The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 807: Shield, Drag, Slam (2)

Chapter 807: Shield, Drag, Slam (2)
"Key turned," she muttered.
Her legs threatened to give out.
Now that the fight’s sharp edge was gone, the rest of the pain came rushing in.
Her thigh burned where the first claw had raked along it. Her side throbbed under her coat, slick with fresh blood. Her arms shook when she tried to lift the sword again.
The mana tonic she had drunk earlier had stretched as far as it could. The recovery draught still dulled the worst of the damage, but she was getting close to the limits of what stubbornness could cover.
She staggered back to the edge of the room where she had dropped her pack behind a thick column. Every step was a small argument with her own body.
She sank down with a grunt, back pressed to the cool crystal, sword laid across her knees.
Her whole body trembled.
For a few heartbeats she allowed herself to just sit there, eyes half-closed, listening to her pulse roar in her ears and the softer hum of dungeon mana settling into a new pattern.
If I die now,
she thought,
everything I walked for dies with me.
She saw Kael’s face in her mind’s eye. Not the polished commander-mask he wore in council, but the look in his eyes when he’d sent her into this mess.
"You don’t have to be a hero," he had said. "You have to be useful. Bring me something no one else has."
At the time she had snorted and made some rude comment about his taste in knives.
Down here, with her muscles shivering and her blood on the floor, the words sat heavier.
She looked at the shaft, at the changed grooves, at the Warden’s corpse.
Routes. Patterns. Boss behaviour. A path to the second floor’s heart.
If she died now, all of that would stay locked in the dungeon until some other poor idiot repeated every mistake she had already paid for.
"Survival isn’t about me anymore," she whispered.
Her voice sounded rough, but it did not shake.
"If I’m the only one who knows this path, then staying alive is part of the job."
She had started this descent with a lot of anger and a small, sharp core of grief. Revenge for her team. Rage at the dungeon. Rage at the League, at the games the nations played around S-ranks.
The anger was still there.
But something else had settled in beside it.
Duty. Not the shining, banner-waving kind. The ugly kind that said: if you know something important, you don’t get to quit until you’ve delivered it.
Her fingers tightened around the hilt resting on her knees.
"Fine," she told herself. "You’re an asset now, Rhaen Var. Act like it."
She let her head rest back against the column and closed her eyes for exactly ten slow breaths. No more.
When she opened them again, the room looked the same.
The Warden’s body lay where it had fallen, a broken mass of stone, sinew, and crystal plates. The single eye socket was dark. Small cores still glowed faintly where they had lodged in cracks or under fragments, but most had been dragged into the grooves.
She should leave it and move.
Her ribs disagreed.
Her training disagreed too.
"Waste nothing," she muttered.
She pushed herself back to her feet, biting down on a grunt when her thigh protested.
She limped toward the Warden’s neck, where her sword still pinned bone to stone.
Getting the blade out was not graceful.
She braced one boot against the Warden’s shoulder, wrapped both hands around the hilt, and pulled.
For a moment the sword did not move.
Then, with a sucking sound and a fresh spill of dark fluid, it came free.
She almost fell backward with the unexpected give.
"Beautiful," she told the corpse, a little breathless. "You stay there. I’ll take the useful bits."
Up close, the Warden’s plates were more complex than they had looked at a distance.
Some were layered – translucent crystal over denser, opaque stone. Others had thin, almost mirrored veins running through them.
She picked out a few of the cleaner plates near the shoulder and pried them loose with the tip of her knife.
Each one was heavy for its size, but not unmanageable.
Kael’s siege engineers would probably start drooling the second they saw them. She could already imagine them arguing over whether to hang the plates on city gates or strap them to rams.
"You better be worth the bruise bill," she told the shards.
As she worked, she noticed something else.
Not all of the marks on the Warden’s armour were new.
Some were scars.
Here and there, fine crescent bites had been carved into the edges of plates, then half-healed over with new crystal growth. Near one joint, a cluster of small punctures made a neat pattern, like something with many thin limbs had dug in once and then been shaken off.
They were too regular for falling debris. Too small for the leech-things she had killed earlier. And the angles were wrong for any weapon she recognised from human hands.
Her brow furrowed.
"Something else chewed on you," she murmured.
That thought stayed with her as she slid her knife into the chest cavity.
Near where its heart would have been, she found what she was really looking for.
A core.
It was not as big as she had feared or as small as she had hoped. Roughly the size of her fist, it was a dense, cloudy crystal shot through with faint lines of pale light. When she picked it up, it hummed against her skin, not just with raw mana, but with a strange mixed weight.
Defensive. Heavy. There was something else in it too – a sense of impact, of shock stored and redirected.
"You’re going to make someone very happy," she said softly.
She wrapped the core in cloth and tucked it into the safest pocket of her pack, balancing the weight so it would not pull on her already-sore shoulders too much.
When she finally stepped back from the Warden, her hands were shaking again. Fatigue had rolled back in, heavier than before.
She wiped her face with the back of her wrist, smearing a streak of dark blood and dust across her cheek.
"All right," she told the room. "You gave me a door. I’m not going through it just yet."
She limped back to her pack, adjusted the straps again, and sat long enough to bind her side and thigh more tightly. The bandages pulled uncomfortably, but they slowed the bleed.
Her heart had steadied by the time she tightened the last knot.
Her mind felt sharper than it had any right to.
If I go down now,
she thought,
no one else will know which tiles don’t eat you on the way here. No one will know about the leech pool, the moss-lurker, the jellies that erase stone.
She imagined one of Kharadorn’s younger scouts walking the same path, trusting to luck. She imagined them stepping exactly where she had marked three dots and never stepping anywhere ever again.
"Survival is a duty," she said softly.
She had never liked that sort of phrase when the priests used it. Out of her own mouth, it tasted different.
She was not thinking of banners now.
She was thinking of maps.
Up above, a flat pane of pale light hung over a war table.
The air in Silvarion’s command tent hummed softly with the spells keeping the projection stable. Around the table, tea had gone cold in several cups.
On the pane, the image of the boss room shimmered.
The Glassbone Warden filled half the view, a massive, distorted shape of plate and bone and crystal. Rhaen Var was a much smaller figure at its feet, a smear of dark leather and steel moving too fast and too jerky for comfort.
Mikhailis watched her bounce off the shield-arm, watched the shockwaves crack the floor, watched that last ugly, desperate sprint toward the crystal chunk.
He felt his own muscles tighten when the claw tore into her side.
Too close,
he thought.
He did not say it out loud.
On his right, Elowen sat with her hands folded, knuckles pale. Her eyes did not leave the projection.
On his left, Serelith lounged like she was watching a good play, one leg over the other, chin propped on her hand. Only the brightness in her amethyst eyes betrayed how sharp her attention really was.
Cerys stood near one of the tent poles, arms folded, jaw tight, red hair tied back in a functional tail. Vyrelda had claimed the corner opposite, posture relaxed but eyes hard.
Lira stood at Mikhailis’s back, hands folded neatly over the tray she had long since stopped offering.
The final moments of the fight played out in front of them.
They saw Rhaen use the crystal as a stepping stone. They saw her take the hit to get in range. They saw her drive the sword down into the Warden’s neck, saw the convulsion, the fall.
The tent was very quiet when the boss finally collapsed.
The only sound was the soft clink of Mikhailis’s cup as he set it back on its saucer.
"That," he said, voice low, "was insane."
Serelith let out a slow, appreciative whistle.
"Mmm," she purred. "I like her."
Cerys’s fingers curled tighter around her own elbow.
"She should have died three times in that room," the knight said. "At least."
"Yes," Mikhailis agreed. "She didn’t."
Inside his head, a familiar flat voice spoke.
<Correction: survival prediction was nine percent after initial engagement. Updated to twelve percent after deployment of environmental traps.>
You’re just upset your numbers look bad,
he thought.
There was a tiny pause.
<However, I will allow that watching her improvise around the shield pattern was... informative.>
"She’s good," Mikhailis said aloud. "Annoyingly good."
On the pane, the view rose a little as the ant scouts adjusted their position, giving the tent a higher angle of the room.
They watched the grooves light, the ichor and small cores slide toward the center.
Elowen drew a slow breath.
"The floor is... drinking it," she said.
"Recycling," Mikhailis said. "Dungeon’s not going to waste that much condensed mana."
The central depression cracked and dropped in.
Lira flinched.
"Is that—" she began.
"An access," Vyrelda cut in quietly. "Or a bite. Depends which way you walk."
They watched the shaft reveal itself. The carved stone. The old, half-hidden sigils.
Serelith leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"That script," she murmured. "I don’t recognise it. Do you?"
Elowen shook her head, eyes still fixed on the symbols. "No."
Mikhailis studied the marks for a moment.
Not League. Not Technomancer lab-runes. Not standard Concordat coastal marks.
"Old miners, maybe," he said. "Or whoever was here before the dungeon grew around it."
Inside, Rodion filed the pattern away.
On the projection, Rhaen sagged down against a column and sat there shaking.
For a few breaths she was very still.
Cerys’s jaw clenched.
"She’s done," the knight muttered. "She’s held together by stubbornness and bandages."
Lira’s fingers tightened on the tray.
"Can we..." she started. "Can we not just watch her bleed?"