The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 814: A Hall That Watches (1)

Chapter 814: A Hall That Watches (1)
The first step did not kill her.
Rhaen put her boot down on the nearest sigil line and waited for the world to decide what it thought of her.
The etched grooves under her sole hummed faintly. Mana slid along them like thin streams of light, changing course around her weight. For a heartbeat she felt something push up through the leather, a pressure that was not quite physical. It tasted her balance, the way she carried herself.
Nothing cracked. Nothing exploded.
Good start.
She let a slow breath out through her nose.
The second step was worse.
She shifted her weight forward, keeping her other boot on plain stone, and the lines around her changed. A faint ripple of light ran out from her heel, down one curve, then split at a junction. The air in front of her flickered.
For half a blink, the room stretched.
The pillars at the edges of her vision seemed a little farther away, then snapped back into place. It was like the hall had tried on a different shape and then decided against it.
Rhaen’s grip tightened on her sword.
"Not just weight," she murmured.
Her voice came back to her in a soft echo that was wrong.
Not louder, not harsh. Just slightly off-time, like someone repeating her words a fraction of a second behind, with her tone but not her lungs.
Her skin prickled.
She shut her mouth and focused.
The mana-compass in her hand twitched. The floating needle trembled, then slowly turned, pointing deeper into the hall, toward a knot of brighter lines.
"All right," she whispered, more with her throat than her breath. "You lead, I won’t complain."
She clipped the compass back to her belt where she could grab it fast and stepped fully onto the sigil floor.
The grooves formed a web under her feet. Some lines were as thin as a hair, barely glowing. Others were broader, carved deeper, mana pooling thicker in them like a main river.
Rhaen didn’t walk straight.
Old habits saved her. She advanced in short, careful angles, never setting both feet on the same new pattern at once. Her body remembered training halls with hidden pits, false tiles, instructors who liked to shout that overconfidence made good corpses.
Instead of looking for obvious traps, she watched for rhythm.
Her heartbeat thudded against her ribs, too fast, too heavy. Each time it jumped, the light under her boots shifted, as if the lines were listening. When her breath came shorter, a small circle near her toes brightened like an eye.
"You’re measuring me," she thought.
Not just how much she weighed. How she moved. How she reacted.
On her third wrong step she found out what happened when the hall didn’t like the answer.
It was a small mistake. She tried to cut across two lines at once to shorten the path. One foot landed on a curve, the other brushed a tiny junction mark she hadn’t noticed before.
The world hiccuped.
For a heartbeat, gravity shifted a few degrees sideways.
Her stomach lurched. The floor felt like it wanted to throw her toward the nearest column. Her bad leg screamed as it tried to correct. Lines of light around her flared, then dimmed.
She caught herself with the tip of her sword, jamming it down into a gap between etched grooves and leaning hard.
"Too greedy," she breathed.
The hall answered with a faint whisper of her own voice, stretched thin.
too greedy...
She shut her teeth so hard her jaw hurt.
No more talking.
The next wrong move didn’t twist gravity. It bent the light.
She stepped a little too fast, trying to match the compass’ pull, and a small triangle of etched lines around her foot pulsed. The room smeared sideways. For an instant the far wall doubled. Her own arm looked too long.
Her heart hammered.
She blinked hard, forcing her eyes to focus on her own boots, on the solid edges of leather and dull metal.
The distortion faded.
"All right," she thought grimly. "Patterns. You don’t like sharp changes. You’re watching rhythm."
It felt less like crossing a minefield and more like walking through some big, invisible mind that was listening to every move.
She adjusted.
Her steps became slower, more deliberate, not just cautious but consistent. She kept her pace even, her breathing measured. When her injured leg wanted to drag, she forced it into the same length and timing as the other. Each time her ribs complained, she did not let it change her stride.
The hall responded.
The little flickers of gravity and light grew less frequent. The lines under her boots still shifted, but not violently, more like a hand taking notes.
For the first time since she stepped into Ashen River, Rhaen felt something change inside her.
Up to now she had been surviving around the dungeon. Slipping past its jaws. Refusing to step where it wanted teeth.
Here, on this breathing floor, with her heart drumming in her ears and the web of mana humming under her, she stopped thinking like prey.
She thought like someone looking at a puzzle.
"You’re not just trying to kill me," she thought. "You’re trying to understand me."
The idea was so stupid she almost snorted.
Almost.
She kept it behind her teeth.
The compass needle quivered again as she approached a thicker junction of lines. The grooves there were deeper, the light moving faster along them, feeding into a central knot before branching off in several directions like the hub of a wheel.
Her skin crawled.
Every instinct she had said that stepping there was a bad idea.
Of course there was no way around it.
She set the tip of her sword down just before the knot, marking the last safe point she trusted, then lifted her gaze and studied the pattern.
Three main lines, each pulsing with a different rhythm. One matched a slow, steady beat like a resting heart. One flickered faster, like panic. One was irregular, spiking and dropping.
"Left," she decided. The resting one.
She tightened her grip on the hilt until her knuckles went white and stepped forward.
The moment her weight came down on the junction, the world changed.
There was no slam of force, no flash of blinding light.
Instead, the sound went out of the room.
Her own breath cut off in her ears. The faint hum of mana fell away. Her heartbeat vanished.
For a heartbeat, she thought she’d died.
Then something else slid into the empty space where sound had been.
Voices that weren’t voices.
Images that weren’t sight.
She stood in the same hall, but it wasn’t the same.
The crystal wrapped around the pillars was gone. The floor was just bare stone, the grooves fresh-cut and chalk-marked in places. Wooden beams arched overhead, new and straight.
Men and women pushed carts along rails that crossed the room, their shoulders hunched, faces blurred but busy. Lanterns hung from hooks, swinging slightly with the motion. Someone shouted something about ore quality. Someone laughed.
The air smelled of sweat and metal dust.
Rhaen stood among them like a ghost.
No one looked at her.
She knew, in some quiet part of her, that she was not really there. This was not a time travel or a summoning. It was a recording.
Her head ached.
The scene shifted.
The same hall, but years later. Maybe decades. Maybe only months. Time was slippery here.
The beams overhead were rotten in places. Some had fallen. The floor was cracked, the grooves filled with something that glowed faintly.
Crystal.
It pushed through the stone like bone, curling up around pillars, biting into rails. The carts lay twisted, half-swallowed. A thin mist of mana hung in the air.
Something moved along the ceiling.
Not one of the creatures she’d fought above. Not the stalkers from the echo tunnel.
A mass of glass and shadow slid along the beams like oil, seeping into old chisel marks, filling them with light.
Proto-dungeon, she thought.
Not yet a full mind. But already hungry.
The scene blurred again.
Another layer slid in over the last.
The hall stood somewhere between mine and dungeon now. Crystal wrapped every column, but the floor still held familiar tool marks. The air hummed.
Four figures stood at the far wall.
They weren’t League. Their gear was wrong. No spinal harnesses, no glass-faced helms.
They weren’t Kharadorn either. No tabards, no visible insignia, no familiar cut of plate.
Their robes were simple, layered in straight cuts. Each wore a circlet of metal with a small crystal shard set over one eye.
They spoke in a language Rhaen did not know. The sound reached her ears as a muffled murmur, like hearing conversation through a wall. She caught only rhythms.
One of them—a shorter figure with a limp—raised a hand.
Light flared at the far wall.
Sigils carved themselves into the stone, line by careful line. Straight angles, circles, intersecting patterns. Some matched the ones Rhaen had seen on the landing stones. Others were new, curling inward like tiny spirals.
They were building the mosaic she had seen.
Not the dungeon.
Someone else.