CHAPTER 646: CLAWS IN THE DARK BELOW (1)

The air cracked with a tension so thick it felt like a live wire humming between Mikhailis and Thalatha. Roots shrieked as they tore away from the ravine walls, showering splinters the size of knives into the abyss. The bridge of bark and moss beneath their boots shook like a terrified animal—one heartbeat, steady; the next, a desperate quiver. A gust of fetid wind burst up from below, carrying the smell of hot sap and grave mold. It slapped their faces, drying the sweat that streaked dust across their skin.

Mikhailis’s heart pounded in his throat, uneven and frantic. Every second, the chasm widened another hair, ripping through layers of soil and root with a sound like giant ribs being pried apart. Bits of dirt, moss, and sharp fragments of crystal ward-stone cascaded into the endless dark, vanishing before they struck anything solid.

Below, Rodion’s crumpled body lay half-submerged in a knot of vines and shattered ward rubble. Blue sparks jumped from fissures in his plating, crackling like frustrated fireflies. A single optic lens still glowed, dim but stubborn—proof the construct refused to shut down.

Thalatha wiped the back of her hand across her brow, leaving a smear of blood and grime. Her sword arm trembled from fatigue, and crimson seeped through the split in her shoulder armor where a revenant’s blade had bitten deep. She swallowed—hard enough that Mikhailis saw her throat flex—then shook her head as if to clear it.

"We can’t leave him, can we?" Her words came strained, each syllable pressed between clenched teeth. She sounded angry at the weakness in her own voice.

No, we can’t. And I don’t leave family behind.

The silent vow rang loud inside Mikhailis’s skull. A brittle calm settled over him, the fragile sort one finds seconds before doing something monumentally stupid.

He plunged a hand into his battered coat, fingers closing around a thumb-sized capsule. A twist, a flick, and the thin glass cracked with a hiss. Sour-acid scent rushed out—compressed pheromone gel activating in the open air. The smell slapped his nostrils, sharp enough to make his eyes water.

"Let’s gamble, partner," he muttered, unsure if he was talking to Thalatha, Rodion, or the crazy idea itself.

The gel foamed against the bark at his feet, fizzing like green lightning. Instantly the Seed of Binding flared under his glove, branding heat across his palm. Lines of molten gold shot up his wrist, pulsing in three quick beats—matching the mechanical wheeze of the titan below and the staccato thud of his own heart. Mana bled into glyph shape before his eyes, sketching a ragged circle that expanded beneath their boots.

Roots groaned beneath the growing symbol, confused or maybe offended. A makeshift hover-ward shimmered to life, its outline flickering like an unsteady flame. It extended outward in a warped crescent—far from the elegant bridges Elven architects coaxed from living wood, but enough to form a splintered arc that dipped toward Rodion.

Thalatha didn’t pause to admire the craft. She sheathed her sword with a shaky clang, braced herself, and hopped onto the luminous platform. The hover-ward sagged under her weight, ripples of light chasing her boots. Mikhailis stepped after, toes curling unconsciously, as if that might help balance.

The ward-bridge groaned—a sound midway between wood and wounded beast—but it held. They inched forward, arms spread for balance. Beneath, the abyss yawned, its breath a cold current that tugged at shredded cloak hems and loose braid strands. Each gust carried a faint chorus: distant wails of restless undead echoing from unseen tunnels far below.

Rodion’s optic brightened when they reached him. One leg bent backward at an impossible angle, servo cables dangling like snapped tendons; an arm was flattened, cogs exposed. Yet the construct tried to lift his torso, the damaged limb scraping sparks across stone.

Assessment: self-propulsion capacity at twelve percent. Probability of cliffside extraction without additional support: nil. I would suggest leaving me, but experience says you intend the opposite.

"Sharp as ever," Mikhailis grumbled, knees already buckling under the construct’s weight as he and Thalatha wedged shoulders beneath a fractured torso plate. Sparks snapped at his sleeve; a few caught in the fray of Thalatha’s braid and winked out.

Thalatha sucked in a hiss of pain when her wounded arm strained, but she didn’t complain. "Rodion, can you lock joints? We need stability."

Partial lockdown initiated. Attempt not to drop me; it would be embarrassing to both of us.

They half-dragged, half-rolled the heavy frame onto the ward-bridge. The platform dipped alarmingly, sleeve-thick cracks zigzagging across its surface. The Seed’s tendrils shot downward like claws, anchoring into the shattered stone ledge. For a breath the crescent of root and light stabilized, humming underfoot.

Mikhailis felt the bridge’s heartbeat sync with his own—wild and uneven. Hold... just a few more seconds.

The moment stretched—Thalatha braced with her good arm, muscles trembling; Rodion’s chassis spewed whining servo noise; Mikhailis clenched the seed-gloved hand so tightly his knuckles burned. Then the root beneath the ward emitted a sick pop. A fissure split down its spine, sap spraying in an arc.

"No no no—" Mikhailis stuttered, eyes wide.

Thalatha’s response was a sharp Elven curse.

CRACK.

The ward surface shattered with a glassy shriek. Moss and luminous glyph shards burst upward as the curved support ripped free from the cliff face. Gravity yanked hard. All three bodies lurched, a stomach-dropping jolt so abrupt Mikhailis’s lungs seized. For one impossible heartbeat they hovered in glittering debris—hover-ward fragments like dying fireflies—then the world fell away beneath them.

The three of them plummeted into darkness.

_____

They landed hard—hard enough that Mikhailis’s teeth clacked together and bright spots burst behind his eyelids. The surface beneath them flexed like damp wood but bounced back like living cartilage, sending them sliding down a curving ramp of slick bark and rotted moss. The ramp’s texture changed every arm-length: polished knots, patches of fuzzy lichen, ridges where the grain had split and curled like fishbone. Ancient ward-runes once etched into the timber glimmered and fizzed as they rushed over them, shedding flakes of dull blue light that clung to cloaks and hair like fire-ash.

Thalatha hit first. She tucked into a roll, armor screeching as steel kissed the strange surface, then popped upright with the grace of someone drilled since childhood to land on any terrain. Her wounded thigh, however, buckled at the final jolt. She hissed between her teeth, one hand clawing for purchase, leather glove skidding until she hooked her fingers into a shallow groove.

Mikhailis wasn’t as lucky—or as practiced. He flailed, trying to dig a boot heel into the wood. No purchase. Momentum whipped him sideways; the ramp spat him onto his back and carried him like a tossed rag-doll. Bark slashed at his shoulders, tearing loose chips of hardened sap that rattled across his coat. Rodion spun beside him, the construct’s sparking frame carving twin scorch lines in the moss as its ruined legs dragged.

They slammed into the bottom of the slide—an abrupt, bowl-shaped hollow where decayed runes still pulsed faintly like dying embers. Mikhailis landed in a sprawl, breath leaving his lungs with a choked grunt. The Seed-brand in his palm surged instinctively, and a dim ward-bubble winked into existence, enveloping the trio in a thin film of gold-white light that hissed where it touched the heavy miasma seeping off the walls.

"Alive," he wheezed, tasting copper at the back of his throat. "Unbelievable." He propped himself on an elbow, blinking to clear tear-blurred vision. The air down here swirled with greasy vapors, smelling of boiled mushrooms and old blood.

Thalatha coughed, shoulders shaking with the effort. She spat to one side—dark flecks hitting the ground—and pushed herself upright. "I’ve had better rides," she muttered, voice hoarse but edged with dry humor. She brushed moss from her breastplate, grimacing when her fingers came away red. The earlier slash across her shoulder had reopened, soaking half her sleeve.

Rodion’s single intact optic flickered, lens fighting to refocus. Dented torso plates rasped as internal stabilizers tried to reset.

Status: undamaged cognitive core. Structural integrity... let us call it "suboptimal." A shower of blue sparks spat from the rent in his left arm for emphasis.

Mikhailis crawled over, yanking a folded cloth from his pocket. "Hold still," he told Thalatha, pressing the fabric firmly to her bleeding shoulder. "I know, I know—your dignity hurts more than the cut."

She gave him a flat look. "My dignity is bleeding everywhere. Keep pressure."

He obeyed, then glanced upward. Far above, the chute they’d ridden vanished in darkness, but faint shapes moved in that gloom—skeletal silhouettes etched briefly by dim mana pulses. Then came the cry: a shriek raw enough to strip bark from trees. The sound funnelled down the ramp, echoing and doubling back on itself until it felt like claws scraping the inside of their skulls.

"Undead," Thalatha said, eyes narrowing. She pulled his hand away, checked the wound—still oozing, but the improvised pressure had slowed the flow. "Climbing after us."

"Not done yet,"