbing of ancient magic that recognized him—and possibly tested him.

Suddenly, a swirl of dark mist coalesced against one wall, forming a shape. Mikhailis's stomach twisted when he realized it was his own silhouette, only warped. This twisted version of him stood with shoulders slumped, eyes void of warmth. Thick streams of black mist coiled around his arms, each tendril pulsing like a living chain. Its mouth moved, but the voice that came out was low and venomous, a perfect echo of Mikhailis's own.
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"You know you can't win. You know how this ends." The illusion's tone sent a chill down his spine, as though it predicted his doom.

Mikhailis forced himself to look away. Not real. He repeated it in his mind like a mantra. But the image clung to him, leaving an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. Did some part of him believe it? That he couldn't win against the Mistborn Entity, that everything he was doing was a stopgap measure at best?

A choked breath from Rhea broke his thoughts. He spun around to see her standing rigid, eyes wide with horror. Following her gaze, he saw something that sent a wave of sympathy coursing through him—Estella's lifeless body, blood pooling at her feet. The sight was heartbreakingly real, an echo of Rhea's deepest fear or memory. She reached out, her fingers shaking, as though trying to save someone who wasn't truly there.

"Rhea." Mikhailis's voice came out sharper than he intended, but he had to snap her out of that vision. The illusions were strong here, manipulative. They fed on guilt, regret, and sorrow.

She flinched at his voice and snapped her head toward him. "I—I know it's not real." But she sounded unconvinced, her words trembling with grief and anger. A heavy hush enveloped them, as though the catacombs themselves wanted them to linger in regret.

Lira's calm, composed voice cut through the darkness. "We keep moving. If we falter, the illusions will only grow stronger." Her dark eyes held a spark of empathy for Rhea's pain, but her tone remained firm. She knew that to stay was to invite more torment.

Mikhailis nodded, though his throat felt tight. He reached out, pressing a reassuring hand to Rhea's shoulder. "Right," he murmured. "Let's go before we start questioning reality." He tried to muster a grin, but even for him, the situation felt dire, so he let the humor fade.

They pressed on, each step heavier than the last. The illusions didn't stop—they shifted, swirling on the edges of their vision like ghosts desperate to be seen. Mikhailis caught fleeting glimpses of something that looked like Lira, kneeling by a gravestone, her usually composed face twisted in sorrow. He saw flashes of a city consumed by choking mist, half-buried under monstrous vines of shadow. His stomach churned with each flicker. He forced himself to focus on the runic key, on the soft glow that spelled out their path.

Eventually, the corridor narrowed until they reached a grand doorway covered in ancient runes. The key in Mikhailis's hand blazed suddenly, filling the small space with a bright, pulsating light. It was enough to make him squint, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

Rhea whispered, "This must be it."

They stepped through the archway into a space that felt older than everything else they'd seen. The air here weighed on Mikhailis like a tangible pressure. The mist parted, revealing a guardian that seemed molded from the very walls—a figure of shifting stone and ethereal energy. It had no face, only a gaping void where eyes should be, as though it saw them from some realm beyond flesh.

The moment they moved forward, the guardian attacked.

Rhea, sharpened by tension and haunted by illusions, reacted first. She dodged a massive swipe of the guardian's arm, dropping low and slashing upward with precise force. Her blade struck solid stone, sending sparks skittering across the floor. The guardian didn't roar, but the air around it vibrated with an unearthly resonance, like a soundless cry.

Lira darted behind it, her movements swift and elegant. Mikhailis caught a glimpse of her face, calm and resolute, as she stabbed her daggers into the patches of the guardian's body where the swirling mist thinned. Each strike chipped away at stone and left shimmering fractures in the creature's form.

But the guardian swung its other arm, nearly catching Lira off-balance. She twisted aside just in time, her ponytail whipping across her shoulder. "It's resilient," she muttered, voice clipped with concentration.

Mikhailis clenched the runic key tighter. The brilliance emanating from it intensified. He suspected the guardian was tied to the sanctum, bound to protect whatever lay beyond. He had to disrupt that bond.

He raised the key, and the glow flared so brightly it cast twisting shadows on the walls. The guardian, sensing the surge of magic, recoiled, its flickering body suddenly unsure of its own solidity. Cracks began to trace across the stone, and the swirling mist in its core wavered.

It's bound to the sanctum. Maybe I can disrupt it. The thought flashed through his mind. He inhaled, then thrust the key forward with all the focus he could manage. He felt a faint tug at the edge of his consciousness, as if the catacombs themselves recognized his presence and the significance of that artifact.

The guardian shuddered, letting out a soundless cry that resonated in Mikhailis's ears like a thunderclap. Its form began to crumble, stone flaking off in chunks that dissolved into thin air. The luminous arcs of mist that made up its torso faded next, flickering out like dying embers in a windstorm. Within moments, the guardian was gone, leaving only a swirl of dust that danced forlornly before settling.

Silence followed.

Mikhailis let out a breath, lowering the key. His arm ached from the sudden strain of channeling whatever power was in that artifact. "Okay," he said, voice slightly unsteady, "that was dramatic."