The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Cerys moved cautiously down the winding staircase, her boots making almost no sound against the uneven stone steps. The deeper she descended, the thicker the air became, damp with an old, musty scent that seemed to cling to her throat in a sticky film. The soft glow of distant torchlight failed to chase away the darkness; it only cast distorted shadows on the walls, making everything feel more eerie than it already was. She tried to breathe slowly and evenly, to keep her heart from pounding too loudly in her chest, but each time she inhaled, the stale air prickled in her nostrils. She'd been in plenty of unsettling places before—ruined fortresses, haunted tombs, the wreckage of her burned village—but something about this descent left a deeper chill in her bones. Maybe it was the sense that at any moment, the entire stairwell could collapse under her feet. Maybe it was the memory of the last time she'd watched rubble fall, smothering people she cared about. She clenched her fists for a moment, then forced them to relax, reminding herself that she wasn't that helpless child anymore.

Behind her, Vyrelda moved with quick, silent steps. The slight scuff of a leather boot on a worn stone was the only sign that she was there at all. Whenever the narrow passage opened wide enough to allow a glance, Cerys caught sight of Vyrelda's face, taut with focus, her lips pressed into a thin, pale line. Daggers glinted in her hands, each blade reflecting a faint gleam from the runes carved into the walls. The runes themselves pulsed softly, an irregular beat that made the corridor feel almost alive. Cerys remembered Mikhailis mentioning something about these glowing symbols, though she hadn't paid close attention at the time, assuming his usual jokes and commentary would overshadow anything truly important. Now she wished she'd listened more carefully.

The further they went, the more she noticed a damp chill sinking into her muscles. The stone steps seemed to be coated in a fine layer of moisture, and with every step, she had to be careful not to slip. Her breath clouded the air in thin wisps each time she exhaled. A faint sound from above—perhaps loose stones shifting—made her freeze for an instant, and she glanced upward, half-expecting to see the stairwell buckle or crack. But the only thing that met her gaze was a ceiling of dark, uneven rock, etched with shallow grooves and more softly glowing runes. She let out a slow sigh, trying not to let her nerves get the better of her.

Vyrelda caught her gaze and gave her a small nod, as if to say, We keep going. There was no need for words. Together, they edged lower, each step feeling more precarious than the last. The echoes they'd been hearing earlier grew a bit louder: soft scuffles, distant footsteps, a muffled scrape of metal. It was impossible to tell how far away or how close the source might be. The swirling darkness made it feel near and far all at once.

A faint creak from above made Cerys tense up again, every muscle coiled in preparation. This time, the stair groaned loudly under her weight, an angry groan as if the structure was warning them to turn back. Another collapse wasn't just possible—it felt like a guarantee if they pushed any further. But she refused to stop. She thought of Mikhailis, of how he'd grin at her and say something flippant about how if the floor fell, they'd find a new way around. He's counting on me, she told herself, ignoring the flicker of unease that twisted in her stomach.

"I've been in worse places," she said under her breath, though she didn't know if Vyrelda heard her. Part of her wondered if that was true or just a lie to keep her feet moving. Her memory offered a cruel reminder: the burning houses of her childhood, the screams, the heavy smell of smoke, the way her body had trembled uncontrollably as she'd tried to hide. That had been worse, yes, but also easier in some ways—she'd been a terrified child who had no choice but to cower. Now, she was a warrior, fully aware of every risk. That awareness sometimes felt heavier than any physical burden.

They followed a sharp turn, and the air shifted. The glow on the walls brightened just enough for her to see Vyrelda's expression more clearly. The other woman wore a mask of concentration, her daggers held loose but poised. Cerys admired her composure, even if she sometimes questioned the depth of Vyrelda's motivations. They were both on the same side, but Cerys knew well how personal grudges could cloud a warrior's judgment.
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A quiet comment from Vyrelda reached her ears: "If the stairs collapse, jump back to the landing. We might not get a second chance." She said it calmly, but her tone quivered ever so slightly. Vyrelda was human, after all, vulnerable to the same fears as anyone else.

Cerys simply nodded. She had no illusions about how dangerous the catacombs were. One wrong step and the centuries-old structure could claim them both. Yet the thought of turning back made her stomach churn with guilt, because Mikhailis—foolish, eccentric, caring Mikhailis—was deeper below, possibly in danger. She had to keep going, no matter the risk.

Their footsteps continued in tense silence. Occasionally, a drip of water echoed somewhere, making it sound as though the walls were leaking. The floor grew more slippery with every step, coated in a slick layer of moss. The smell of mildew mixed with the stale odor of dust, and Cerys tried to keep from scrunching her nose at the unpleasant combination. Her eyes watered a bit from the musty air, but she refused to show any sign of discomfort.

They reached a section where the passage widened slightly, allowing them to move side by side. The runes glowed a bit brighter here, as if something had disturbed the ancient magic. Vyrelda crouched suddenly, pressing her palm to a spot on the wall. Cerys watched her with a raised eyebrow, waiting to see what she'd find.

"These runes were disturbed recently," Vyrelda said, keeping her voice low. "They're still warm. Someone's been here." She straightened, a serious look on her face. "We may not be alone."

Cerys nodded. "It's likely the Technomancers. They had squads moving through these tunnels." She didn't need to add that the idea made her uneasy. Fighting in a cramped, unstable corridor was hardly ideal. One misplaced strike, and the entire place might come down on them.

Further along, part of the passage had caved in. The debris looked too heavy for them to move by hand without risking a bigger collapse. Yet Cerys's attention was drawn to a large, rusted metal door half-buried beneath the fallen rocks. Even at a glance, she could tell it was significant. The door was bigger than most, with intricate engravings that mirrored the runes on the walls. Something told her there was more behind that door than just another dusty chamber.

She turned to Vyrelda, her mind already whirring through possible scenarios. If the door led to a hidden section of the catacombs, it might hold valuable clues—or maybe it would bring them closer to Mikhailis. As much as she wanted to rush forward, she also knew that forcing the door could trigger hidden mechanisms or cause the ceiling to collapse. The tension in her chest grew heavier. Everything about this place is a gamble.

She stepped toward the rubble, testing one of the larger stones with a tentative push. It shifted only slightly, but that slight movement sent a few pebbles skittering across the floor. Her stomach lurched, half expecting a chain reaction that would bring the entire corridor down. But after a moment, the dust settled and nothing else fell.

She glanced back at Vyrelda. "I'll need your help." Her voice was steady, despite the swirl of anxiety in her gut.

Vyrelda nodded, sheathing her daggers. "We have to be careful. If we disturb the wrong piece of debris, we'll be buried alive."

Cerys swallowed and placed her hands on the rough stone. Bits of gravel and ancient mortar dug into her palms, and she winced at the sharp edges. Together, they began to shift the rubble, piece by careful piece, each movement slow and deliberate. Whenever something cracked or groaned, they froze, breath held, waiting to see if the catacombs would punish them for their intrusion.

While they worked, her mind drifted to the last time she'd spoken with Mikhailis. His face had been lit by faint torchlight, that easy grin on his lips as he teased her about being too serious. She remembered how she'd scoffed at him, but there was a warmth in his eyes that had softened her sarcasm. She didn't want to admit how much that memory comforted her now, in this cold, oppressive place. Don't do anything stupid while I'm not there, she thought, as if sending him a mental warning. I'll come find you, you reckless fool.

At last, they cleared enough debris to see more of the door's surface. It was indeed covered in elaborate symbols, bigger and more ornate than any runes she'd seen. Some lines looked like curled vines, others like fierce serpent shapes coiled around a circle. The metal was heavily tarnished, flecks of greenish rust covering patches of old iron. Yet here and there, a faint glow pulsated beneath the corrosion, hinting at dormant power.

"This is bigger than I thought,"