CHAPTER 653: BONE AND WHISPER (3)

The pungent staleness of the dungeon air thinned as Mikhailis emerged from the Bone-Rib Spiral, boots scuffing at loose chips of ivory-root that littered the ledge like gravel. Every breath still tasted of rust and fungus, yet it felt almost fresh compared with the stairwell behind them. Yellow-orange fungi clung to the warped walls, their caps bulbous and sticky, shedding beads of warm condensation that rolled down twisted bark before hitting the floor with soft plinks. The warmth coming off those caps fogged the lenses of Mikhailis’s spectacles; he wiped them clear with a sleeve already streaked by sap.

Rodion clicked to a halt beside him, servos whining as he stabilized on the uneven ground. The little construct’s marshmallow-round body looked as if it had rolled through a compost heap—black dirt stuck in joint seams, green sap smeared across his plating. A tiny piece of rib-root hung from one axle like a limp ribbon. Mikhailis reached over and plucked it free, earning a short burst of irritated fan noise.

Ahead, Thalatha had already claimed the high ground—or what passed for it here. One boot braced on a knuckle of stone, she scanned the fork where the corridor diverged. Even hunched by pain and hours of fighting, she radiated a soldier’s focus: shoulders locked, chin up, eyes narrowing as she measured everything from ceiling clearance to possible choke points. One tunnel corkscrewed upward in lazy loops, washed in a ghostly pearl light that promised—falsely—open air. The other plunged like an arrow shaft into pitch-black, only the first few meters visible before darkness swallowed the curve.

A hiss escaped her lips, half sigh and half curse. "We go down."

Mikhailis cocked an eyebrow. "Any particular reason, Captain Sunshine?"

Her lips twitched at the nickname, but she rolled her wounded shoulder and pointed with two fingers. "Upwards path looks inviting. Too tidy. No debris, no acidic moss, no defensive runes burned out. Smells like bait. Whichever necromancer designed this place wants wanderers to choose easy."

He rested a palm on the cool wall, counting faint vibration beats—one slow, two quick. Huh, she’s right: top passage hums like a lure. He grinned. "You’re getting rather good at dungeon psychology."

"Learned from the best." Sarcasm colored the words, but a spark of pride lit her eyes. She took the first step toward the abyssal tunnel, and the fungus-lamps around them dimmed, almost in respect.

As she disappeared into the dark, Rodion’s chest diode brightened, projecting a cone of sterile white. Mikhailis trailed after but halted abruptly, pupils dilating at a flicker of teal off to the side. Nestled where a rib-root fused with stone, a bouquet of tiny horn-shaped mushrooms glowed in gradients of sapphire and emerald. Each cap exhaled microscopic motes, drifting like glitter in the flashlight beam.

"Oh, look at you beautiful troublemakers." He crouched, notebook out in a heartbeat, scratched pencil lines while murmuring observations: "Dual-chambered lamella... iridescent spore sacs... maybe halogenase enzymes here..."

Behind him Thalatha pivoted, hand already half-drawn on her sword. "What now?"

He waved the pencil toward the fungi. "Potential antibiotic properties! These spores fluoresce in near-UV; I could culture them back at—"

"Not now, botanist." She stalked back, grabbed the collar of his coat, and hauled him upright like a misbehaving pageboy. "We’re two breaths from being skeletal pâté."

"Rude." He brushed dust off his knees, shooting the mushrooms a wistful glance. "I’ll be back, my luminescent lovelies."

Rodion’s beam tracked the exchange. Recommendation: continue forward. Humidity up seventeen percent and climbing. Spores dense enough to cause hallucinations in 3.6 minutes.

Mikhailis saluted. "Noted, oh glowing oracle."

They resumed single-file. The spongy moss underfoot muffled their steps, but every drop of water echoed like a drum-beat somewhere off in the deeper tunnels. Mikhailis listened—one drip, long pause, two drips closer together—the rhythm weirdly comforting until a metal rasp scratched through the quiet.

A skeleton knight stepped from an alcove on their left, rust-speckled sword dragging. Its visor hung open, empty sockets leaking faint green wisps. A second knight lurched out opposite, shield fused to bony forearm by centuries of corrosion.

Thalatha didn’t hesitate. "Left!" She loosed an arrow on the word. The shaft pinged off dented helm, spinning the skull but doing little else. Still, the distraction was enough.

Mikhailis flicked his wrist. A glass orb sailed, cracked mid-air, and a swarm of captive ant-drones erupted in whirling holograms—copies of Thalatha sprinting every direction. One knight lunged at an illusion, sword swishing harmlessly through projection. "Best ghost trick since I removed that cursed toad from Queen Elowen’s throne," he crowed.

Thalatha fired again, arrow puncturing the first knight’s spine. "That was you?"

"Long story. Outsmarted the toad. Out-smarting undead seems on-brand."

They zigzagged between pillars. Rodion rotated his forearms; spinnerets spat luminous silk into tight trip-lines. A charging knight hit one, limbs tangling as sticky thread fused to bone. It flailed, scraping sparks from stone. Rodion’s optic flashed smugly. Thalatha snickered despite herself.

The ground grew treacherous—patches of slick bone dust and glistening sap. Mikhailis planted a heel, slipped. Thalatha’s hand shot out, gripping his elbow before his face met the floor. "Don’t fall, prince. I can’t carry both you and your ego."

"Why not? Ego’s weightless. Unlike your sense of humor."

A bony hand scrabbled over the sill; Thalatha stomped it flat, arrowing the skull a second later. Rodion sealed the corridor behind them with layered silk droplets that hardened to resin. The skeletal clatter faded.

They paused, chests heaving—Mikhailis from exertion, Thalatha from pain. Her bandage had bled through again, dark crimson spreading along the torn sleeve.

He reached to check it. "You’re seeping."

"I’m breathing. Move." But she didn’t pull away when he tightened the cloth, and her eyes softened a fraction.

The passage opened into a vaulted hallway lined with narrow niches. Fungus bulbs glowed gentle amber, revealing skull after skull stacked like morbid library scrolls. Each alcove bore a nameplate of tarnished silverleaf.

Mikhailis lowered his voice instinctively. "The Hall of Murmuring Ossuaries."

Thalatha stepped slower here, bow lowered, gaze sweeping each plaque. Their footsteps hushed; even Rodion whirred quieter. Air felt charged, as if thousands of memories held their breath.

She paused before a niche brighter than the rest. Script shimmered where fungus spores outlined each carved letter: Aralethia Silverroot. An ornate helm rested atop the skull-stack. The bone cheekplates were etched with ivy patterns—mark of the Silverroot line.

Thalatha’s shoulders sagged. Her fingers lifted, hovering just shy of the silverleaf plaque. The lamp-glow clung to the tear edging down her dust-coated cheek, catching on the pale ridge of a scar near her jaw. Her bowstring hand trembled, arrow tip lowering until it grazed the toe of her boot in a faint metallic tap.

Mikhailis hesitated—words perched on his tongue yet refusing to leave. Instead, he set his palm between her shoulder blades, feeling the rigid muscles quiver beneath cracked leather. Warmth bled through his glove. Say something meaningful, he urged himself, or say nothing at all. He chose silence, letting the hush wrap around them like a protective cloak.

A thin breath escaped Thalatha, almost a sigh. She traced the carved letters—A R A L E T H I A—with a feather-light touch, as though they might crumble if handled too firmly. The skulls stacked behind the name seemed to watch, hollow sockets glimmering in the soft amber light.

Rodion stood sentinel in the aisle, chassis subtly widening for stability. His optic iris shifted from bright white to a respectful sepia. Area secure. Take your moment. The words emerged softer than usual, as close to gentle as the AI could manage.

For three full heartbeats nothing moved except the lantern-fungus drifting overhead, their spores swirling like slow snow. Then a second tear joined the first, hesitating at Thalatha’s chin before dropping onto the niche ledge. It splashed and vanished without trace, but the sound felt loud in the expectant quiet.

Mikhailis squeezed her shoulder once—steady, present—then let his hand fall. The gesture was small yet grounding. Thalatha inhaled through her nose, shoulders squaring by fractions as she packed grief back into its familiar box. "Let’s go," she murmured, voice roughened but steady.

They stepped away from the niche together and moved toward the corridor’s heart. A faint shift of air disturbed the spores overhead. Mikhailis caught a whiff of sweetness—too sugary, like over-ripe fruit left in the sun. "Hold on—"

His warning came half a second too late. A dusty puff burst around their legs, rising in a lazy spiral. The sweetness thickened, coating his tongue with syrupy numbness. Whispered words slid through the fog:

"Unworthy..."

"Failure..."

The voices curled like smoke inside his skull, each syllable pressing on old bruises. Father’s face—disappointed, stern. Court scholars whispering the fool prince is wasting funds on bugs. His pulse thudded; the ant-brand under his glove flared, hot and angry against taunting memory.

Next to him, Thalatha swayed. Her bow sagged, arrow clattering from numb fingers. "I—I couldn’t save them," she breathed, eyes glazed. "Everyone—burning..."

"Worthless..."