The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 390: The Battle of Princes (2)

"Not bad," he admitted, voice grudgingly respectful, "for a reckless outsider."

Mikhailis wiped sweat from his brow, forcing a grin. "If we're trading compliments, you're quite the show-off yourself." Inside, fear gnawed at him. He couldn't keep this up forever. A direct confrontation with an equal or stronger manipulator of the mist was suicide, especially with the brand's draining effect hovering like a vulture.

<He's preparing another mental strike,> Rodion warned in a clipped tone. <Brace yourself, or use an alternative strategy.>

Mikhailis swallowed, eyes flicking across the broken terrain. He might only have one shot to end this. The memory of that devastating swap technique lingered—he'd done it before, tangling the Enforcer. Could he replicate it effectively again?

The man advanced, swirling grey energies coiling around him like living serpents. Mikhailis tightened his stance, searching for an opening, any piece of rubble or vantage from which he could spin a new trap. I just need a second, he thought, one second to get the upper hand.

But the Enforcer smirked, apparently reading Mikhailis's tension. "I can sense your desperation. The brand hungers for you. Keep resisting, and you'll tear yourself apart."

"Guess we'll see," Mikhailis muttered, refusing to look away from those eerie eyes. Fear hammered in his chest, but he locked it down, letting his natural irreverent side bubble up. "At least I'm not losing my hair over it, which is more than I can say for some people."

The Enforcer didn't respond verbally, but the flicker of annoyance in his gaze was clear. He inhaled deeply, the swirling mist intensifying, forming a nimbus around his entire body. Mikhailis felt the environment shift, temperature dropping, the air thickening with that oppressive presence again.

A chill slithered up Mikhailis's spine. Rodion, stand by. He refused to voice it out loud—any hint could give the man time to strike. He needed full concentration. The brand was already warming ominously, likely sensing his plan to push the boundary again.

Time slowed for an instant, the Enforcer's next move telegraphed in the subtle tightening of his posture. Mikhailis breathed in, letting the Riftborne Necrolord's power envelop him. Now or never.

But the man's next words came, smooth as silk, dripping with a dark confidence:

"Impressive," the man mused. "Most don't wake up after touching the abyss. But you… you adapt. How intriguing."

Mikhailis flexed his fingers, testing his restored control. Sharp tingles radiated from his elbows down to his fingertips, as if his entire body was still recovering from a sudden shock. He had only seconds before the Enforcer's next move—he sensed it in the buzzing tension that filled the dimly lit chamber. There was no time for hesitation, no chance to second-guess. The jolt from earlier had cleared his head, but it also left him with a deep ache in his bones. He gritted his teeth, bracing himself.

He felt the cloak woven from the Riftborne Necrolord's essence flutter around his shoulders. Shadows clung to him, not in a suffocating manner, but more like a protective veil that wanted to be used. Its power hummed in the air, swirling like an obedient pet waiting for a command. He took in a steady breath, focusing on that synergy—his will combined with the cloak's dark abilities.

"Alright," he muttered under his breath, tone dropping to a near-whisper, "let's see what you can do."

In one fluid motion, he flicked his wrist. Dark, web-like strands erupted from his fingers, each thread pulsing with a sinister glow. They latched onto a distant pillar rising from the rubble, and Mikhailis saw how the faint lanternlight played upon the necrotic sheen that coated them. It was like living veins—glistening with an unearthly energy. The way they swayed and clutched at the stone felt almost alive, an extension of Mikhailis's own determination.

The Enforcer saw him move and reacted with startling swiftness. The man's eyes lit with renewed threat, and the swirling mist around him coiled in tight arcs, ready to strike. Tendrils of swirling grey formed at his fingertips, as though building into something bigger, more devastating. Mikhailis exhaled a small, humorless laugh.

"Nice try," he said, letting confidence creep into his voice. He wouldn't show fear, not now. He couldn't allow the Enforcer to see any flicker of doubt. Besides, if he let panic set in, that monstrous presence might take advantage again, slipping into his mind.

He invoked the swap without delay.

An eerie hush wrapped around him—like the world had just paused. One instant, Mikhailis stood anchored before the Enforcer, cloak swirling about his heels; the next, he simply wasn't there. Instead, he dissolved into the shadows, the Necrolord's power carrying him away in less time than it took to blink.

At the exact same moment, the Enforcer's figure appeared where Mikhailis had been, arms spread wide as if in mid-lunge. Confusion barely had time to register in the man's face before the dark web recognized his new presence and snapped around him. He let out a furious roar when those necrotic fibers clung to his limbs, yanking him off his feet in a violent jolt. Mikhailis re-materialized by the distant pillar, crouched like a cat that had just pounced.

"Gotcha," he breathed, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

The Enforcer's arms jerked, flailing violently against the draining threads. Mikhailis could see the necrotic webs feeding off the swirling mist energy, siphoning it away like a parasite gulping down fresh blood. The man's teeth clenched as he strained, eyes blazing with a terrible mixture of rage and alarm. Mikhailis had to admit, it was a sight to behold—someone so confident moments ago, now pinned mid-air by an otherworldly snare.

"You—!" the Enforcer managed, voice cracking under the strain. Fury flared in his voice, and Mikhailis watched as the man fought with all his might, mist thrashing like wounded serpents.

But Mikhailis had no intention of waiting around to see if he'd break free. He shot another glance back, just to confirm the Enforcer was still tangled, then cast out a second web. This time, the threads flew past the edges of the ruined chamber, anchoring somewhere deep in the corridor beyond. He could feel the tension in them, like a taut wire, ready for him to trigger yet another swap.

He spared the Enforcer a lazy salute. "Goodbye," he said, soft but mocking. With a snap of his fingers, he activated the cloak's power again. For the briefest moment, he imagined how humiliating it must be for that man to be tossed around so unceremoniously. A distant thud echoed through the corridors, followed by a faint crash as the Enforcer's form was flung out, away from the basement chambers and into some unknown crevice of the ruins.

The man's enraged shout echoed for a second, then vanished into silence.

Mikhailis exhaled, shoulders sagging in relief. He'd no doubt this Enforcer might still be alive, but at least he was out of the picture for now. It bought Mikhailis the precious time needed to fulfill his real goal.

Without further hesitation, he turned, heart pounding as he scanned the chamber for any sign of Laethor. He found him bound near the center, manacles glowing with a faint, sickly color that suggested heavy suppression magic. The red-haired prince—who should have been the rightful heir—slumped against the thick chain, breathing shallowly. Mikhailis's gut twisted. He'd sworn to help the guy, and seeing him so helpless ignited a fierce protectiveness.

He sprinted across the broken floor, weaving between shattered columns and scattered debris. Each step hammered home the truth that time was short, and he needed to get Laethor out before more enemies arrived or that monstrous power tried to claim him once again. The brand on his arm still burned dully, but now it felt more like a silent observer than an active threat.

But as he reached halfway to Laethor, a cold sound echoed: laughter. It was quiet at first, then grew with a chilling note of contempt. Mikhailis's muscles locked up. That laugh wasn't Laethor's. It had a deeper, amused pitch, something that teased a cruel punchline yet to be delivered.

He came to a halt, eyes darting around. The place was dim, the torches half-extinguished, leaving swaths of gloom that sprawled across the chamber like vipers. And from one of those shadowy corners stepped another figure. A man who walked with an eerily casual sway, as if he had all the time in the world to watch Mikhailis scramble.

Mikhailis's heart lurched painfully when the man's features slid into the torchlight.

Laethor. Or at least it looked exactly like him.

He glanced from this new arrival to the bound prince on the floor. The same face, the same outline, the same posture… except not quite. The one that just appeared had sharper eyes, a cruel twist to his mouth, and an aura that radiated arrogance. A different nature all together. Mikhailis swallowed.

Laethor—the real Laethor he'd come to rescue—made a choking sound, lifting his head with effort. "Auron," he croaked, the word laced with disbelief and anger.

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Auron. The name hung in the stale air.

Mikhailis felt his mind racing. He'd heard rumors about Laethor and the whole fiasco about Queen Elowen's potential suitors. He'd always assumed there was only one Prince of Serewyn who had traveled far, seeking alliances and possibly Elowen's hand. Yet the gossip of a "charming foreign prince" from Serewyn might have referred to someone else entirely. Now that puzzle piece slid horrifyingly into place, forming a picture he'd never anticipated.

The newly arrived twin slid his gaze to Mikhailis and gave a mocking half-bow. "You look confused, Mikhailis. Surely, you're not so foolish as to think my dear brother was the only player in this game?"

Mikhailis breathed out slowly, fighting the swirl of panic rising in his chest. "I guess I am that foolish," he muttered, crossing his arms in a show of defiance. "Then again, I prefer to call it optimism."

His mind raced. If Laethor had a twin, that might explain the conflicting accounts about who was actually rumored to be after Elowen. A split persona or simply two men sharing one destiny. He tried to recall the earliest gossip he'd heard—something about a cunning foreigner with a silver tongue who was also rumored to do dark deals. He'd brushed it aside at the time. Big mistake, he thought wryly, his nerves taut as bowstrings.

He studied the differences in the twins' expressions. Where Laethor's eyes usually shone with a sense of regal responsibility—though beaten down by captivity—this Auron's eyes gleamed with cold amusement. The face was the same, but the subtle lines of cruelty gave it away. Standing side by side, there'd be no confusion about who was the darker reflection.

"Ah…" Mikhailis let the tension slide from his shoulders in a well-practiced act. He forced a cocky grin, raising a brow. "Well, well," he teased. "So, you're the one who got rejected." He clicked his tongue with exaggerated sympathy. "That's embarrassing. I almost feel bad. Almost."

He ended it there, letting the words hang in the air like a barb. If Auron wanted to retort, he'd have to step into Mikhailis's flow. The hush that followed crackled with promise of violence. Auron's smirk didn't fade, but Mikhailis noticed the faintest twitch in the man's jaw, betraying annoyance. And that was good—annoyed foes made mistakes more often.

But deep down, Mikhailis braced himself. If Auron was truly behind all this, from the city's downfall to Laethor's betrayal and the infiltration by the Crownless House, then the danger had just escalated to an entirely new level. Because if one brother was cunning enough to seize a kingdom, two princes might unravel entire realms. And from the glint of madness in Auron's eyes, Mikhailis suspected he'd do whatever it took to claim what he believed was "rightfully his."

He forced steady breathing. The brand on his forearm stirred, as though anticipating the next battle. Just perfect, Mikhailis thought sourly. I can't wait to see what fresh insanity you bring, Auron.

Yet, no matter the risk, he wouldn't back down. Laethor needed rescue, and this twisted drama between the twin princes needed an end. If Auron wanted a fight, Mikhailis was ready—armed with cunning, a cloak of living shadows, and just enough reckless bravery to see it through.

And so the chapter ended with his mocking words:

"Well, well," Mikhailis muttered, crossing his arms. "So, you're the one who got rejected." He clicked his tongue. "That's embarrassing. I almost feel bad. Almost."