The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Chapter 372 A Whispering Curse

The Mist Fragment pulsed in Mikhailis's palm like a living heartbeat, tendrils of mist curling around his fingers with a strange, expectant hunger. It wasn't just a trinket anymore. It was something more—something aware. And that awareness clung to him, brushing against the surface of his mind, almost as if testing for weak points. A swirl of voices ghosted around him, disjointed and desperate, like echoes of countless souls lost to the same power he now held.

Take it... use it... wield the mist as your own...

Their pleas rose and fell, not exactly words but an urgent whisper, flooding the chamber and sending chills up his spine. He could sense these were the remnants of those who tried to harness this force and failed, leaving behind only a faint imprint of their hopes and regrets. The Fragment warmed beneath his touch, humming beneath his skin, so very tempting. It was like an intoxicating promise of unrestrained power, surging and crackling at the edges of his consciousness, inviting him to submit. Or to control it.

Mikhailis swallowed hard, the back of his throat gritty from the swirling dust that still hung in the air. He was eccentric, sure—maybe even reckless by some standards. But he knew better than to rush blindly into what was being offered. Power never came free. There was always a debt to be paid. The subtle shift in the Fragment's glow felt like the catacombs themselves were breathing around him, as though the entire chamber had become a great lung, inhaling and exhaling the essence of ages long forgotten.

Then the mist surged without warning. It sensed his hesitation, sensed his refusal to yield. In an instant, it struck with ferocious speed. A roiling tendril lashed out and slammed into his chest, the impact like getting kicked by a warhorse. The force knocked the air from his lungs, and he tumbled backward over a pile of scattered rubble, sending jagged stones clattering down in a noisy rush. His head rang from the collision, and for a split second, he felt weightless—disoriented by the dusty gloom and the keening wail of the swirling mist.

A cold coil tightened around his ribs, then snaked up toward his neck, prying at his defenses, prying at the edges of his thoughts. His vision blurred, flickering at the edges with images he couldn't fully grasp. Some were violent, images of carnage and ruin. Others were fleeting glimpses of people he'd never met. Past wielders, he realized, or perhaps the countless victims who'd faced this mist.

He gasped, panic rising. Get... off... me... The more he struggled, the more the mist pressed in, whispering in that half-voice that seemed older than the stone walls around them. A wave of dizziness clutched his stomach. He could feel his heart hammering, each thump echoing in his temples.

A flash of steel cut through his haze. Rhea's sword, slicing at the writhing tendril that pinned him down. She managed to sever it—for a heartbeat—before it re-formed with a mocking swirl and lashed around her blade. Rhea cursed under her breath, shifting her weight onto her good leg, the other still throbbing from her earlier injury. She tore her weapon free, but her eyes flared with frustration.

"Useless—damn thing won't stay down!" she snarled, her voice rasping through clenched teeth.

But I'm no one's puppet, he thought fiercely, and I won't become some tyrant, either.

The pressure on his chest resurged, and he nearly cried out in pain. The coil of mist hammered him down, sapping his strength. He half-heard Rhea cry his name, half-sensed Lira twisting away from a vicious tendril that aimed to impale her. Their blades flashed, but the mist just hissed and drifted to the side, unstoppable.

A second strike hammered Mikhailis's shoulder, pain dancing along his nerves. Spots danced in his vision. Think, Volkov, think. He still had the Fragment. He still had a choice, despite the chaos. If he tried to banish it outright, maybe he'd lose. If he gave in to it, he'd lose himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the throbbing in his skull. You can't fight what you're meant to become? Fine. Then maybe I'll become something new. With a shaky exhale, he forced his trembling left hand up, pressing it against the cold floor. The runic carvings on the ground pulsed at his touch, as though responding to him. Faint lines of blue and silver crawled along the cracks in the stone, linking to the swirling patterns etched by ancient hands.

He felt the pulse of the catacombs' old wards, dormant for who knew how long. Maybe centuries. They recognized the Fragment he held, recognized what it was—and recognized him as the rightful or wrongful heir to that power. The realization was a jolt. I can't just push the entity away, he thought, but I can redirect it.

The mist sensed his resolve shift. A shrill noise—almost a shriek—tore through the chamber, and the tendrils lashed out once more. This time, Rhea barely dodged, a thin line of crimson appearing on her arm. She hissed but stayed on her feet, eyes fierce. "Your Highness! Please, do something!"

"Working on it!" he shot back, a flicker of his usual grin returning. Yet beneath it, his heart hammered with fear. He pressed the Fragment into the carved runes with deliberate force. At once, he felt a surge of energy—like hooking into a hidden current of power. The runes flared in response, bright arcs of magical glow spreading across the floor in a branching network.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lira's face lit by that glow, equal parts awe and worry. Cerys and Vyrelda paused, weapons raised, uncertain whether to strike or stand guard.

The swirling, monstrous shape howled in protest. Tendrils of pure mist flailed about, lashing in random directions. One narrowly grazed Rhea's side. She staggered but kept her stance, biting her lip to stifle the pain. The entire chamber rumbled as if it too felt the tension. Then Mikhailis let the Fragment do its work, or rather, he worked with it, funneling the entity's chaotic energy into the runic circuit etched beneath them all.

"Come on... come on...!"