The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Chapter 332 The Mist Tracks Your Movements

The Crownless House isn't the only faction watching. Explore more at My Virtual Library Empire

He stifled a curse. Another faction? This city is going to implode under the weight of so many secrets. He glanced over at Vyrelda. She caught the shift in his posture but said nothing. Her expression said it all: We're in deeper than we thought.

A short while later, the caravan slowed as they reached the outskirts of a major checkpoint. The glint of polished metal armor and the telltale hum of scanning devices told them exactly who controlled it—Technomancer enforcers, accompanied by those eerie mist-hunting sentinels. The wagons ahead were being stopped, goods inspected, travelers questioned. Mikhailis cursed softly.

"Time to go," he whispered.

Vyrelda nodded sharply. They slipped off the wagon just as it queued for inspection, disappearing into the crowd of weary pedestrians. The mist swirled around them, offering some cover as they darted into a narrow side alley, the stench of decay thick in the cramped space. Distantly, the mechanical whir of scanning beams drifted over the rooftops, a reminder they were being systematically hunted.

They pressed on, searching for any inconspicuous route. Every so often, they heard the clank of armored boots or the hiss of mechanical appendages, forcing them to find new hiding spots—a recessed doorway, a crumbling arch, a pile of abandoned crates. Mikhailis's heart hammered each time, but so far, fortune hadn't abandoned them.

Eventually, they reached a small courtyard overshadowed by tall, decrepit buildings. Their windows were boarded, and the only sign of life was a ragged cat slinking across the broken cobblestone. There, on the far side, stood a dimly lit shop with a rusted sign shaped like an alembic—an alchemist's symbol. The door stood partially ajar, faint light and a pungent herbal smell seeping into the courtyard.

They exchanged glances.

"This way," Mikhailis murmured.

Inside, an old man with stooped shoulders and ink-stained hands hunched behind a worn counter. The room was cramped, its shelves crowded with jars and bottles that held suspiciously colored liquids. The acrid mix of chemicals stung Mikhailis's nose. The alchemist barely glanced up at their entrance, but Mikhailis saw the flicker of wariness in his eyes.

"Travelers?" the man croaked, pushing his spectacles higher on his nose.

Mikhailis offered a quick nod. "Just need to step out of the mist for a moment. If you don't mind." He tossed a coin onto the counter, the metallic clink echoing in the silence.

The alchemist snorted. "Hmph. As long as you don't bring trouble through my door."

Vyrelda exhaled slowly, tension radiating from her stance. "Trouble's already in the streets, old man."@@@@

He didn't respond, only cast a disapproving frown. Mikhailis led the way behind a tall shelf filled with jars of pickled reptiles and dried herbs that reeked of some pungent root. They crouched low, letting the darkness and the clutter hide them from any prying eyes peering through the front window.

Outside, the hiss of sentinel scanners echoed, accompanied by the thud of enforcer boots. Mikhailis ground his teeth, willing them to move on. If they'd traced him here, the entire block might be searched within minutes.

Rodion's presence throbbed in the back of his mind:

Now there's a comforting statistic.

Rodion's voice, calm yet insistent, broke his reverie:

He straightened. Another override. Another piece of the puzzle. He relayed the news to the others, who collectively braced themselves for a fight. Lira, Cerys, and Rhea joined him and Vyrelda in prepping gear. Tension hung in the air, a silent testament to the city's unraveling state.

Moments later, they slipped out into the mist once more, weaving toward the specified estate. An eerie quiet dominated the streets. The estate loomed in the distance, gates ajar, manicured lawns gone wild, and the air crackling with arcane residue.

Discarded swords, charred scorch marks, and half-formed teleportation runes stained the cobblestones. Mikhailis picked up a broken staff, eyes narrowing at the faint magical hum. "Something happened here recently," he murmured, dropping the staff.

A voice like cold wind:

"You are a variable we did not anticipate."

Everyone snapped into a defensive stance. A masked figure, robes as dark as the mist, stood amid the rubble. Without further warning, they lifted a hand. The swirling fog congealed into constructs—whipping tendrils of vapor that looked almost alive.

Vyrelda attacked first, sword slicing through a tendril. The mist parted and re-formed instantly, leaving her blade striking empty air. She ground her teeth, frustration brewing. "They're absorbing the attacks!"

Mikhailis tested a small spell—just a flicker of arcane energy—but the constructs drank it in, growing thicker. "Fantastic," he muttered. "They feed on magical output."

The masked figure raised their gaze, voice emotionless. "This city's past does not belong to you. Leave."

At that, the constructs lunged. The group attempted to hold their ground, but their strikes, spells, everything only made the creatures stronger. Mikhailis's heart hammered as a swirling mass of fog nearly enveloped him, forcing him back.

In a matter of heartbeats, it became clear they couldn't win. They needed to retreat. Lira signaled the fallback with a sharp gesture, and they fought a desperate, brief skirmish to clear an opening. The masked figure let them go, as though the real point was to test their mettle.

As they fled, the last words drifted behind them, carried by the thickening haze:

"This city's past does not belong to you."

The group ran until they found relative safety in a neighboring courtyard, panting from exertion, hearts racing. Mikhailis glanced back, catching only a glimpse of the estate's silhouette in the gloom. Who is that masked figure?

He had no time to process further. He felt a prickling on the back of his neck. On the rooftops overhead, a dark shape lingered for a split second—a cloak embroidered with a golden symbol. Then it vanished, leaving only a faint whisper that barely reached his ears:

"He's almost ready."

And the night, thick with swirling gray, devoured everything else.