CHAPTER 626: THE SUDDEN HAZARD (3)

Mikhailis stood motionless in the green-lit hollow, breathing as slow as a winter lizard. Phosphorescent caps ringed the clearing like muted lanterns, each one piping a gentle aurora into the darkness beneath the colossal roots. The glow painted his skin a ghostly jade, but even that eerie wash failed to hide the nervous sheen on his brow.

Across from him, a dozen elves fanned out in a silent crescent. Their bows were pale as moon-bone, their arrowheads crystalline and bright enough to catch every tremor of light. Long ears tapered to frost-thin points, and across bare forearms ran blue glyphs that pulsed with the same tempo as the rune buried under Mikhailis’s cuff. He raised his hands higher, elbows locked to show he carried nothing more lethal than his own heartbeat.

Rodion padded a step closer—fluff-furred, milk-white, round as a winter hare from a distance, yet armored beneath with honeycomb plates. Brilliant blue hexes snapped into place around the construct’s body, each tile emitting a faint hum. The elves’ bows lifted reflexively.

Steady now. No sudden gestures, Mikhailis told himself. He could almost feel the tension in the bowstrings, each one a coiled question waiting for a wrong answer.

Identify yourself. Why here? Rodion translated, voice low in his ear, as if it worried the echoes might spook the archers.

Mikhailis swallowed, throat dry as old parchment. Don’t babble. He bowed his head just enough to show respect without lowering his guard. "I am Prince Mikhailis Volkov," he said, tone gentle, hands still aloft. "Consort of Queen Elowen of Silvarion Thalor. I came unarmed—pure accident brought me." He dared one shallow breath. "I ask only for safe words between us."

The row of elves did not loosen a muscle. Their eyes—opalescent, reflecting faint sparks of emerald—flicked from his face to his rune. Two whispered, arrow feathers trembling. He caught only fragments of their tongue, a rolling cadence like wind across hollow reeds.

A flash of movement: one archer, nerves taut, drew fully. The crystalline head hovered at Mikhailis’s chest. His pulse hammered. If it releases, the shard will punch through me, ricochet off Rodion—if Rodion shields, maybe I’ll live...

Rodion’s plating crackled brighter as emergency shields armed. Advising minimal movement. Reflex intercept is available but success probability only sixty-two percent.

Comforting, he muttered in thought. Out loud he said, "Let me speak. A misunderstanding, nothing more."

Another elven voice hissed; two bowstrings tightened in nervous harmony. One wrong breath and the clearing would erupt in sapphire shards.

He shifted only his eyes, cutting them to Rodion. The construct’s glowing auric ring dipped—the AI equivalent of a nod. Together they held silence, waiting.

Then a single figure detached from the shadows. Tall, lithe, armored in scales of translucent opal that drank the surrounding glow and refracted it back in soft rainbows. She moved with a dancer’s certainty, each step soundless on the damp loam. Silver hair—long, unbound—spilled over shoulder plates in lazy rivulets.

She lifted a hand. Instantly, every bow eased half a handspan. Not safe—but less lethal.

The commander’s gaze swept Mikhailis from boots to brow, lingering on the rune flickering beneath his rolled cuff. When she spoke, her voice rippled like chimes brushed by a steady wind.

"Savior of the Sundering," she murmured. "Goblin-hero reborn."

The words struck him harder than any arrow. "Goblin-hero..." His pulse skipped. Stars, they recognize the avatar. Memory lurched up: the damp stink of a goblin body, the talisman humming in his palm, Hypnoveil variant’s honeyed psycho-web pulling his mind out of flesh and into an emptied goblin corpse.

The commander took another step. Elves tracked her but did not interrupt. She paced a slow circle until she stood a single arm’s reach away, looking down slightly—she topped him by half a head. Close now, he saw faint scars along her right jaw, silver lines crossing pale skin—shackle burns healed but never forgotten.

Two months ago, he’d freed her with goblin claws, slicing iron cuffs with a chipped orc knife. He’d been drunk on borrowed strength, the entomancer talisman searing his thoughts as the Hypnoveil queen funneled psychic threads straight into dead neurons. It had worked—too well. He’d guided the captives, slashing prison guards, and collapsed only after they’d seen dawn.

He bowed his head, admitting nothing but emotion. "If you speak of the night the chains broke, I was there."

A murmur rippled down the elven line—hope, doubt, a question older than grief.

The commander lifted her hand, fingertips brushing the rim of his cuff. The jewel-bright glyphs on her wrist brightened, matching the pulse under his skin. Her expression trembled between wonder and suspicion.

"But you wear the husk of men," she whispered, barely louder than breath. "Where is the green flesh that bore our freedom? How can you bear this face now?"

Mikhailis opened his mouth. Tell them? No.

The Chimera Ant Queen’s Hypnoveil variant was still secret. Possessing corpses through psychic silk would terrify most humans—elves might see it as defilement. Better to lean on accident.

Rodion whispered, almost sly Recommend citing dimensional flux error. They summoned essence, not flesh.

He inhaled slowly. "Your ritual reached for a champion," he answered. "It drew the same soul, yes, but the gate... mis-cast the flesh. This is the form I was born to." He managed a shaky smile. "Inside, the same spirit stands before you."

The commander’s pupils widened a fraction. She looked to her archers—many exchanged quick words, doubt and hope dancing between them. Someone whispered kin-spirit, another prophecy’s twist.

"Forgive us," he added, voice low. "I did not mean to profane your magic. My arrival truly was an error in the weave."

Silence held. The commander’s shoulders slackened a hair. She signaled with two fingers; half the bows lowered fully, though strings remained taut.

One archer muttered, "If prophecy falters—" Another cut him off with a curt shake of the head.

Mikhailis pressed on carefully. "The rune you see—" He lifted his sleeve just enough to expose the ember-red sigil. "—reacted to your call. It is... resonant with many planes. I suspect that link brought me."

Her gaze softened, then sharpened again. "We recalled the hero who freed us from the Goblin King’s cages," she said. "We expected the shade of green, the teeth of stone, the laugh that mocked our jailers." Pain shadowed her eyes. "But now a human prince answers. We do not know if fate jests or shifts."

Mikhailis inclined his head. "Fate likes jokes. I tend to laugh last."

From behind Rodion came a soft scoff—one elf plainly unimpressed with humor in tense moments. Still, a few mouths twitched: curiosity fighting solemnity.

He allowed one corner of his mouth to lift. "If prophecy chooses odd costumes, perhaps we judge by deeds, not paint."

The commander’s lips twitched, almost a smile. She raised her hand high. "Bows ease. Let him breathe."

The remaining strings slackened. Crystalline arrowheads dipped, glinting once before pointing harmlessly at the moss.

Rodion relaxed its energy shield, the blue lattice folding into fur again. Mikhailis’s shoulders sagged a little. Tension drained from his muscles like spent magic.

The commander inclined her head—formal, accepting. "We erred," she said aloud, voice carrying for every ear. "But now he stands before us. We will hear his words."

Rodion’s halo flick-clicked once, and the intent filtered into Mikhailis’s ear. Authority accepted. Safe, for the moment.

Mikhailis exhaled, the breath shaking but relieved. He lowered his hands, flexing tingling fingers. Still attached—good. The rune under his skin cooled a degree, its urgent glow dimming as the archers stepped back.

He glanced at the tall woman. "May I know your name, Commander?"

She lifted her chin. "Thalatha Ara-Vey of the Hollowguard." The name rolled like flowing water over polished stone. "Walk softly on our soil, Prince Mikhailis."

"I will, Thalatha Ara-Vey," he replied. "And thank you for tempering your welcome with mercy."

A faint chuckle erupted from somewhere in the ranks—quickly suppressed. Tension cracked further. The forest’s hush returned, but no longer threatened to suffocate.

Suggest following their lead. Remaining stationary now risks renewed suspicion. Rodion murmured.

Mikhailis nodded subtly. "I await your guidance."

Thalatha gestured, palm open toward a path of glowing mushroom caps. "Come. Hospitality before inquiry."

He dipped his head once more, then stepped forward. The circle parted, elves flowing to the sides with liquid grace, eyes still watchful but no longer blazing.

As Mikhailis passed, he caught quiet murmurs—fragments about prophecy scrolls, the lost goblin friend, and whether a soul could wear two skins. None spoke outright hostility now; curiosity warmed the cold suspicion. One young archer, face soft with wonder, whispered a blessing as he passed. It fluttered behind him like a moth.

Rodion lumbered at his right shoulder, fluffy fur swishing like a contented cat’s tail, though the hidden plates below remained primed. Mikhailis resisted the urge to reach down and scratch that ridiculous fluff. Later. Preferably back home where arrows aren’t involved.

He glanced upward toward the arching roots and thought of the Hypnoveil variant sleeping miles above, deep beneath Silvarion. Your psychic weave got me into this, he mused, half exasperated, half grateful. Let’s hope it can help me out when the next twist comes.

For now, he followed the elves into emerald gloom, heartbeat finally easing as the shattered threat receded behind him.

Rodion’s soft click confirmed translation. Mikhailis exhaled, tension draining.