CHAPTER 627: THE SUDDEN HAZARD (4)

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

Elven lanterns flickered among tall ferns that glowed as softly as night-lights in a nursery. Each lantern was fashioned from a dried seed-pod, its papery skin etched with swirling runes that siphoned light from the fungus-beds and pulsed it outward in steady breaths. Beneath their gentle shimmer Thalatha led the procession, her opal armor whispering like rain against glass.

Mikhailis followed at a respectful distance. He kept his stride measured—heels coming down softly, shoulders back, never quite turning his head far enough to expose his spine. The elves behind him hummed in low harmony, voices weaving through the roots overhead. The melody rose and fell like a tide: three clear notes, one minor glide, then hush. A work chant, he guessed, or maybe a traveling prayer. Either way, the sound settled his nerves more than silence ever could.

Rodion padded at his right flank, paws disturbing flecks of blue pollen that drifted up and fell again in lazy spirals. The construct’s fur absorbed the scattered light, so it appeared like a small starless void floating beside its master.

Observation: The air smells of cedar sap and salt stone. High humidity, yet no condensation on armor—likely stable temperatures maintained through rune vents in the ceilings,* Mikhailis noted inwardly. The scientist in him catalogued everything: the faint crackle of mana on each lantern rune, the way the ferns angled their fronds to face passing elves as if seeking familiar faces.

They passed beneath a low arch formed by two braided vines. Beneath the arch a carved tablet rested, its pictographs depicting squat, toothy goblins and tall elves exchanging spears. The goblins looked laughably heroic—backs straight, fangs gleaming—very different from the snarling raiders he’d fought in his own world. Mikhailis’s gaze lingered on the central goblin, a stylized hero who bore a sword almost his height. A faint flush touched his cheeks. They really did record that alliance, he mused. Even if the history books back home forgot.

Ahead, the path narrowed into a bridge stitched from living roots. Each strand, thicker than a man’s thigh, twisted over the next, leaving gaps where faint green water shimmered far below. Thalatha stepped onto the bridge without hesitation. Wind—or perhaps some subterranean draft—tugged at her silver hair, sending loose strands fluttering like pennants.

Mikhailis followed, swallowing unease. The bridge swayed under his weight, groaning in a language of stressed fibers. Reflex had him stretch an arm for balance. Rodion jumped lightly behind him, claws clinking on slick bark.

About halfway across, a chorus of childlike voices drifted upward. He glanced down through the roots. Small figures—elf children, maybe—danced around glowing lily pads on water’s surface. They pointed at the procession, laughter bubbling like springwater. One girl waved, tiny hand bright against the dark water.

Without thinking, Mikhailis lifted his fingers and waggled them in return. The child squealed, covering her mouth with both hands. Immediately the humming escorts broke rhythm; a few chuckled under their breath. Even Thalatha’s shoulders loosened a shade.

Rodion piped quietly: Diplomatic note: charm effectiveness increased by nine percent.

I’ll take every percent I can get, he replied silently.

They left the bridge for a broad terrace where amber mushrooms clung to stone like clusters of lantern fruit. Sculpted tree-spirits nodded from alcoves—a wizened face here, a sly grin there. One carving, half hidden behind moss, depicted a woman with pointed ears carrying a goblin child piggy-back, both laughing. Time had worn the goblin’s face smooth, but the tenderness survived the erosion.

Murals above them told more stories: elves and goblins side-by-side against a black, root-like serpent that strangled a massive oak. Some scenes showed robed figures weaving light into rope, binding the serpent; others displayed feasts—goblin drums, elven flutes, banners of blended colors. Every pigment sparkled faintly, painted with minerals that still shimmered after centuries.

Their history is living art, Mikhailis thought, slowing to study a panel. If scholars could see this... But that path led to politics, to humans tearing these relics from the stone for museums. He tucked the desire away. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

At last the narrow lane widened into a circular grove. Enormous roots formed a natural colonnade, arching into a dome draped with silver moss that glimmered like starlight caught in cobwebs. In the center rose the pavilion. Its pillars were not cut but coaxed: roots braided so artfully they resembled spun glass, each band stained pale pink and gold by the lanterns. Semi-transparent leaf-curtains veiled the entrance, rustling at the faintest shift of air.

Thalatha paused at the threshold. Two attendants in soft robes bowed, then swept aside the curtains. Humid warmth breathed from within, laced with a scent like jasmine and fresh snow.

Inside, chairs of living ivy formed delicate spirals. Tables were slabs of luminous petrified wood veined with silver. In one corner a cluster of brass kettles rested over low rune-braziers, each kettle etched with a crescent moon motif. Steam danced in slender ribbons, forming shapes—foxes, swans, leaping fish—before vanishing.

Mikhailis reached for a vine-woven seat and found it surprisingly firm. The leaves adjusted subtly under his weight, forming a cradle that supported his spine. He exhaled a long-held breath.

A silence hovered, gentle rather than cold. Thalatha removed her gauntlets, placed them on a side stand, then unfastened a thin helm disguised within her hair. Without the metal, she looked younger—and suddenly tired. She motioned for the steward.

The steward floated forward with the silver pot. Every motion was polished, yet not stiff; these elves moved with a grace that suggested practice and play intertwined. As the tea poured, the liquid glowed faintly, color shifting from sky-blue to pale lilac before settling into translucent aqua.

Mikhailis accepted the cup between both palms. Heat seeped into his skin, carrying a scent that reminded him of night markets after rain—flower stalls, incense, wet cobble. He sampled a sip. The flavor unfurled: subtle sweetness, hint of citrus, then a cooling finish like mint kissed by frost.

Thalatha watched. "Moon-petal grows only in darkness touched by starlight," she explained. "It blooms once each decade, and only beneath the eldest roots."

He inclined his head. "A rare gift, then." The warmth lingered on his tongue, soothing, anchoring. "I am honored."

Rodion sniffed the rim of its own miniature cup—crafted hastily, he suspected, from a curled leaf. Trace minerals: calcium, mage-phosphors, negligible toxin risk. Approved.

A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Rodion likes it too," he said aloud. A ripple of curiosity passed through the attendants—several leaned closer, squinting at the fluffy machine. One child peeked from behind a curtain, eyes wide.

Thalatha’s jaw softened. "Your companion is... unusual."

"He’s good at parties," Mikhailis quipped. The child giggled.

But the mood shifted when Thalatha set her cup down. She folded hands on the table, gaze turning solemn. "Prince Mikhailis, there is more to share than tea."

He matched her seriousness, nodding once.

"Our home—or what remains—lies beneath Green Hollow. Long ago we thrived in the upper boughs. Then came the Demon-Root Blight." Her voice barely trembled, but grief shadowed each word. "Spores blackened. Our heart-trees fractured. Those who remained dragged seedlings below, hoping the stone might shield them."

Mikhailis listened, eyes tracing the faint scar at her jaw. "How long have you hid?"

"Three full cycles of the Moondrop Comet," she said. Nearly three hundred human years. "We lost count of friends above. Memories faded. Children forgot sunlight on skin." She hesitated. "Legend said one day a savior would return. The same spirit that freed us from the Goblin King’s pits."

He braced his elbows on the leafy armrests. And that legend brought me crashing through a gate I barely understand.

The commander caught his gaze. "We performed the Sun-Mending Call two nights ago. It dragged power from every elder, every sap-stone. We were certain it would draw... him." She tapped two fingers on the table, a silent lament.

Mikhailis managed a gentle laugh. "Mistaken packaging, perhaps, but same contents." He tapped his chest. "I promise."

Low chuckles flickered among the guards. One elder near the kettle even smiled, though sadness lingered in his eyes.

Rodion leaned close. Charm up another six percent. Proceed.

He sipped again, letting tea calm the swirl of thoughts. "Your call found me because of this." He pressed thumb to the sleeve-covered rune; faint heat bled through fabric. "It links to many planes. My research accident." More or less.

A steward cleared used cups, replacing them with glazed bowls filled with thin slices of pale fruit. They resembled pears carved from crystal, each segment sparkling. Mikhailis tasted one; cool juice burst, sweet and sharp like iced honey.

While attendants refilled Thalatha’s cup, Mikhailis studied the pavilion. Above, between the braided roots, spider-silk curtains caught lantern beams and scattered them into tiny rainbows that danced across polished wood. Carvings of wind spirits curled at the column tops, some playful, others stern. A few had goblin features—snub noses, broad grins—depicted with respect rather than ridicule.

These people remember alliances better than any historian, he thought. All that’s left on my side are footnotes.

Thalatha’s next words broke his reverie. "We did not bring you merely for stories."

"I guessed."