The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"Lead on, Miss Lira," she said in clipped tones, scanning for threats. "And everyone, keep your eyes open. The next quake might be the last straw."

Vyrelda jerked her head in agreement, stepping around a chunk of rock that fell with a dull thud. "Your Highness," she said, not kindly but with intense focus, "don't push yourself more than you have to. If you collapse on us, we're done for."

Mikhailis mustered a tired laugh. "Is that your version of sweet encouragement, Lady Vyrelda?"

"Shut up and climb," she snapped, though there was a faint spark of concern in her eyes, overshadowed by her usual brazen tone.

They pressed on, scrambling over broken slabs and fragments of old statues. The sound of shifting stone echoed louder, as if the catacombs were letting out a final death rattle. Mikhailis had to half-carry Rhea up the ramp, sweat trickling down his temple. He stifled a cough, swallowing dirt-tasting saliva. In his mind, the brand pulsed like a second heartbeat. He wondered if the entity inside him was aware of their plight, if it cared whether they lived or died.

He forced that thought aside. Survival first. Debates with ancient entities second.

Rhea gave a shaky gasp as she stumbled, putting more weight on her injured leg. He caught her, pulling her upright. Their eyes met, and she offered a thin, grateful nod. "Thank you, Your Highness," she managed, breath ragged. Despite everything, she retained that respectful address, as if it anchored her in the midst of chaos.

They continued upward. Through the swirl of dust and gloom, Mikhailis spotted a faint glow—torchlight, or maybe the last shred of sun from a crumbling gap above. Each quake threatened to snuff that light out, but they kept climbing, step by agonizing step. Lira's calm directions guided them around precarious piles of debris, and Cerys used her sword to clear smaller blocks that wedged in their path, while Vyrelda occasionally barked at them to move faster.

The corridor's end finally came into view: a ragged opening in the wall, half-choked with rubble but still passable. Cool air from beyond kissed Mikhailis's face, carrying hints of fresh dust from whatever was happening in Luthadel above. The city… what state was it in now? The catacombs' meltdown must have caused tremors on the surface. Elowen… he thought, a stab of worry hitting him. Please be all right.

He bit his lip. She's strong, he reminded himself. And she's got Serelith at her side. If anyone can hold the palace together, it's those two. A wry sense of guilt twisted in his gut at the thought that he might have triggered a citywide calamity, yet again. He'd have to answer for that soon.

The group squeezed through the opening, stumbling into a half-collapsed hallway that looked more man-made than the ancient catacomb architecture. Stones from the city's foundation had caved in here, forming a precarious slope that led upward. It was far from stable. Each footstep dislodged pebbles and dust, but it was better than being sealed forever.

Behind them, the corridor gave a deep groan, and a fresh wave of debris crashed onto the spot where they'd stood seconds before. For a moment, Mikhailis was sure they wouldn't outrun the collapse. But Lira let out a startled breath and scrambled forward, beckoning the others to hurry.

With grit and determination, they reached the top of the slope. Gasping for breath, Mikhailis helped Rhea onto more level ground. She steadied herself against a cracked pillar, exhaling in shaky relief. Cerys paused to make sure no one was left behind, while Vyrelda peered around, eyes narrowed in frustration or maybe regret. The catacombs below let out one final, thunderous crash, sealing their path for good. They'd made it out, though not unscathed.

They found themselves in a wide, battered corridor that connected to the lower city's undercrofts. The air here was fresher but still hazy with drifting dust. As they caught their breath, faint echoes from above reached them—shouts, the distant clash of metal, and a rumbling that suggested the city above was in turmoil.

Mikhailis slid his arm away from Rhea's waist, wincing at his own sore muscles. "Well… we survived, right?" he murmured, forcing a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. He was about to add a joke about awarding medals, but the expression on everyone's faces stopped him. The catacombs had nearly been their grave, and the tension still lingered in their postures.

Rhea lowered her gaze, trying to mask the pain in her leg. "Yes, Your Highness. Thank you." A flash of gratitude lit her eyes before it vanished behind her usual guarded expression. But he caught it. It gave him a small measure of comfort that he'd done something right, at least for now.

Lira stepped closer, hands folded neatly in front of her, though the gesture was marred by the dirt caking her elegant fingers. "We should find a safe route to the surface, Your Highness. The city… it sounds like everything is in disarray."

Cerys, stoic as ever, wiped sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. "No rest yet," she muttered. "Even if we got out of the catacombs, there's chaos up there. And if that… entity is truly sealed away, how long do we have before someone tries to unleash it again?"

Vyrelda's glare was directed at Mikhailis, though her voice stayed level. "That's a question for another time. Right now, we have to get out of these tunnels before they collapse, too. Please lead on, Your Highness."

He exhaled, muscles shaking from exertion. The brand on his forearm gave a final, uneasy throb, as if reminding him that he wasn't quite free from his confrontation with the mist. But he forced a nod. "Yes… let's get out. I've had enough near-death experiences for one day."

So they pressed onward, clinging to the flickering torchlight from a battered lantern Lira found. Each hallway they traversed revealed more cracks in the city's foundation, and more signs that the cataclysm below had shaken Luthadel to its core. Water dripped from ruptured pipes, forming shallow puddles across mosaic floors once polished by city workers. And always, the rumble of distant conflict echoed from the streets above.

At last, after what felt like an eternity of stumbling and climbing, they found a battered stairwell leading upward. Daylight—albeit choked with dust—streamed through the broken arch at the top. Mikhailis shielded his eyes against the sudden brightness. His heart clenched, half-expecting to see everything in ruins. Could the city truly be in total chaos?

They emerged into a deserted courtyard, once a bustling corner of an old district near the city's edge. Now it lay eerily quiet, marred by fresh cracks in the cobblestones, splintered crates scattered around, and the tang of fear in the air. Black smoke curled in the distance, marking fires or destruction. The distant clamor of shouting and metal striking metal echoed, a testament to some urgent fight or riot.

So the catacombs' meltdown was not the only disaster. Something else brewed in Luthadel, something that made the city thrash like a wounded beast. Mikhailis felt a stab of guilt, hoping he hadn't given the city's enemies an opportunity to strike.
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He turned to the others. Rhea tried to stand tall, ignoring the tremble in her leg. Lira surveyed the courtyard, her ponytail swishing behind her shoulders, an almost regal calm in her posture. Cerys rested a hand on the hilt of her sword, eyes narrowed, scanning for threats. And Vyrelda let out a dark chuckle. "Look at that. Another lovely day in Luthadel," she said, voice dripping sarcasm.

Mikhailis attempted a rueful grin but couldn't muster the energy. Just what's going on up here? The creeping sense of dread coiled in his chest once more. And what about Elowen?

Before any of them could speak, the faint echo of distant blasts reached their ears—a sign of battles or sabotage. They exchanged glances, unspoken fears dancing among them. Their entire ordeal in the catacombs had taken longer than expected. Who knew how the city might have shifted in power while they fought for their lives underground?

Taking a steadying breath, Mikhailis forced a spark of humor onto his face, if only to keep morale from plunging further. "Well, at least we're out," he said quietly. "We can figure out the rest. We always do."

Rhea nodded slowly, a flicker of respect in her eyes. "Yes… Your Highness. Let us keep moving." She tried to push down her limp, stepping forward despite the clear pain in her features.

Cerys and Lira followed, scanning the fractured streets for signs of immediate threat. Vyrelda lingered for a moment, kicking a bit of rubble in frustration. She cast Mikhailis a heated look as if she had more to say—some argument about half-finished battles and an unsettled fight with the mist. But eventually, she just shook her head, her boldness tempered by fatigue. "Guess we survived one crisis. Might as well see what new one awaits."

Mikhailis glanced back at the yawning entrance to the tunnels, the last vestiges of dust drifting out like a ghostly breath from the earth's wound. Above them, the city was in chaos.