My Wives Are A Divine Hive Mind

Noirette and Blanchette eventually found themselves in a special prison cell of the Resilient Mother bastion.

The room was stark, its walls hewn from reinforced stone etched with faint glowing runes that pulsed like a heartbeat, casting dim blue light across the floor.

The air was cool and stagnant, carrying a faint salty tang from the enchantments woven into the structure.

They were still chained with the same restraints Dorose had inflicted upon them—the cold metal links wrapped around their torsos and arms, the attached holy crosses humming with a subtle energy that suppressed any flicker of power.

It was only that Noirette realized that her fever lingered, a persistent heat that made her skin clammy and her movements sluggish, each breath a labored effort.

She leaned against the wall, trying to steady herself, while Blanchette sat cross-legged on the floor, her posture relaxed as if this were merely an inconvenient pause in their journey.

Before they had been unceremoniously deposited here, Noirette had caught a glimpse of the prison section during the drag through the corridors.

There were around twenty cells, arranged in a deliberate staggered pattern along the hallway, ensuring that no two faced each other directly.

This layout made any form of interaction between prisoners impossible—no whispered conversations, no shared glances of solidarity.

The isolation was palpable, designed to erode resolve through enforced solitude. And even before arriving at the facility, Dorose had cast a spell that clouded their memories of the travel—fragments of hallways lined with armored guards and glowing wards flickered in Noirette's mind, but the path itself was a void, impossible to retrace.

Noirette turned her attention to Blanchette, who seemed unbothered by their predicament. "Have you experienced this kind of dilemma before?"

Blanchette looked up, her wide smile unchanged. "Yes, I have."

Noirette pressed for more details. "What did you do back then?"

Blanchette shrugged as best she could within the chains. "I could only pray and hope that they would eventually be in a state to harm the Malleable Essence again."

Noirette's gaze shifted to the bars of the cell, thick iron rods interwoven with intricate runes and spell formations that shimmered faintly.

The patterns were complex, lines of arcane script twisting into symbols that seemed to absorb ambient energy. "Look at these. The bars are riddled with HP and MP effect negation spell formations, which are meant to nullify any kind of spell or skill that uses Hemo Psyche and Mana Psyche respectively, and only that.

"It means the only thing binding us are these chains and the holy crosses attached to them. If they were gone, we would essentially be free, heh."

Blanchette glanced at the bars briefly but appeared unconcerned. "That is an interesting observation, but without our abilities, we are stuck for now." She adjusted her position slightly, leaning back against the wall as if settling in for a long wait. "We might as well relax."

Noirette sighed, the fever making her head pound with each heartbeat. She slid down to sit beside Blanchette, the cold floor seeping through her clothes.

The waiting game had begun, time stretching endlessly in the dim confines. Minutes blurred into hours, marked only by the occasional distant echo of footsteps or the muffled clang of metal from somewhere in the hall.

Noirette's mind wandered to the chains' properties—the way they suppressed her inner energy, the subtle vibration of the crosses that seemed to counter any attempt to muster will or desire.

She pondered replicating such a restraint in the future, turning it into a tool rather than a hindrance.

It became a quiet side mission, to uncover how these chains were made or brought into existence.

Before long, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the section, steady and purposeful.

An armored maid entered, her figure clad in polished plate that gleamed under the rune light, carrying a tray laden with food.

She moved like a professional, distributing meals to the other cells—sliding bowls through narrow slots at the base of each door without a word or glance inside. Her helmet obscured most of her face, but her movements were precise, almost mechanical.

When she reached Noirette and Blanchette's cell, she paused, her gaze lingering for a moment through the bars. With a subtle gesture of her hand, she used magic to teleport the food inside—the bowls materializing on the floor with a soft thud. "You look afflicted with a curse."

Noirette blinked, realizing the maid referred to her fever-flushed appearance and labored breathing.

In this world, true illness was uncommon; the Well of the Soul often provided sufficient attributes to bolster the immune system, or allowed healing through Hemo Psyche. Without it, her condition must appear as an anomaly, perhaps the work of some malevolent force.

Instead of revealing her true nature as a Shallow One—one without a Well of the Soul, and thus vulnerable to ailments that others in this world could easily shrug off—she decided to weave a tale that might intrigue rather than alarm.

Noirette closed one eye and smirked, though the pain twisted the gesture into something more labored than playful. "You could say that I am cursed by a relic. It makes my body ten times more sensitive, meaning things like pain, sensation, and temperature are ten times more effective on me than they would be on anyone else."

To make it even more believable, Noirette acted out the rigidness of her body to the coldness of the floor.

The maid paused, her armored form shifting slightly as she processed the words. The tray in her hands remained steady, but her voice carried a note of genuine curiosity. "That sounds like a most unfortunate burden. Does this heightened sensitivity extend to other aspects of your perception, such as taste or hearing? Or perhaps even smell and touch in ways that might not be immediately apparent?"

Noirette shook her head slowly, careful not to exacerbate the throbbing in her temples. "Unfortunately, no. It seems selective in its cruelty—mostly amplifying the unpleasant things, like a fever that refuses to break or the chill of these chains against my skin. The maker of the relic has a twisted sense of humor, I suppose."

The maid's faint smile grew a fraction wider, a brief crack in her otherwise professional demeanor that suggested she found the explanation both intriguing and perhaps a touch sympathetic. "A relic with such specificity is rare indeed. I have encountered many artifacts, but one that targets sensitivity in this manner is new to me.

"If it only heightens the negative sensations, that must make everyday existence quite challenging. How did you come to be afflicted by it? Was it an accident during an exploration, or perhaps a deliberate trap set by an enemy?"

Noirette leaned back against the cell wall, her chains clinking softly with the movement, and offered a wry chuckle despite the discomfort. "It was more of an unfortunate inheritance, you might say. I stumbled upon the relic in a forgotten ruin, thinking it might grant some boon.

"Instead, it bound itself to me before I could fully understand its nature. Now, every scrape feels like a deep wound, and this fever burns like fire in my veins. But I manage~"

The maid nodded thoughtfully, her eyes lingering on Noirette's flushed face for a moment longer. "Adaptability is indeed a valuable trait, especially for those who find themselves in places like this. I wish I could offer some remedy, but my role is limited to providing sustenance.

"Still, if you ever have the chance to speak more freely, I would be interested to hear the full tale of that relic. Such stories often hold lessons for us all." She straightened, her professional mask slipping back into place. "For now, I must continue my rounds. Eat what you can—it will help restore your strength."

She closed her eyes for a moment, then continued her rounds with the same precision, distributing the remaining meals before turning to leave the section.

"Thank you for the food," Noirette called after her.

Blanchette chuckled once the maid's footsteps faded. "You already have three wives at home."

Noirette shot her a sidelong glance, smirking. "You have no right to still tease me about that."

They turned their attention to the food—simple portions of bread, stew, and fruits that looked surprisingly fresh for prison fare.

Noirette picked up a bowl, eyeing the contents warily. "Is it safe?"

Blanchette smiled. "I do not know how to find out, since we are still chained and all of our abilities are shut down."

Blanchette then teased further. "I would eat all of the food just to make sure, after all."

Noirette deemed that unfair, and the two locked eyes with matching smiles, a silent standoff brewing over the meal.

Tension hung in the air, the potential for a playful food fight simmering, but before it could erupt, a familiar voice cut through the cell.

It was Dorose, her mature tone laced with amusement as she entered the section. "It is time for your sins to be judged, dearies~"

The cell door swung open with a creak, and Dorose stepped inside, her blond bob cut framing a smile that held no warmth.

She grabbed the chains without preamble, dragging them out like burdensome luggage.

The journey blurred once more—another spell clouding their memories of the path, leaving only vague impressions of grand halls with towering ceilings and ornate doors.

Consciousness sharpened only upon arrival in a massive grand hall, its walls adorned with intricate tapestries depicting arcane battles and glowing orbs that floated like captive stars.

Menacingly gargantuan guards in elaborate armor flanked the entrance, their eyes watchful.

It was a brand new sight and brand new world, possibly somewhere at the center of the Resilient Mother bastion.

"I like how faithful we are at mimicking 'dragged sandbags'," Noirette said with a deadpan.

"It is definitely one of my favorites," Blanchette answered with sarcasm.