CHAPTER 638: BLENDING WITH THE ELVES (1)

The priest reclaimed the chalice with a nod. No judgment showed on the mask—but Mikhailis could almost feel amusement radiating from behind the carved smile.

A second priest beckoned him forward. The altar’s flat crest had been cleaned of lichen and polished to a subtle sheen. In its center, ancient glyphs rested dormant, shallow as finger grooves worn by centuries of supplicants. Mikhailis extended his marked hand—hesitation flickered, but curiosity shoved it aside.

The moment skin touched bark, the glyphs flared. Lines blazed mint-green, then gold. His tattoo—normally a quiet blue hexagon web—answered with its own flare, brighter than he’d ever seen. Light braided up his wrist in thin filaments before sinking beneath skin.

No words pierced the hall; no chant guided the surge. Instead, a resonant thrum rolled from altar through floorboards, up pillars, all the way into the high vents of the ceiling. Dust drifted loose, sparkling in sunlight.

The watching elves gasped in staggered waves. That single elderly scholar—white moss for eyebrows—clutched his chest, eyes damp. "He walks among us now," he whispered, voice more prayer than statement.

Above the altar, pollen motes swirled, sweeping into a brief silhouette—arms outstretched, hair in a lazy halo—an echoed ghost of the man standing there. The figure shimmered then fell apart into gold dust that rained down gently, collecting on shoulders and in the folds of robes.

Mikhailis drew his hand back. The bark cooled, closing the glyphs like a heartbeat settling. Okay, he thought, flexing fingers. I’m not on fire. Good sign.

Acceptable outcome, Rodion noted. Vital signs steady, though adrenaline has spiked by 23 %. Recommend slow exhalation before you attempt a dramatic speech.

He fought a grin and exhaled through pursed lips, letting shoulders relax by degrees. The priests stepped aside, signalling completion of the rite. Instantly the surrounding air buzzed—conversation lit up like mid-summer crickets.

A pair of young artisans clasped hands, eyes shining. A tutor scribbled notes on a strip of parchment with such speed the quill squeaked. Somewhere in the back, an older guard whispered, "I saw the glyph circle the altar twice—did you?"

Over the heads of the crowd, Matria climbed a small rise of root-steps and lifted her staff. Silence fell as naturally as fog. In the hush, the amber Memory pillar in the council vestibule above pulsed, as though listening from afar.

"The Root-Binder walks among us," Matria declared, voice amplified not by shouting but by something inside the staff—a clear, ringing resonance. "His task is clear: to bridge our ancient song with the new hum of the Hive."

The phrase carried weight; several onlookers pressed palms to hearts, acknowledging the old vow: song and hum in harmony. Yet worry fluttered at the edges—wrinkled brows, tightened lips.

Vyra stepped forward, mirror-robes scattering light like startled birds. She didn’t need volume; her tone sliced ice-thin. "Do we tether our purity to a humming foreigner? Root and hive? Sap knows what carries in that hum."

A murmur rippled—agreement here, disquiet there. A father tucked his child behind him, as if the imprint on Mikhailis’s palm might leap off and stain clean skin.

Lorian, lantern spores casting soft halos, shot Vyra a look equal parts fatigue and resolve. "Do we tether our lives to dying trees?" He spread both hands, palms up—faint green dust floated from his sleeves. "He may be the water our roots need."

The spores above him dimmed, waiting on the answer.

Before either retort could land, Sevrin edged closer, glass-root cane clicking. He raised a single finger, not in scolding but as a scholar presenting thesis. "A compromise." He scanned the crowd, then fixed on Vyra, on Matria, finally on Mikhailis. "He stays. Yet under watch. Until the Blight’s first tendril is purged—until the earth shows a healed scar. And no more humans beyond him, lest curiosity flood our hall."

A rush of whispers flooded the plaza—arguments hissed like steam. Some elders nodded relief; others scowled. But the finger still hung in air, commanding attention.

Boots clacked: Thalatha emerged from the shadow of a sentinel pillar. Hollowbone plates covered shoulders and chest, etched with vine-patterns that glowed faintly. Her tall frame carried the calm of someone who’d seen battlefields and funerals and decided never to flinch again. The braid that spilled down her back looked less like hair and more like spun gold reinforced with thread of living vine. Where light touched it, sparks seemed to crawl.

She strode to the altar’s edge, boots soft on moss yet firm enough to set little tremors through the harp-strings. Stopping two paces from Mikhailis, she rested a gauntleted hand on her chest and bowed just enough to honor—but not submit.

"Then I shall watch him," she declared.

Her voice rang with quiet iron, leaving no room for argument. Somewhere in the crowd, a nervous laugh choked itself off.

Mikhailis met her gaze. For half a heartbeat the world narrowed to gold-flecked green eyes and a faint scar at her temple. He noted the way her armor flexed, light as bark but strong as forged steel, and the slight hitch in her breath—pain or memory? Hard to tell.

Bodyguard, warden, babysitter, he mused. Let’s hope she prefers conversation to chains.

Rodion, ever helpful, offered dry commentary.

Threat index: moderate. Protective potential: considerable. Recommend polite engagement and zero jokes about personal space.

He inclined his head to Thalatha, half-smile playing. "I could use good company."

Her expression didn’t shift, yet something in her shoulders eased the width of a leaf. Agreement, perhaps.

Around them, the collected elves stirred like wind through reeds. Questions flew in whispers: "Will he sleep in the Hollowguard quarters?" "Does the pact bind us all?" "What of the prophecy?" "Will the Blight recede?"

No answers could travel fast enough to catch those doubts. But the altar’s glyphs still glowed under moss, and pollen still hovered in lazy halos around Mikhailis’s hair.

The crowd murmured.

_____

The Weave-Circle lay beneath a dome of intertwined branches, each leaf coated in a soft sheen of dusk-sap that caught every lantern flicker. Dozens of craftsfolk worked shoulder to shoulder, knees tucked beneath low tables grown from looping roots. Needles no thicker than hairs darted in and out of fresh leaf-cloth, stitching silver micro-runes that glimmered like dew. Every so often a rune pulsed—testing itself—then faded when it found harmony with the fabric.

A sharp hiss broke the steady rhythm. A young artisan jerked her hand away, emerald thread snapping. A thin red welt bloomed on her fingertip, already darkening where the rune had burned her skin.

"The Blight gets smarter," she muttered, shaking her hand before dabbing it with sap-salve. "Feels the rune a breath before it touches cloth."

Her mentor, an older elf with moss streaking his hair, paused mid-stitch. "Then we’ll stitch deeper," he answered. "Make the cloth feel the Blight first." He threaded a new strand through her needle, slower, gentler. "Pain is a tutor, not an enemy."

Across the circle, two tailors argued in whispers over the spacing of ward-glyphs. One insisted on the old pattern—five concentric rings—while the other drew a quick triangle in the air, claiming sharper angles fooled the Blight’s creeping sense. A third leaned over, eyes narrowed with excitement, and suggested layering both, risk be damned. The air smelled of damp leaves and hot resin where ward-ink dried on fresh stitches.

Outside the dome, Lorian walked alone through the Rotting Orchards. Once-vibrant vine-lattices now sagged, their pods shriveled to fist-sized husks that rattled in the wind. Each step sank softly into leaf-litter. He lifted his thin voice in Spore-Tongue, a lullaby that once coaxed seedlings to unfurl. The melody floated, light and wistful, but nothing stirred—not a single pod, not a bird hidden in branches. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. He paused by a twisted trellis where a sapling had died so recently its bark was still warm; placing his palm on the cracked surface, he hummed the last note twice, softer each time, as if saying goodbye.

A sudden rustle broke the quiet. Three young elves emerged from a side path, gait unsteady yet determined. Their hands glowed pale green, veins lit beneath skin—test-spores already blooming. They looked both proud and exhausted, shoulders squared though sweat dampened their tunics.

"We volunteered," the tallest explained, lifting her luminous hand for Lorian to inspect. "If our blood can warn the trees sooner, it’s worth the sting."

Lorian’s eyes softened. "Courage isn’t only in swords," he said, drawing a vial from his satchel. He dabbed a clear salve along each glowing palm, and as the ointment touched their skin the light brightened then steadied, as if agreeing to stay contained for now.

One of the hunters, not much older than a sapling himself, tried to grin. "Feels like cold pepper," he joked through clenched teeth.

A quiet laugh escaped Lorian. "That’s the spores learning your name."

In the high Hall, rumors crackled louder than hearth-fire. Couriers scurried between archways, trading scrolls and snatched gossip. Scouts had glimpsed banners of Silvarion Thalor—silver roots on green cloth—fluttering too near the Deep Roots. Some called it curiosity; others, trespass. Maps unrolled across tables, glass beads marking disputed tunnels.

"They want our ley-lines," Sevrin growled, leaning over a topographic slab that glowed with shifting light. His fingers tapped a pulse at each marked incursion. "They label it sharing. I call it mining. Tear enough song-threads and the whole harp snaps."

An archivist murmured a caution about diplomatic letters, but Sevrin waved him silent. "Letters dry too slow. Roots rot faster."