The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 392: The Battle of Princes (4)

"You gave up everything, Auron… You let the Crownless House twist you into something not even Father would recognize. You might have power, but at what cost?"

"Power is everything," Auron replied coldly, though a tremor of mania underlay his statement. "What's the point of tradition or birthright if you can't seize what's in front of you? Our father was a fool for wanting to unify Serewyn through peace. Peace never lasts, and I've proven it."

Mikhailis shook his head slowly, trying to interpret how far this madness extended. He didn't see any reason to keep talking. The more Auron ranted, the more Mikhailis realized how thoroughly he'd rationalized his betrayal. If he was still open to reason, that ship had likely sailed long ago. The tension in the chamber grew thick enough to taste.

Laethor inhaled, summoning a trickle of strength to speak. "Mikhailis… do something," he rasped. "His illusions… He can do more than just illusions. He can bend the reality with that mist."

Mikhailis let out a harsh breath. Another brand-wielding maniac. Fantastic. "Then we do something quick," he mumbled. He sized up Auron's stance: weight balanced on the balls of his feet, blade at an angle that promised a swift kill if Mikhailis got careless. The swirl of grey threatened to become a full-blown storm at any second.

"Don't hold back," Laethor repeated, voice turning sharper. "You have to stop him… at any cost."

Auron's grin deepened, his eyes flicking between Mikhailis and Laethor like he relished their desperation. "Worried, brother? You should be. I learned from the best—your own mentors, your own teachers. Then I surpassed them. Surpassed you."

"Big words," Mikhailis retorted, letting a slow smile break across his face. "Pretty sure the city's rubble begs to differ on how well you manage your kingdom." There was a sardonic bite in his tone, fueled by the brand's restless energy that demanded action, demanded a fight.

Auron moved again, so fast that Mikhailis only registered the blur of grey. He jerked aside, sensing the brand's influence heightening his reflexes. The sword missed Mikhailis's chest by a hair's breadth, scraping sparks off a broken chunk of stone behind him. Mikhailis retaliated with a pivot of his cloak, letting the web-laden cloth snap out, aiming to entangle Auron's arms. But the twin prince twisted away with equally inhuman agility, leaving Mikhailis with only a swirl of dust.

"Not bad," Auron said, eyes glittering with a strange glee. "You're almost as fast as me."

He lunged a second time, but Mikhailis prepared. Firing a quick mental command to the cloak, he caused strands of necrotic web to arc overhead, hoping to catch Auron from above. The brand in Mikhailis's arm flared a warning—he felt a wave of dizziness, like the cloak was draining more energy than he had to give. He clenched his teeth, ignoring it. Focus. The web descended, but Auron—expectedly cunning—ducked sideways, conjuring a swirl of mist that shredded part of the threads before they could envelop him.

Mikhailis's boots skidded on loose gravel, and he caught himself with a grunt. He glimpsed Laethor in the corner of his vision, still helpless, his eyes alight with frantic worry. The battered prince's breath came in shallow pants, as though each motion of his ribs caused agony. They had to end this soon.

"Mikhailis—" Laethor croaked, voice trembling with urgency. "He's stalling."

Stalling. Mikhailis's mind raced. If Auron was stalling, it meant the Crownless House or more Technomancer reinforcements could be coming. The brand hammered in his veins, a savage pulse that threatened to blur his thoughts once more. He pushed the fear back, refusing to let it control him. No more illusions. No more mind tricks.

"So, you can handle illusions too, huh?" Mikhailis said to Auron, in a shaky attempt at a casual tone. "Let me guess: you drive people insane, show them the darkest corners of their mind, all that classic villain stuff?"

Auron's lip curled. "Your pathetic attempts at humor won't save you, whelp."

Mikhailis shrugged, though every muscle in his body tensed, braced for an attack. "They never do," he remarked dryly, "but it makes me feel better."

He feinted to the left, hoping Auron would follow. In that same breath, he channeled the Tempestrike Drakeant energy in his ankles, unleashing a sudden burst of speed. He zipped across the debris-strewn floor, sliding behind a collapsed column. A quick flick of his wrist sent a cluster of dark webs flying. The threads arced high, aiming to wrap from multiple angles. If one fails, the other might catch him. But Auron reacted with ruthless efficiency, slashing the mist around him to form a swirling barrier that scorched or cut the webs midair.

Mikhailis cursed. He's good. He couldn't rely on the same trick that had snared the Enforcer earlier. This time, he faced someone who matched his cunning.

Auron's smirk sharpened. "We can play this game all day, Mikhailis. You won't outlast me— the brand I command is more than you can handle."

Mikhailis felt a retort bubble up, but he held it in. Instead, he rummaged internally for a new plan. If direct entanglements were failing, perhaps a heavier blow would help. He recalled the Crymber Ant synergy he had, combining flame and ice in explosive unity. Possibly, a quick surprise blast might break Auron's concentration enough to get in a decisive strike.

He braced a hand near his chest, focusing on the swirling elemental energies. Immediately, heat and cold warred across his arm, forming a pressurized bubble that crackled with potential. The brand gave a spasm, as if resenting his usage of multiple powers at once. Deal with it, he told it silently. This is bigger than you and me.

Auron lunged again, trying to keep him pinned, obviously suspecting another web attempt. Mist trailed him like living ribbons, tendrils swirling in savage arcs. Mikhailis braced, hissed a breath, and unleashed the combined blast from the Crymber synergy. A swirl of flame and ice shot forward—a conical burst of steam, scorching and freezing simultaneously.

Auron's eyes widened, not expecting this exact approach. He managed to deflect part of it with a wave of grey energy, but not all. The swirling hot-cold vortex slammed into his side, throwing him off balance. He hissed in pain, stumbling against a shattered marble bench, panting. Smoke curled from his clothing, frost crystallizing where the flames had parted. For a moment, Mikhailis saw raw hatred etched in every line of Auron's face.

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"That," Mikhailis said, breathing hard, "was for the monarchy you tried to ruin."

Auron coughed, but even then, a malicious gleam lit his eyes. "Brother," he called to Laethor, though not even glancing his way. "You see what foreign filth does? This is the man you entrusted with your land's fate. A jester. A child."

Laethor's voice, rough with pain, lashed out: "He's doing more to save our kingdom than you are! You sold our people out to the Technomancers. That's the real filth."

Auron bared his teeth, staggering upright. Mist coiled around him, shielding him from the worst of his injuries. Mikhailis could guess that some form of healing or at least dampening effect existed in that brand's power. If he let the twin fully recover, the fight would drag on, endangering Laethor further. He had to press his advantage now.

He lifted his arm, willing the Crymber's swirling dual energies to form again, ignoring the brand's complaining pulse. Pain shot through his bicep, but he clenched his jaw. One more blast might finish it. Just one more.

But Auron raised a hand, forming a swirling vortex of grey mist around him. The air crackled. Shadows quivered against the broken chamber walls, as though a storm was about to break. Mikhailis recognized this buildup from the Enforcer's earlier confrontation—someone with a brand pushing mist to a higher state. Possibly, illusions or a mental strike. Either way, a direct clash would be too risky. The brand hammered in protest. One more time, Mikhailis told himself. One more big move.

His eyes darted to Laethor, who shook violently in his restraints, desperation in his gaze. The battered prince opened his mouth, words almost lost in the swirl of energies. "Mikhailis— watch out! He's conjuring illusions again!"

Mikhailis glimpsed a flicker in the corner of his vision—faces, perhaps friends or illusions of them, appearing near the edge of the chamber. He realized Auron wanted to distract him, to sow confusion. If he faltered, the next strike would be deadly. He inhaled sharply. Ignore illusions. Focus on the real threat.

Auron's voice echoed with triumph. "You claim to fight for this kingdom's good, but it's all a lie. You want to protect your precious queen, or your illusions of heroism? Don't pretend to understand what Serewyn needs!"

"Better me than some twisted sociopath who thinks everything belongs to him," Mikhailis shot back, adrenaline surging. He unleashed another swirl of Crymber flame-ice, hurling it toward Auron. The twin parted the flame with an arc of grey, partially deflecting, though the explosive edge clipped his shoulder, forcing him to stumble again.

A furious growl tore from Auron's throat. His illusions flickered, momentarily weakening. Mikhailis felt a wave of relief, pressing his advantage by stepping forward. Each footstep reverberated across rubble, each ragged breath fueling another surge of cloak energy. I might actually corner him. The possibility was so close he could taste it.

Then Auron glared, mist intensifying around him, swirling from the floor in thick columns. Mikhailis recognized the pattern of a large-scale conjuration—like an attempt to warp reality in the entire chamber. If Auron completed that spell, Mikhailis risked being lost in illusions or pinned by mental force stronger than anything he'd faced yet.

Laethor's shout tore across the tension: "Mikhailis—don't hold back!"

Mikhailis nodded, though the prince might not see it clearly. He channeled the brand's dark impetus one final time, ignoring the brand's punishing sting. Shadows roiled at his command, swirling up around him in a wide circle. He bared his teeth, forcing the brand's chaotic power into a single intent: neutralize Auron, free Laethor, end this madness.

Auron unleashed the swirl of conjured illusions. The chamber darkened. Mikhailis's senses warped, as if the floor beneath him was melting away, replaced by a sea of black filth. Flickers of haunting shapes, ephemeral faces, attacked his peripheral vision. In that chaos, Auron lunged, blade extended, determined to land a killing blow.

But Mikhailis forced himself to look beyond illusions. He locked onto the spot where Auron truly stood—where the brand's presence burned fiercest. Summoning the Necrolord's cloak, he whipped it forward. Dark webbing erupted, ignoring illusions altogether. The brand's synergy cut a path through phantoms, guiding the threads precisely to Auron's real form.

The twin prince's eyes widened in raw shock as the web latched onto his torso. At the same instant, Mikhailis slammed an open palm to the ground, launching a final wave of Crymber energy that shattered the illusions around them. Steam and sparks filled the air, and the meltdown of illusions left Auron sputtering, half-staggering as he tried to wrestle free from necrotic strands.

"That's enough!" Mikhailis roared, stepping forward. "You've done more harm than I can tolerate. Stand down!"

Auron's glare was molten fury. Mist flickered, but the web was too tight. For now, his illusions fizzled in shimmering sparks. "You… worthless… foreigner," he spat, even as he sank to one knee.

Mikhailis squared his shoulders, heart drumming. A sudden wave of dizziness threatened to topple him, the brand punishing him for using so much power so quickly. Hang in there, he told himself. Just a bit more. He looked over at Laethor, still chained, but hopefully salvageable. Freed from illusions, the battered prince sagged, relief mingling with exhaustion in his expression.

"Doesn't matter," Auron hissed, breath ragged. "I'll kill you eventually. The Crownless House is already in place. The city belongs to me. And she—" He bared his teeth, panting. "She'll come crawling back."

Mikhailis's lips curled in disgust. "I doubt that. But we'll see."

He forced a shaky breath, allowing a moment's calm. The brand's hum tapered into a quiet ache, no longer on the verge of drowning him. A presence hovered at the back of his mind—Rodion, silently scanning the situation, waiting for instructions. The chamber reeked of sweat, burnt ozone, and the faint metallic tang of spilled blood. Broken pillars stood like silent watchers, remnants of a forgotten glory overshadowed by this brutal conflict.

Laethor's voice, tremulous but resolute, cut through the hush: "Mikhailis… take me out of these damned chains. Then we end him—together."

Mikhailis flicked a glance at Auron, pinned but still radiating malice. A final wave of tension filled the air.

And that was when it truly began:

The battle between twin princes had begun.