CHAPTER 651: BONE AND WHISPER (1)

"Lead on, then."

They moved forward, boots slapping on the slick stone. Every step echoed, ricocheting off root-latticed walls. Mikhailis caught stray murmurings of drip—sap or water, he couldn’t tell—and the hiss of distant vents. Shadows shifted as they passed, filling him with the sense that unseen eyes tracked their progress.

Around a bend, they entered a hall lined with Bone-Knights. Dozens stood in solemn file, rusted breastplates mottled with lichen and their elbows locked stiffly at their sides. Their helmets tilted upward, as though daring any living thing to approach. Mikhailis swallowed. Even the stale air felt colder here.

Before he could urge Thalatha onward, the helmed sentinels stepped forward in unison, swords rising in a silent salute of war. The metallic rasp of iron on bone rang like a death knell.

"Go!" Mikhailis shouted, heart pounding.

He pulled a ward-stake from his belt and hurled it into the center of the formation. As it struck the stone floor, violet light flared in concentric rings. The shockwave rattled the knights’ armor; several crumbled into piles of brittle bone, the echoes of their collapse reverberating through the chamber.

Thalatha sprang into motion. She darted between fallen pillars, cloak swirling around her, firing arrow after arrow with deadly precision. One bolt punched through a visor and snapped vertebrae; another cracked a gauntlet, sending shards of rusted metal jingling across the floor. Mikhailis felt each arrowhead’s impact thud in his chest as the Bone-Knights hesitated, giving her precious seconds.

He turned to Rodion, voice urgent: "Your turn."

The construct’s sensors flared. With a series of precise clicks, its tail segmented and extended behind. The long, blade-like limb swung forward in a swift arc, steam hissing from the joints. The tail-blade carved through the last knight’s spine with a mechanical shriek; armor plates collapsed inward, and the skeletal warrior slumped into a silent heap.

Breathing hard, Mikhailis pressed a hand to his side. The ribs beneath still ached from his earlier fall, but adrenaline hammered the pain into the background. "That... was fun," he managed, offering Thalatha a crooked grin.

She didn’t smile. Her mouth pressed into a thin line as she nocked another arrow, eyes scanning the far exit. "We push on. Nothing else matters." Each word was clipped, resolute.

Before Mikhailis could reply, a sudden hiss split the air. From narrow slits in the walls, black-feathered shafts shot forth, whistling with malevolent speed. He barely had time to dive behind a low root-formed barrier. One arrow tore through the fabric of his coat at the shoulder, shredding the material and grazing his skin beneath.

Mikhailis rolled to one side, winded but alert. Instinct guided his hand to the glowshard strapped to his wrist. He flicked it free and triggered the runic surface. In an instant, iridescent motes of light erupted upward, swirling like a cloud of fireflies. The tiny luminous orbs filled the corridor, shining through the narrow archways and blinding the hidden archers. A fragment of the glowshard shattered against the wall, sending dancing motes ricocheting across pillars and ribbed arches.

"Nice save," he panted, blinking the afterglow from his eyes.

Thalatha kept her bow trained on the shadowed walls. She exhaled slowly, then stuck out a hand to help him up. "Keep your head down."

He grinned back, uneven and tired, then let her guide him forward. The barrier of warm, pulsating vines provided scant cover as they sprinted down the tunnel. Every breath tasted of damp root and moss. Mikhailis studied the fungal lamps overhead—they sputtered and leaned, spore-flecked caps trembling as though anticipating the next attack. He reached up and dislodged one, stuffing it into his satchel for later use.

They emerged into a vaulted chamber that felt impossibly vast—like the belly of a great beast. The arching ceiling was lost in shadow; massive root-ribs curled down from above, dripping thick sap that hissed when it splashed across the floor. The walls themselves seemed alive, pulsing faintly with an inner glow. Mikhailis could almost hear the slow throb of a heartbeat echoing through the space.

It was here that the whispers returned—soft, urgent, impossible to locate. "Unworthy... worthless..." The voices wove between the root-columns, tugging at Thalatha’s defenses. She trembled, bow hand clenched tight.

Mikhailis took a quiet step closer. "They’re trying to break you," he said, voice low. "Think of anything else: Elowen’s gardens, Lira’s sarcastic smile—whatever makes you strong."

She blinked, jaw flexing as she forced the intrusive words away. The shaft of one fungal lamp overhead snapped, plunging the area into deeper half-dark. Thalatha’s eyes flared with stubborn light as she drew her dagger and slashed at the nearest root-vein, sending sparks of bioluminescent fluid dribbling down the wall—a chemical spice to combat the psychic haze.

Rodion’s optic flicked between them. Psychic field dissipation: incomplete. Suggest physical action to clear corridor. The construct trundled forward, plating clanking softly.

Ahead stood two massive Ossuary Gates, carved from living root and inlaid with bone knobs. The doors were half-open, revealing a shoulder-high alleyway that led deeper into blackness. Faded runes encircled the frames: ancient Elven script braided with unfamiliar glyphs of decay.

Mikhailis approached, fingertips brushing the wood-bone barrier. He traced the lines with a scholar’s care, noting where the runes had been gouged away—likely to stop anyone from retreating. "Gate of Withered Souls," he read aloud, voice trembling. "Friendly."

Thalatha stepped to his side, bow drawn. "You read better than you map," she said.

He glanced at her, expression rueful. "I map better than I read, but reading’s more entertaining." He crouched, pulling the ward-stake back from his belt. "Stand back."

Rodion’s vocal module chimed. Barrier protocols identified. Three-beat pulse required. I can guide if needed.

Mikhailis placed his palm on the wood, violet mana flickering from his glove. He steadied his breath. One—power tickled his fingertips; two—the runes faintly glowed; three—the root-doors exhaled a deep groan and swung inward.

A gush of stale air spilled out, carrying the stink of mildew and ancient rot. Dim light from sputtering fungal chandeliers revealed a low-ceilinged corridor beyond, its walls crowded with bone racks and ossuaries. He peered inside, eyes adjusting to the gloom.

Thalatha pressed her back against the gateframe, aiming an arrow down the passage. "Stay sharp. These probably don’t just stand there politely."

Mikhailis nodded, wiping sweat and grime from his brow. "Good to know my sense of hospitality is appreciated." He stepped forward, then paused. The threshold felt wrong—like crossing into a tomb sealed by mourning. A shiver crawled along his spine.

Rodion rolled beside him. Warning: bio-radiation spike ahead. Elevated necromantic energy.

"Lovely," Mikhailis muttered as he followed Thalatha into the bone-lined hall. The floor was bone-white flagstone, slick and uneven. Every footstep echoed, amplifying the sense of loneliness.

They pressed on, lantern-fungus in hand, illuminating each cabinet that stood like silent sentinels. Names were engraved on tiny plaques: long-forgotten Elves who had once walked the surface world. Thalatha paused at one cubbyhole, staring as a pale skull peeked from the bone shelf.

"My great-aunt," she whispered, voice barely audible. Her arrow hand trembled as she touched the inscription. "She was lost to the Blight Wars." A single tear tracked down her dust-streaked cheek.

Mikhailis moved beside her, placing a steady hand over hers on the ossuary. "She’d be proud," he said softly. "You carry her spirit forward."

She didn’t respond at first. Then she closed her fingers over his. "Thank you," she said, voice thick with emotion. "I... I needed that."

Rodion cleared his throat. Emotional support acknowledged. Resuming forward operations.

The hush deepened as they continued between the bone racks. Every corridor they turned twisted them further into darkness. Fungal lamps flickered and died overhead, leaving them to rely on the glowshard and the faint shimmer of Rodion’s chest diode.

At last they came to the edge of a yawning pit, wider than any hallway. The floor sloped downward into nothingness, the walls covered in more ossuaries that disappeared into shadow. No path up—only the gaping promise of further descent.

They paused at the brink, lantern-fungi sputtering in the dank air. Mikhailis placed his hand over Thalatha’s once more. She met his gaze and, after a moment, nodded, steeling herself.

Two corridors lay ahead. One climbed slightly, a faint light glimmering at its end. The other plunged into deeper gloom.

Rodion’s sensors whirred. Analysis: upper corridor offers light illusion. Likelihood of ascent: negligible. Lower corridor: actual descent.

Mikhailis glanced at Thalatha. "You trust your bugs or your gut?"

She weighed both options, armor rattling softly as she adjusted her stance. "I trust the least terrible death,"