The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Chapter 363 The Sanctum's Silent Watchers

Rhea looked around warily, her blade still raised. But when no second guardian appeared, she lowered the weapon, relief tinged with residual wariness in her eyes. Lira brushed a coating of dust off her sleeve, never losing that poised air about her. "We should expect worse the deeper we go," she said, her voice even, but Mikhailis didn't miss the hint of tension at the corners of her mouth.

"She's right," he murmured, taking a moment to steady his breathing. The illusions, the guardian, the constant sense of invisible eyes watching them—he wondered how much farther they could push their luck before something lethal found them unprepared.

They entered the sanctum beyond that doorway and found a chamber lined with ancient inscriptions. Strange symbols crawled across the walls, weaving patterns that seemed at once beautiful and eerie. The runic key glowed in Mikhailis's grasp, as if resonating with the lines etched into the stone. With careful steps, they approached the center of the room, where an altar stood.

On that altar lay a fragment of the Mist Sovereign's essence. It looked almost like a small crystal, shimmering with swirling colors that moved beneath the surface like liquid light. The air around it felt charged, and Mikhailis felt a strange pull in his chest, as though his heart was beating in sync with the fragment. He took a shaky step forward, mesmerized by the raw power emanating from such a small object.

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly. A faint humming noise rose in his ears, blocking out Rhea's warning call, blocking out the pounding of his own heart. All he could see was that fragment—a piece of the ancient force they'd been struggling to contain. Part of him whispered that it might be the answer they needed, a weapon or a shield. Another part urged caution, screaming that power like this could tear him apart from the inside if he wasn't careful.

Then the catacombs quaked.

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Meanwhile, Cerys and Vyrelda moved through the Technomancer tunnels, their steps silent, weapons at the ready. The air here was cooler than the rest of the catacombs, almost clammy, like a hidden underground draft wound its way through the corridors. Now and then, a soft drip of water would echo from unseen cracks in the ceiling, but otherwise the place felt dead—no illusions lurked at the edges, no half-seen shapes flickering in the walls. If there were specters here, they seemed subdued by the sharp hum of arcane energy that pulsed somewhere ahead.

The corridor they followed branched left and right, but neither path looked welcoming. Broken pillars, half-collapsed stone arches, and debris from older collapses made progress difficult. Yet they pressed on, guided by a faint crackling that sounded like captured lightning. It was the same unnatural sound they'd heard when Mikhailis first described the Technomancers' device. The runes that glowed softly on these walls suggested the presence of advanced arcane machinery, or perhaps wards set to protect something valuable.

Cerys moved carefully, one hand resting on the hilt of her sword while the other brushed against damp stone for balance. She wore her stoicism like a protective shield, her ponytail swishing lightly whenever she glanced over her shoulder. Ever since splitting off from Mikhailis, she'd felt a subtle dread gnawing at her—some leftover anxiety from the illusions she'd seen in the mirror corridor, or maybe just the knowledge that if anything went wrong now, she and Vyrelda had no backup. But she forced those thoughts aside. She had survived worse. She was The Lone Wolf, after all, shaped by a life of loss and endless training.

Vyrelda walked a step behind her, but anyone would guess she was just as ready to fight. She carried herself like a predator that smelled blood. Her expression was oddly satisfied, as if she relished the idea of confrontation. Although she teased Mikhailis for his recklessness, in truth, Vyrelda also thrived on risk. It was plain in her eyes whenever talk turned to challenging foes. There was that subtle glint, an eagerness for battle that came from an old hatred for the Technomancers and what they stood for.

A metal door, tarnished and half-corroded, appeared on their left. Faint runes lined its edge. Cerys paused, pressing a hand to the rough metal. She felt a dull vibration that matched the distant crackling noise, almost like a heartbeat. She tested the handle, which grated in protest as she pulled. The hinges gave with an ugly squeal, and stale air rushed past them.

Inside was a wide chamber strewn with scraps of parchment, broken quills, shards of glass tubes, and the faint odor of burnt ozone. Cerys took a cautious step forward, scanning the corners for any hidden Technomancers waiting in ambush. Vyrelda slipped in behind her, silent as a hunting cat. The oppressive hush weighed on them both.

At the far end stood the device, looming ominously. It was a jumble of twisted metal and arcane components, runes etched haphazardly across the surface as though someone had tried to replicate the catacomb inscriptions but lacked the skill. Coils of wire ran along its base, and every so often, a spark of violet lightning arced between them. Even from this distance, Cerys sensed the magical energy bleeding off it. Her skin prickled uncomfortably, as if a mild static charge crawled over her arms.@@@@

The device looked incomplete. Parts lay scattered around it—disassembled plates, half-finished rune stones, and a cluster of shimmering crystals. Whoever had built it must have left in a hurry, or perhaps they were returning soon with more materials. The notion made Cerys's gut twist. She stepped closer, sword at the ready.

The Technomancer must have read her indecision, because he tilted his head with a smug look. "Choosing flight, are we?" He flicked his fingers, and a swirl of arcane energy flared at his side. "In that case, I suppose we can accelerate the process. Luthadel will see who truly wields this power."

"Shut up," Vyrelda spat, lunging forward with a dagger thrust. He dodged with surprising grace, stepping behind a piece of machinery that spat a burst of sparks into the air. The acrid smell of burning metal assaulted Cerys's nose, making her cough.

She moved to flank him, sword raised, but the chamber trembled more violently now, shifting the ground under her feet. Stones ground against each other in the ceiling, each shift sending a pang of fear through her gut. She had seen too many villages and keeps crumble after bandit raids or sieges to doubt the lethal potential of failing architecture. This was worse, though—some primal, ancient magic underlined every quake, as if the catacombs themselves groaned in protest at being disturbed.

The Technomancer circled the device, eyes never leaving them. "If I unleash this power," he said with a quiet intensity, "Luthadel's future might be grim... or it might be reborn." His voice held a note of conviction that made Cerys's blood boil. How many times had she heard fanatics claim they were saving the world?

She tightened her grip, her knuckles turning white. "You're going to kill everyone."

He shook his head, a sad, mocking smile playing on his lips. "You have no faith. But it doesn't matter now."

A hairline crack raced across the chamber floor, and a chunk of the ceiling crashed down a few paces from them, scattering rock fragments and dust. Cerys instinctively shielded her face with her arm. She heard Vyrelda's furious hiss as she backed away from the falling debris. The device sparked in response, arcs of violet lightning dancing across its runes with renewed vigor. It reminded Cerys of a cornered beast, feeding off the panic in the air.

"We don't have time for this," she repeated, her voice taut. The corridor behind them—the path they'd used to get here—might already be partially blocked by debris. They had pinned everything on stopping this device or at least learning enough to sabotage it effectively.

Vyrelda's frustration burned in her eyes, but she didn't hesitate. "Let's do it," she growled, glancing at Cerys. "We either destroy it now, or we never do."

The Technomancer gave a low, humorless laugh. "You truly think you can just wreck centuries of knowledge in a single swing?" His voice dripped with condescension. "Go on, then. If you can survive the backlash, be my guest."

Cerys could almost taste the tension in the air. Her mind raced through possibilities—if they struck the device at its core, it might explode, or maybe it would short-circuit. But the collateral damage could be massive. These catacombs were unstable, and a shockwave might bring the entire structure crashing down.

Better a collapse than letting them finish, she thought grimly, though she hated the idea of risking an unknown blast. But time was running short. She recalled Mikhailis's anxious face before they split up, how he'd half-joked about them staying alive.

We can't give up now.

Another quake shook the chamber, nearly knocking them off balance. More rubble clattered from the ceiling. Something was definitely waking—perhaps the Mistborn Entity's aura stirring, or the device itself beginning to siphon raw power.

Cerys cursed. The choice was clear—fight or retreat. And with the catacombs shaking, the decision had to be made fast.