CHAPTER 661: POLLEN, SAP, AND SHARD DUST (2)

"Data is armor we can wear later."

She stared at the moving icons, something curious slipping into her gaze despite everything. "Armor," she repeated, tasting the word as if it belonged to her work and not his.

Rodion projected a tidy list that slid down the stones: cobalt horn profiles with peaks and valleys; crystal spectra from sap veins, lines bright as music; resonance maps of rune fragments showing how they wanted to talk to each other; chemical notes on necrotic resin compositions; protein balance in sweet-sap, with a little star where it matched soldier ration gaps.

"What can it become?" Thalatha asked, practical now that the bleeding had slowed and the world had shrunk back from a scream to a room.

Mikhailis pointed as he spoke, finger tapping items like a conductor. "Fungal antibiotic candidate from the horns," he said, tapping the teal pulse. "We test it in small. No promises, but it looks promising."

He moved down. "Spore-lung filters—silks tuned by those crystal spectra. If we match the frequency the spores ride, we filter better without choking the wearer." He pointed at a braid of colored lines that meant something to him and probably looked like pretty lines to everyone else.

"Rune neutralizers—silica powder plus micro-dose of resin. Spread a pinch, stop a glyph from firing without blowing the floor." He wiggled his fingers like sprinkling salt on bad meat. "Ant ration fortifiers; the sap’s amino balance is weird but useful. We can cut the hunger shakes without using royal coin." His mouth went crooked. He didn’t say without begging a budget meeting.

He hesitated a half-beat, then added, "And... if ethics permit, curios and trinkets. Some coin for labs. Sell the junk to people who like to think they’re brave because a plate used to be a monster."

Her eyebrow ticked at "sellable." She did not like it. He saw the way her mouth thinned. But she also did not tell him to stop. He knew the look of a captain counting arrows and bread at the same time. A Hollowguard budget was a knife too—always short by one inch.

"So," she said, lifting her chin a little, weighing all this as if balancing a spear on a finger, "we live, and this feeds more than us."

Mikhailis let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. His shoulders loosened under the torn coat. He glanced at the door, then back at her. He could hear the fists again. He could hear his heart. He could hear the lotus wanting to be a problem. He still found a smile that showed teeth. "That’s the plan."

The bag sat against his hip like a promise and a temptation. He patted it once and let his hand fall. The touch was almost a ritual, like a baker tapping the bench before flouring it. We’re not done. We’re never done.

Rodion pinged. A clean, neutral tone that said ready without wasting a word.

"Good," Mikhailis said. His voice went flat in a way Thalatha had not heard before—no joke hiding in the back of the throat. "Unequip."

The bone-etched hexes across his bandolier did not dim and become trinkets again. They loosened. They unfurled along hairline seams she had missed before, like cocoons splitting in neat lines.

Sound shifted. Soft chitin clicks, crisp as rain on glass. A moth-sheen rustle, like paper fans learning how to breathe. The hush of many small lungs, perfectly timed, not frantic.

Shapes unfolded from his chest and hips and shoulders, each from its anchor state, each neat and precise. They stepped from him as if they had always been standing there, hidden in plain sight. The bandolier looked lighter with every new body, as if relieved to share the load.

Lean Scurabons first—blade-runners with basalt sheen, forearm sickles held low, knees bent in a runner’s crouch. Their carapace caught the amber light and threw it back in thin lines. Even their stillness looked fast.

Silk Guards followed, abdomens with tidy spinneret rows set into smooth plates; dorsal glow-glands pulsed dim and calm, like night lamps in a nursery. Two Crymber Twins padded forward in mirrored steps—one pale as frost, edges etched in silver; one veined with ember light along the joints, faint heat shimmer breathing off the plates. They moved together, not touching, but timed like a heartbeat.

Hypnoveils rose like curtains, frilled mantles rippling, eye-spots winking as if they knew a trick and would only show it when asked. Their colors shifted in soft pulses, never bright, more suggestion than command.

Slimeweave Crew flowed, plates glossy and a little translucent, bellies smooth as wet glass. A faint citrus tang rode the air with them, clean and sour like peel oil on fingers. They clustered near the broken vents without being told, as if smell was a map.

Mothcloak slid last from the band, pinions wide and soft, drinking the light that touched them. The edges of each feather blurred a little, so Thalatha’s eyes kept wanting to re-focus and never quite could.

Behind them came Tanglebeetles, squat, with spool-backs of barbed thread, hooks tucked flat like disciplined claws; Aeriform Striders, high on long shanks, plumes vibrating with a small, constant whisper that made the hairs on her forearm lift.

A Myco-Archivist lifted fan-like dorsal gills and flexed delicate manipulators as though putting on a pair of tiny gloves before surgery. Its antennae sampled the air and then folded, respectful in a place full of bones.

The last shape straightened slowly. Slender, tall by ant standards. High-crested skull. Carapace traced with fine, void-ink lines that formed runic spirals across the thorax and down the arms. It carried a lattice staff of fossil hyphae and bone rings; the rings were dead quiet. The creature held still and made the room a little colder just by standing. Not a threat, but a reminder that some tools cut both ways.

Thalatha’s hand went to her dagger but did not pull it free. She circled once, soldier’s eyes checking weight, stance, reach, the angles of joints. The way the Scurabons placed their feet said they could pivot quick. The way the Silk Guards kept their spinnerets pointed away from allies said they were trained. Wonder crept in under her training, soft but insistent. "These were inside your... jewelry."

Mikhailis spread his hands, palms empty. Dust streaked the gloves; the lines of his fingers shook just a little from the mana crash. "Anchor states, not cages," he said. "They fold to travel. Less strain. Safer in bad air." His gaze went softer when he looked at them—something warm at the bottom of his eyes that had not been there a breath ago. "They’re chimera ant variants. Wondrous children of my queen. She’s my best friend." He cleared his throat, as if embarrassed by the confession in front of a captain. "They’re not specimens. They’re... mine. Big family." He half-smiled at himself. "Bigger than me, anyway."

The closest Silk Guard tilted a spinneret, a tiny gesture that read like a nod. A Scurabon brushed the back of his knuckles with the flat of its sickle, the way a dog would nudge the hand of someone it trusted. Thalatha saw it. She could not unsee it.

They love him, she realized, surprised by the thought. Not mindless obedience. Not programming. Response. Respect.

"Scurabons," he said, pointing, quick and clean, like introducing a squad to a commander. "Cut seams, not heads, unless I give the word. Best on joints and knots." He tapped his own wrist where a hinge would be. A Scurabon’s sickle tilted in acknowledgment; it did not twitch for show.

"Silk Guards. Non-lethal first—bind, blind, then harden." He angled two fingers up; the two nearest leveled their spinnerets toward the ceiling and clicked once. The soft click was neat, polite. Not a hiss.

"Crymber Twins. Cryo then ember, in that order. Thermal shock without cooking friendlies." He spread his hands apart, left palm cool, right palm heat. Frost-pale and ember-veined lifted their hands in the same motion and lowered them again, balanced. The pale one’s breath fogged a finger’s width; the other left the faintest scorch kiss on the dusty tile.

"Hypnoveils. Mirror curtains." He turned his face to Thalatha so she saw his eyes when he said the next part. "We don’t use them on allies without consent." The frills trembled, patterns dim, as if shrugging on an invisible cloak. Thalatha’s shoulders eased at that single word: consent.

"Slimeweave. Acid neutralizers. Do not feed them iron." The glossy crew made soft bubbling motions and stilled. One tilted toward a corroded spike, then stopped itself, almost sheepish.

"Mothcloak. Scout and cloak. Hates loud voices." The soft wings folded; the light around them dipped as if the room had blinked. The edges of the creature blurred more, like a thought you couldn’t catch.

"Tanglebeetles. Trip-lines, snares. Anchors are color-coded—do not mix red and blue unless I say so." Spools rotated once in demonstration; a red thread glinted, then disappeared back under the plate. A blue tag showed and hid. Order inside the armor.

"Aeriform Striders. Read wind. Warn me about pressure shifts. Think weather vanes with legs." Their plumes quivered and gave a whisper hum that sent a ring of dust lifting off the floor and settling again.

"Myco-Archivist. Catalog spores. Very polite. Corrects my Latin." The fan gills puffed a mild breath; a small brush flicked an invisible speck off his cuff, offended. Thalatha almost smiled.

He paused at the last. The high-crested shape inclined the lattice staff the smallest degree, a bow that did not lower the skull, only gave the staff the courtesy.

"Riftborne Necrolord," he said. The name sat heavy. "Necro-interface variant. Research only. Leashed." He touched two fingers to a slim collar of braided silk around its throat. A simple knot, visible on purpose. "Bound by rules and oaths. It helps me speak to bad things without letting bad things speak back." His voice went quiet. "It never trespasses where a will remains."

Thalatha’s jaw worked. The question came out before she could put armor on it. "Are they... people?"