NOVEL NEXT Chapter 400: The Wife's Strength (End)
"You were never a rightful prince." Her voice was quiet, almost gentle, yet filled with a crushing weight of judgment, each word delivered clearly and coldly. "You are nothing more than a mad dog that should have been put down long ago."
Her calm declaration cut through the air, each syllable hitting harder than any scream or shout. Auron recoiled as though physically struck, the truth piercing his inflated ego deeper than any blade could. He opened his mouth to protest further, but before he could form another word, his body jerked violently as though seized by an unseen force. The hidden Technomancer mist buried inside him reacted with fury, unleashed in a wild, uncontrolled eruption. Tendrils of shadowy mist clawed and twisted, pouring from his chest in writhing streams, desperate and enraged.
Mikhailis recognized it immediately—the same twisted magic he'd felt before, uncontrollable and savage. It lashed outward like a desperate animal fighting capture, but Elowen merely watched it impassively, unmoving even as chaotic tendrils of mist clawed inches from her face.
Auron screamed, a raw sound that echoed sharply through the ruins, mixing rage, agony, and fear. Mikhailis winced instinctively, understanding that this agony went far beyond physical pain—it was the collapse of every careful illusion Auron had built, every desperate bid for power crumbling into dust.
Elowen released a weary sigh, an exhale that spoke of disappointment so profound it surpassed anger. "You really are an idiotic prince from beginning to end." Her voice softened slightly, carrying a faint note of pity. Then she lifted her hand once more, fingers elegantly poised like a painter hovering above a canvas. "And you thought I didn't know?"
The ground beneath their feet shuddered suddenly, violently. The entire chamber quaked as if the earth itself had awoken at her summons, answering her silent command. Thick, gnarled roots, dark and heavy, burst through the shattered stone flooring, winding upwards like enormous serpents. They wrapped around Auron's body relentlessly, dragging him down onto his knees. He struggled uselessly, thrashing in vain against the vice-like grip of nature itself. His screams shifted to terrified shrieks, desperate pleas mixed incoherently with curses and threats.
Branches erupted from shattered walls, splintered wood morphing into living bindings that twisted through the air. They curled around Auron's limbs, his chest, even his throat, tightening just enough to silence his furious screams into strangled gasps. The chamber itself seemed alive, responding to Elowen's silent command—nature bending wholly and unquestionably to the will of its queen.
Golden runes danced and sparked, joining the violent swirl of roots and branches, forming an intricate cage of living earth and ancient magic. It bound Auron completely, suspending him helplessly in the air, silenced and immobilized. His eyes were wide with panic, rage fading swiftly to despair, the crushing realization of his utter defeat sinking in visibly.
Finally, his muffled, furious sounds faded beneath the tightening embrace of Elowen's power. Silence returned, thick and heavy. Mikhailis stared at the fallen prince, knowing there would be no escape this time, no more sly manipulations or carefully crafted lies. Auron was done—finished by his own foolish ambition and Elowen's calm, inescapable judgment.
The Enforcer, still kneeling, observed the entire spectacle in utter silence. He showed no emotion—no fear, no anger, only calm resignation etched into his sharp features. Then, slowly, he lifted his head, meeting Mikhailis's gaze directly, an unspoken respect lingering briefly in his eyes.
"My contract is finished," the assassin murmured, his voice strangely serene despite the terrible wounds he bore. "Grant me a warrior's death."
Mikhailis straightened despite the pain, raising his blade slowly. His arm trembled, exhaustion threatening to send him crashing to the floor at any second, but his resolve was unbroken. He would grant this last request—not from pity, but from understanding. A warrior's death was a final dignity, and despite everything, he recognized this enemy's strength and honor.
Yet just as he moved forward, blade poised to strike, the Enforcer suddenly closed his eyes. A moment of stillness lingered, and then his entire body shuddered violently.
A burst of unnatural, violet flames erupted from within him, roaring to life in a ferocious blaze. Rodion's urgent voice echoed in Mikhailis's ears, cutting through his shocked paralysis:
<Technomancer kill-switch activated. They never let their weapons fall into enemy hands.>
Of course, Mikhailis knew that. He'd been expecting it—dreading it. But that knowledge did nothing to quell the surge of frustration rising inside him. It was maddening. Another obstacle, another hidden trap in this endless, exhausting battle. He snarled through gritted teeth, his voice tight with irritation and urgency:
"Rodion. Now."
Mikhailis's voice cracked through the tension with a raw urgency, each word a sharp edge slicing the suffocating silence. Time seemed to slow, stretching painfully as his heart thundered against his ribcage, anticipation and dread coiling tightly in his chest. The violet flames consuming the Enforcer's body flared violently, rising in a desperate, furious dance. It was Technomancer magic, unyielding and ruthless, designed to obliterate every trace of their fallen weapon. If they succeeded, all evidence would vanish, every lead, every thread of information Mikhailis desperately needed, lost forever.
But in that heartbeat between desperation and defeat, something stirred—the Crymber Ant, attuned intimately to Mikhailis's frantic emotions and command, surged forward without hesitation. An icy wind whipped across the chamber, sudden and biting, blasting forth from the creature's gauntlet-form enveloping Mikhailis's arm. Ice blossomed across the roaring flames, spreading in an intricate, crystalline web, beautiful yet merciless. The violet blaze flickered weakly, sputtering defiantly before it succumbed to the relentless cold, freezing in place, suspended in a surreal tableau of deadly beauty.
In that instant, Mikhailis exhaled sharply, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The tension drained from him, replaced briefly by relief. A faint smile tugged at his lips, weak and triumphant.
"It won't be that easy," he breathed, words soft yet laced with satisfaction and defiance.
Yet even as relief washed momentarily through him, exhaustion followed swiftly, overwhelming and crushing. His pulse hammered erratically, each beat resonating painfully through the searing brand in his chest. He wavered unsteadily, vision blurring, legs shaking beneath him as if suddenly stripped of all strength. His body, abused and pushed far beyond its limits, finally began to rebel, protesting fiercely against his stubborn determination to remain standing.
The world tilted alarmingly beneath his feet, shadows and light smearing into an indistinct haze. He felt himself tipping forward, helpless against gravity's merciless pull—until warm, firm arms encircled him securely, halting his fall.
"Idiot," Elowen murmured, her voice a low, steady whisper tinged with exasperation, softened subtly by an underlying tenderness she couldn't entirely hide. Her grip tightened carefully, steadying his trembling frame, pulling him gently upright. Her warmth radiated comfortingly through the icy haze gripping him, grounding him despite the pain. "How reckless can you be?"
Mikhailis chuckled weakly, the sound fractured by sharp twinges of agony. Yet even now, battered and barely conscious, his voice retained its irrepressible humor, defiant and playful despite everything.
"Reckless?" he whispered hoarsely, a faint smirk curving his lips. "That's just how I keep things interesting."
Elowen shook her head slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Her golden eyes, usually so composed, flickered with quiet worry—a fleeting yet unmistakable hint that cracked the careful mask she habitually wore. Her gaze searched his face carefully, silently assessing every line of pain etched across his pale features. But beneath that concern lingered an unmistakable note of admiration—reluctant, perhaps, yet undeniably there.
Around them, Rodion's silent commands had already been issued, communicated instantly through unseen digital channels. Without hesitation, Chimera Ants surged forward, their movements precise and coordinated, operating seamlessly as extensions of Mikhailis's will. Their insectoid forms darted gracefully across the rubble-strewn battlefield, efficiently securing every corner of the ruined chamber, methodically ensuring no survivor remained unnoticed. Any lingering Technomancer troopers who still clung desperately to consciousness swiftly abandoned their resistance, terrified and leaderless. They dropped their weapons, kneeling submissively as they faced the reality of their absolute defeat.
Mikhailis observed this with distant satisfaction, even through the dizzying haze gripping him. The ants moved like clockwork—efficient, ruthless, yet strangely elegant in their predatory grace. They swiftly began to consume fallen bodies, integrating the valuable Technomancer materials scattered amidst the debris. With each morsel, the ants visibly evolved, their chitinous shells hardening subtly, limbs shifting slightly, growing more formidable, more versatile, enhanced by the absorbed genetic data and mechanical components. It was simultaneously disturbing and fascinating to behold, a testament to the ruthless beauty inherent in nature's endless adaptability.
The Riftborne Necrolord variant moved silently in the background, its shadowy form weaving effortlessly between broken pillars and cracked marble. It conjured thick, swirling barriers of pure darkness, sealing every breach, obscuring every line of sight. The chamber was swiftly isolated, hidden completely from external perception, concealed beneath layers of impenetrable shadow. Its task completed, the Necrolord melted silently back into darkness, its presence lingering as a reassuring yet haunting sentinel guarding their fragile moment of respite.
Elowen watched this spectacle unfold with quiet fascination, her expression carefully unreadable. Only the slight lift of her eyebrows betrayed curiosity or perhaps mild surprise at the meticulous efficiency displayed. After a moment, she glanced down toward Mikhailis, still cradled protectively in her arms, a wry smile curving gently at the edges of her lips.
"So these are your little variant friends," she remarked softly, voice filled with subtle amusement and grudging respect. "They seem even more useful than the ones you left back home."
Mikhailis smiled faintly, pride flickering warmly within his chest despite the lingering pain and exhaustion clouding his senses. His voice, though strained and weary, carried an unmistakable note of satisfaction and humor. "I trained them well."
Elowen's responding sigh was gentle yet tinged unmistakably with fond exasperation. Her gaze softened slightly, golden eyes shimmering briefly with affection before regaining their usual regal composure. She glanced briefly at the scene once more, ensuring everything remained under control. Only when she was thoroughly satisfied did her eyes drift back toward him, expression shifting subtly from queenly command to something far gentler—warmth hidden carefully behind her usual composed exterior.
"Now rest, my dear husband," she murmured quietly, a gentle command wrapped within layers of quiet tenderness.
He wanted to resist—to protest, to remind her of the dangers still looming on the horizon, the countless loose ends still fraying dangerously around them. Yet even as the thought flickered stubbornly in his mind, exhaustion overcame him utterly, washing over him like a relentless tide. The brand's throbbing pain began to fade, swallowed by overwhelming darkness that beckoned comfortingly.
Slowly, helplessly, his consciousness began slipping, the edges of his vision fading gradually into a comforting oblivion. Elowen's steady warmth held him securely, her presence a reassuring anchor amidst the swirling shadows that gently claimed him.
He surrendered gratefully, allowing the darkness to envelop him fully, finally offering him rest after endless torment. The last thing he was aware of—the final sensation etched vividly into his fading consciousness—was the reassuring strength of Elowen's embrace, protective and steadfast.
With that final thought lingering softly, darkness finally claimed him.