The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

No one outside these walls would ever guess the truth—that the prince-consort wove through palace life wearing a fool's smile, while his real world was the laughter of a fiery knight and the whispered spells of a violet-haired mage. And somehow, impossibly, they loved him back.

He let the thought linger, a warm ember in his chest, before clapping the tome shut with a thud that made both women jump.

"Quick thinking, all. Now — actual clothes."

The order lit a new storm. Serelith snapped her fingers and garments leapt from furniture as if answering roll call. A waist-coat unfolded in mid-air, turning slowly before landing on Mikhailis's shoulders. He shoved his arms through, fumbling with mother-of-pearl buttons while Cerys darted around him, tugging seams straight, jerking a stubborn collar flat.

"Stand still," she muttered, teeth clamped on a stray ribbon she meant to lace. Her cheeks still held dusk-pink, but her eyes were all soldier.

Serelith danced past, shaking lavender powder across his chest and wrists. The scent billowed like soft fog, drowning the more primal perfume of last night's sins. "There," she said, pleased. "Now you smell like a respectable lily instead of rutting stag."

Mikhailis coughed, waving away the floral cloud. Respectable is overrated. Still, he raised his arms so Cerys could tighten the belt. Each tug pulled him an inch closer, and she tightened it with the practiced strength of a knight. But then her eyes widened, her gaze dropping to the very prominent tent beneath his tunic. "Why is it even this huge?!" she blurted, a mix of shock and frustration.

"You might get into a scandal with some noble's wife because of this." Serelith's gaze followed Cerys's, and a slow, mischievous smile spread across her lips.

"Oh my, what a naughty thing." She reached out and flicked it lightly with a teasing finger. Mikhailis yelped, stumbling back a step.

"Ow! That's—"

"Perfectly natural," he defended himself, cheeks tinged pink. "Considering I'm dressing and being dressed by two beautiful women." Cerys huffed, cheeks flushing a deeper red.

"Focus! Hair now!"

He pivoted to Serelith. She'd conjured an ivory comb and was already arranging his curls into deliberate disarray — tidy enough for court, reckless enough to fit the act. Her violet hair kept falling in front of her face; she blew at it with a huff, cheeks puffed like a sulky cat. Mikhailis caught the strand, tucked it behind her ear, dared a peck on her temple. Colour flooded her porcelain skin, but her hands never paused their work.

Boots thudded onto the carpet. Cerys knelt, whipping out a cloth and spit-shining the leather with almost comedic ferocity. "Hurry," she hissed. "The trumpet fanfare means the first wave of nobility is already milling."

"Trumpets?" Mikhailis glanced at the clock. The bronze dragon hands pointed half past noon. He groaned. "Elowen would pick today for punctuality."

Serelith tied the last ribbon on her robe, now pristine and regal. Only the faintest bruise on her throat hinted at earlier chaos. She flicked her fingers; both boots shone as though dipped in oil. "Magister polish," she declared, smirking at Cerys.

"Show-off," Cerys grumbled, but even she grinned.

A final once-over: waist-coat smooth, cravat crisp, belt swordless by design — he was prince consort, not commander — and just enough cologne to mask adrenaline. They shared one conspiratorial nod, then slipped into the corridor.

Marble chilled beneath soles still sensitive from last night's games. Light poured through clerestory windows, painting the stone in honey stripes. A pair of gossiping courtiers glanced up, offered bows. Mikhailis responded with his signature half-smile, two degrees above indifference, one degree below sincerity.

Smile, nod, look harmless, he reminded himself, letting his posture slump ever so slightly. The trick was to seem curious yet clueless — a cultivated incompetence that kept knives aimed elsewhere.

Cerys and Serelith flanked him like carved honor-guards. Anyone watching would see flawless professionalism; only the faint sparkle in their eyes betrayed an inside joke none of the onlookers would ever grasp.

"Left sleeve," Cerys whispered without moving her lips.

He glanced down. A thread of lavender powder still clung to his cuff. A flick of his fingers, gone.

Ahead, a herald in peacock colours spotted them and scurried to his dais. Mikhailis stifled a yawn. Three… two… Trumpets blared, bouncing off vaulted arches.

The great hall doors parted. Sunlight off crystal chandeliers burst into jeweled motes. He pasted on a pleasant vacancy and stepped across the threshold.

"His Serene Consort, Lord Mikhailis of House Veillon, accompanied by Dame Cerys Wynne Arundel, the Lone Wolf, and Lady Court Magician Serelith Malanor!" the crier boomed.

Dozens of heads turned. Perfumed fans fluttered like butterflies caught in a gale. Bows rippled through the hall: shallow from dukes, deeper from barons, a stiff nod from three mages in silver circlets.

Mikhailis lifted two fingers in casual greeting. "My lords, my ladies—what a dazzling afternoon." Inside, he ticked off faces: Baron Thornhaven still hated him over the hunting-rights prank, Countess Albrecht rumoured to collect scandal like jewelry, young Marquess Duval eager for Elowen's favour. All chess pieces.

Rodion's dry whisper slid across his inner lens. <Facial muscles at perfect ratio of 67 % warmth, 33 % vacancy. Bravo.>

He resisted smirking.

The Duke of Greylake barrelled forward, mustache trembling with urgency to discuss grain. "Your Serene Consort, the northern silos report infestation of frost-mite. I propose a levy—"

Mikhailis hummed, eyes drifting to a fresco of King Halvorn slaying hydras. He counted heads on the beast. Seven. One head for each minute I can endure this talk. "Frost-mites, dreadful creatures. Love barley too much, I fear."

The duke launched into numbers. Serelith pretended fascination, tipping her head at academic angles. In truth she traced invisible letters on her sleeve: BOR-ING. Mikhailis bit his inner cheek to kill a laugh.

A marchioness seized the lull to gush about her niece's engagement. "Such a wonderful match! Young Lord Pevensey of—"

"Pevensworth?" Mikhailis offered brightly, mangling the name. "Pup of an excellent warren, if memory serves."

Serelith's shoulders quivered. Cerys jabbed his ribs with a gauntlet knuckle. Behave.

He switched to earnest nodding, letting the woman gush about lace colours. His gaze, however, drifted toward a servant balancing a tray of candied lemons near the dais. Stomach growled loud enough for Cerys to hear; her mouth twitched.

Minutes crawled. Another baron complained about road tolls, a viscount about river dredging. Mikhailis answered each with sympathetic noise, careful never to offer solution. Influence had to remain elusive; Elowen's reign was built on the illusion that he lacked any.

Rodion chimed again. <Core temperature rising. Heartbeat elevated. Hypothesis: hunger. Suggest tactical retreat.>

Good idea.

He raised fingertips to his temple, let eyelids droop. "Forgive me," he murmured, voice airy with polite suffering, "a touch light-headed. I fear I skipped luncheon while pouring over—" he recalled the tome, suppressed a smirk, "—tax records."

A sympathetic chorus bubbled. Nobles loved an excuse to display concern without offering real help.

"Oh dear," the marchioness fluttered, fan snapping open.

The Duke of Greylake took a step back, bowing with surprising grace for such a wide belly. "Please rest, my lord," the duke said.

Bowing, Mikhailis exited, pace dignified until the corridor bent; then he and his escorts broke into snickering.

But beneath the laughter, Mikhailis's thoughts remained sharp. Maintaining the balance of power was a delicate dance. He knew his role well—Prince Consort, the charming fool with just enough influence to be noticed, but never enough to overshadow Queen Elowen. And that was exactly how he preferred it.

His recent involvement in Serewyn had already drawn some unwanted eyes. Whispers followed his name, a mix of admiration and suspicion. But Mikhailis didn't care for influence or power. Those were Elowen's domain. He played his part—aloof, playful, disinterested. A perfect mask.

Yet beneath that mask was a man who understood the game far too well.

Mikhailis slipped through the antechamber door and stopped as if he had stepped into an illusion. The round dining table in the centre of his royal suite sagged under enough dishes to feed a minor barony: two whole pheasants lacquered in apple-wine glaze, a tureen of carrot-ginger soup still steaming, pyramids of butter-glossed rolls, candied lemons sparkling with sugar frost, bowls of jewel-bright berries, and an entire custard tart the size of a buckler. Silver domes hid yet more surprises, their polished lids reflecting the stucco ceiling like tiny moons.

When did the kitchens declare war on moderation? he wondered, eyes widening with boyish delight.

Cerys clanked in behind him, helm dangling from one gauntleted hand. "Surprise," she said, but the proud tilt of her chin announced I did this far louder than her calm voice. Her ponytail—finally knotted back into some semblance of order—swished as she crossed the room.

Serelith followed, swathed once more in dignified indigo robes. She glided to the table and lifted a dome with a flourish. Beneath sat a tower of honeycake slices layered with spiced cream. "A balanced meal," she announced. "Protein, vegetables, and sugar sufficient to fuel a small coup."

Mikhailis pinched the bridge of his nose, laughing. "You two raid the royal larder every time I blink."

"It was this or let you faint in front of the duke," Cerys said, shouldering out of her breastplate with a metallic sigh. "A fallen prince makes terrible optics."