CHAPTER 647: CLAWS IN THE DARK BELOW (2)

"Not done yet," Mikhailis agreed, forcing a shaky grin.

No reply—she’d already limped forward, grabbing his uninjured arm and yanking him to his feet. Even hurt, she moved with soldier’s urgency. "Cover," she ordered, nodding toward a colossal fungal bulb slumped against the wall. The thing glistened an unhealthy violet, skin pulsing as though something inside breathed slow and shallow. Good enough.

They dragged Rodion—who managed a lurching half-hop on his one stable leg—behind the bulb’s shadow. Its rubbery flesh exhaled a bitter scent when they brushed it; Mikhailis tried not to imagine spores nesting in his sinuses.

He patted his belt. Psycho-gel grenades clinked softly in their loops, netting tight. He slid a finger beneath one cloth band to be certain—three left. "Loaded," he whispered, mostly to reassure himself.

High above, skeletal archers oozed from hollows in the ceiling. They looked like marionettes cut from darkness: rib cages strung with brittle root, cracked blades fused for arms, mana filaments twitching like the last nerves of a dying beast. Their eye sockets glowed faint indigo, tracking any flicker of motion below.

He tapped Thalatha’s pauldron and pointed at a narrow corridor mouth twenty paces ahead. The entrance almost vanished beneath mats of sickly moss that glowed faintly, like bruised skin under candlelight.

"Runes," he whispered. "Give me a second."

Thalatha crouched to cover him, sheathing her sword long enough to nock an arrow. Muscles in her wounded shoulder quivered; she grimaced but kept the bow steady.

Mikhailis darted across the open space, cloak whipping cold air at his heels. A hiss—arrow striking stone—ricocheted off the bulb where Thalatha hid. He reached the moss-choked arch and flattened a palm against the carved frame. Under the slime, faint lines bit through the rock in looping script.

His fingers traced each groove. Some runes were chipped, others overgrown, but patterns nudged memory. Elven archivists loved poetic code—he’d skimmed enough dusty tomes to catch fragments. He brushed grime away, breathing the words:

"Glade... of Silent Steps."

The glyph responded, flaring pale green, then bled color down the moss like ink in water. The overgrowth wilted, peeling back to reveal a veil of translucent vines strung across the passage like cobweb made of moonlight. A gap formed—thin but passable.

He jerked a thumb. Thalatha rose, loosing an arrow that whistled past his ear and speared an archer mid-skull. Splintered bone shards rained. Then she sprinted, each stride steady despite the leg wound. As she neared, he caught her wrist, guiding her sideways through the shimmering slit. The vines parted as softly as curtains, humming at the touch of her armor—then quivered shut behind.

Rodion followed—if "follow" counted for hobbling with sparks drooling from joints. Mikhailis grabbed the construct’s good arm, yanked hard, and practically shoved him through. The AI groaned; metal scraped stone, but the passage allowed it.

Before stepping in himself, Mikhailis paused. He fumbled a slim chalk stick from a pocket and sketched a quick spiral over the doorway rune—his own alchemical shorthand for "lock." Then he slipped through the veil. A pulse of light chased after his boots as the vines sealed, weaving tighter until only a faint frost-silver seam remained.

Almost instantly, claws pounded the far side. Bone and root thudded; wails leaked through like wind under a door. But the barrier held—for the moment. The vines’ glow dimmed to a quiet pearl-blue.

Mikhailis leaned against the cool stone, chest heaving. Sweat dripped from his chin, pattering onto grimy floor tiles. He tried to laugh, but the sound cracked midway, turning into a cough. The miasma here was thinner, but every breath still tasted of wet rot and iron.

Thalatha dropped to one knee, prodding her bandaged shoulder and grimacing. She pressed the edge of her cloak hard against the wound to slow fresh seep. Despite pain, her voice stayed calm. "Barrier?"

"Temporary," he admitted, wiping his forehead with a dusty sleeve. "Spectral vines aren’t meant to block a siege... but they buy minutes."

Rodion slumped beside them, frame whirring down. Spectral shielding rate of decay: approximately ninety seconds per revenant claw. Recommend swift relocation. Preferably somewhere that does not resemble a burial chamber.

"Agreed," Mikhailis said. He glanced around. The corridor beyond their pocket of safety stretched deeper, walls damp and glistening. Thin root threads crisscrossed overhead like veins under skin. Some pulsed faintly; others lay dark—dead capillaries in a diseased organ.

He palmed a glowshard and flicked it forward. Pale light skirted over the floor, revealing half-buried sigils and dusty footprints—some fresh. Undead? Or something stranger?

Thalatha labored to her feet. "Lead, scholar. I’ll guard the back." Her bowstring was frayed; she checked it, nodded, replaced arrowhead with one of Rodion’s silk bolts scavenged earlier.

Mikhailis swallowed a sarcastic reply—I’m not exactly Tour Guide of the Year—and squared his shoulders. He loosened another grenade from his belt, just in case. Then he stepped into the murk, each footfall deliberately gentle, ears peeled for the faintest creak of roots above, claws behind, or the whispered sigh of another hidden rune ahead.

Behind them, the vines shuddered again, then fell still. For now.

Mikhailis stepped in last and sealed the glyph. The vines reformed behind them.

_____

The silence barely lasted a breath.

A brittle crack echoed through the corridor—like ice splitting beneath a skater’s blade—then came the wet sound of tearing. Spectral vines writhed, shredding into phosphorescent shreds as taloned hands punched through the veil. Finger-bones elongated by black sap clawed for purchase, gouging ruts in the stone. Ghost-blue motes swirled in the sudden vacuum, snuffed by the stench of open graves.

"Run," Mikhailis barked, voice high with urgency he didn’t bother masking.

Thalatha spun without hesitation, using her good arm to shove him deeper into the passage. She loosed one arrow over her shoulder—pure instinct. The shaft split a skull clean in two; brittle bone halves clacked against the floor, but more bodies pressed forward, uncaring.

Rodion’s rear hatch snapped open with a hiss of servo steam. Thin canisters launched backward, popping midair. Shimmering threads of pheromone-soaked silk blossomed behind them, weaving a sticky curtain. The first row of undead hit the net and staggered as conflicting scent commands scrambled whatever crude instincts drove them. For a precious heartbeat, the pursuit slowed, bone figures twitching like broken marionettes.

Mikhailis didn’t waste that heartbeat. He slapped the glowshard against the left-hand wall. A translucent map erupted—ants rendered in trembling green for workers, solid amber for soldiers. They crawled in neat grid paths overlaying the walls and floor, blinking in time with the root-network heartbeat.

"Follow the ants," he said, already moving. "Don’t ask."

Thalatha, panting, only nodded. Her braid flicked small droplets of blood in an arc as she pivoted to keep pace.

They burst from the narrow throat into what must once have been a grand inner sanctum. Now it resembled a cathedral built for mourning: pillars the color of old teeth rose toward a ceiling hidden in gloom. Each pillar dripped ichor from vein-like fissures, the liquid glistening greasy green before splashing to the cracked flagstones. Dozens of these grim markers formed uneven aisles, some leaning as though too tired to stand. The air was thick, humid—saturated with the coppery tang of decay and the sweet-rot scent of fungus.

Mikhailis swept his glowshard across the nearest pillar. In its light he saw faint Elven calligraphy beneath the grime—prayers of renewal now caked in gore. This place was holy once. The thought cut deeper than he expected.

They kept low, weaving between pillars, boots squelching in puddles they didn’t dare analyze too closely. Overhead, sagging fungal chandeliers quivered, their gills pulsing. Some dropped threads of mycelial slime that slapped the stone like wet ropes.

Every wall whispered. Dry voices rasped half-formed words in a dialect older than his oldest textbook. He couldn’t make out sentences—only emotion: grief and unending hunger. Every root groaned beneath those whispers, as though the entire tree protested but was forced to continue breathing the Blight’s foul air. It’s like the whole tree is sick. Rotting from the inside.

Thalatha’s hand signals kept them fluid: a curt chop left sent them skirting a pillar haloed with tiny bone offerings; a downward palm meant crouch, knees splashing into cold sludge. When she raised two fingers, they froze—breath held—while a pair of hollow-eyed sentries stalked past on the far side, kettle-helm skulls swiveling. Her chant floated on the edge of hearing, no louder than a moth’s wingbeat, each phrase a lullaby intended to muffle their heartbeats in the ears of lurking spirits.

Mikhailis risked a glance upward. Skeletal archers—five, maybe six—clung to a ledge halfway up the wall, arrowheads tracking randomly. The faintest twitch of movement could draw a volley. He lowered his head, concentration narrowing to the glowing ant icons.

A pool of dark ichor rippled to their right. Its surface reflected oily versions of themselves—faces stretched, eyes black pits, mouths sewn shut by fungus strands. Thalatha’s reflection lingered half a second after she moved on, head tilting in unnatural curiosity before sinking. Beside the pool stood a column carved in ancient times into the form of a grieving elf. The sculpted figure’s hands cupped a hollowed bowl. Inside, scraps of bone and—he squinted—yes, teeth, stacked like macabre prayer beads.

His stomach rolled. "Whoever summoned this... it wasn’t a necromancer. This is something else," he muttered, more to ground himself than for her benefit.

She answered with a grim hum, eyes scanning arcs of shadow where the fungus lights flickered.

He crouched at the base of the next wall niche, brushing slimy residue away with the corner of his cloak. Beneath, a glyph emerged: the same six-point framework as the Binding Seal he carried—yet each arm spiraled inward, looped back, stinging the air with an oppressive pull. The rune lines were not crisp but swollen, veins strangled by parasite threads.

"A summoning," he whispered, voice trembling with horrified fascination. "But reversed. Not to bind, but to be bound by it."