The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Chapter 377: Ashes, Echoes, and Empty Streets

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"Where is everyone?"

Mikhailis swallowed a grimace. "They’re either in hiding or worse," he murmured back. "Not everyone has the luxury of being a traveling prince... or a knight... or a crazy warrior woman like you."

"Or they knew," Lira added softly, her voice cutting through the gloom with quiet certainty. "They knew the collapse was coming. They knew Luthadel was going to tear itself apart."

The statement sank in like a lead weight. Mikhailis exchanged a glance with Rhea, who wore a tight frown. This can’t all be chance, he mused in silent agreement. Uprisings typically required months of planning, a spark to ignite the powder. The catacomb collapse was that spark. But how in the world had the Crownless House predicted it? Was there a leak? Some inside knowledge? The questions whirled in his mind, making him rub absently at his temple.

Just then, a swirl of dust brushed across their path, stinging the backs of their throats. Broken masonry from old buildings littered the ground like pieces of a shattered puzzle. Torn banners dangled from bent poles, their insignias charred or unrecognizable. In one corner, a destroyed fruit stand lay strewn with rotting produce, swarmed by flies. A nightmarish hush blanketed everything, amplifying the echo of each footstep the group took.

Vyrelda kicked another piece of stone aside, scowling. "No way they predicted a damn catacomb collapse, right? That’s... insane. You can’t just guess some ancient underground system is gonna implode."

Her words echoed in the alley like a challenge thrown to the wind. Mikhailis glanced toward Cerys, curious for her perspective. The red-haired knight pressed her lips into a line, her expression as grim as ever. "They didn’t need to predict it," Cerys muttered. "They just needed an opportunity. They saw the cracks forming—maybe discovered hints about instability—and waited. We were down there, meddling with things we didn’t fully understand, and... well... we gave them one."

The bitterness in her tone spoke volumes. She must’ve felt that their actions had inadvertently fed this bigger disaster. Cerys had always been averse to risking innocent lives, and the guilt weighing on her was apparent in the tightness of her shoulders. Mikhailis’s chest clenched. He wanted to reassure her, to say something like We did what we had to do, but it felt hollow even in his thoughts. The truth was, they might’ve lit the fuse on a powder keg nobody realized was so close to exploding.

Cerys kept silent, her icy blue eyes constantly roving the surroundings for threats. It wasn’t until they reached the mouth of another alley—this one choked with rubble but passable along the edges—that she paused. She gazed up at the remains of a sign that had once read "Stonesong Lane," now charred at the edges. Her voice was low, tight. "We might need to split up if things get worse," she said, not bothering to mask the worry in her tone. The idea of dividing their small group clearly didn’t appeal to her, but it might become necessary. If they had to search multiple places for survivors or gather intelligence, time was too precious. Mikhailis gave her a subtle nod, though the prospect of splitting up made dread coil in his gut. The city was on the verge of open warfare.

They advanced further, the stone alley under their feet giving way to ruts and cracks where tree roots had disturbed the pavement. A chipped water fountain stood to one side, cracked in half, its statue missing a head. Mikhailis caught sight of a few rats scuttling over the broken stones in search of scraps. Apart from that, no signs of life.

Somewhere deeper in the city, there was a muffled thud—a distant echo of some explosion or perhaps a building collapsing under prolonged stress. The air carried faint traces of ash, swirling in random eddies that clung to their clothes and hair. It was a bleak backdrop, one that made each breath feel heavier, as if the city’s despair weighed on their lungs.

Stepping around a narrow bend, they found themselves in a short alley strewn with old crates and barrels. Most had been smashed or knocked over, their contents spilled across the ground. The smell of moldy grain mixed unpleasantly with the lingering stench of smoke. Lira knelt briefly to examine one of the footprints left in a puddle of spilled flour—fresh, not more than a few hours old. She frowned, flicking her eyes toward Mikhailis. "They’re close," she whispered, though who "they" might be—Crownless House rebels, survivors, or marauders—she didn’t specify. But the implication was clear.

He nodded, inhaling to speak, but stopped himself. Fear or tension made him second-guess every word. So he pressed his lips together instead. The brand on his arm throbbed, as though scolding him for not rushing headlong into conflict. Shut up, he told it silently. I’m in charge here. He wouldn’t let the mist entity dictate his moves.

Vyrelda’s posture grew even more rigid. Her shoulders were squared, her hand resting on the handle of a short blade that she’d drawn earlier. She moved with a restlessness, like a coiled spring. She’d never been one to handle tension well—she was more about direct action. In normal times, Mikhailis might have teased her about it, but right now, he understood the impulse. Danger lurked around every corner.

They pressed on, ducking through a half-collapsed doorway and skirting along a narrow passage that took them behind what might’ve been a tavern once, judging by the leftover shards of mugs and battered wooden kegs. The reek of stale alcohol and singed wood clung to everything. A sign, half burned, lay discarded in the rubble. Mikhailis could just make out the words "Double Flame Inn" or something along those lines. He couldn’t help a wry thought: A pity, I could’ve used a stiff drink right about now. But the idea of normal leisure felt painfully distant.

Finally, they stepped out onto another deserted street. The sky overhead was a hazy gray, as though the sun itself had lost interest in shining upon Luthadel. Mikhailis felt a surge of despair claw at his insides, but he shoved it down. They had to keep moving. The further they traveled, the more certain he became that the Crownless House wasn’t just some ragtag group of rebels. They were orchestrated. They’d either evacuated these areas in advance or had their people blend in so well that you couldn’t tell friend from foe.

Prince Laethor crossed his mind again. The thought of the guy that invited him here and made him entangled in these troubles being cornered or taken hostage made Mikhailis’s jaw clench. We can’t let him fall into their hands. If we lose the palace, we lose everything.