The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"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."

Serelith's lips curved. "Besides, the kitchens owe me favours after last month's aphro—" She caught Cerys's glare and coughed into her hand. "Herbal experiment. They were… grateful."

He moved to the table, drawn by the pheasant's caramelised scent. "I am grateful too," he admitted, slicing into the tender breast. Juice pooled like melted amber.

Rodion's voice flickered across his vision, text scrolling in icy blue. <Caloric estimate: 8 600. Post-meal lethargy probability: 62 percent. Recommend moderate portions.>

Mikhailis carved a second, then a third slice. Your face is a moderate portion. He forked meat onto his plate, pretending not to hear the AI's exasperated beep.

Serelith assembled a plate for him anyway—balanced, colourful, annoyingly sensible. "Eat first, jest later." She set it before him with a soft click of china. Her fingertips brushed his wrist, a gentle pressure that lingered half a second too long.

Cerys plopped down beside Mikhailis, grabbed a roll, and tore it in two with battlefield efficiency. Her amber eyes, fierce and hungry, glared at Serelith as she took a bite. "Starving. And it's someone's fault," she grumbled around a mouthful, her voice muffled but her annoyance clear.

Serelith, ever the picture of mischievous grace, reached for a honeyed fig, her fingers elegant even in the simple act of picking it up. She bit into the fig, and golden nectar glistened on her lips. "I ensured your beauty sleep, wolf-girl. You're welcome," she replied, her voice a purr of amusement, but a faint spark of challenge danced in her violet eyes.

"You drugged me!" Cerys shot back, slamming her half-eaten roll onto the plate, crumbs scattering like shrapnel. "Next time, I'll tie you up first!"

"Oh?" Serelith's violet eyes glimmered with interest, a slow, wicked smile curling at the edges of her lips. "Promises, promises, dear knight. Shall I bring the silk ropes, or do you prefer something with a bit more… bite?"

Mikhailis raised both palms, trying to play the peacemaker. "Children, if we could postpone the bondage negotiation until after lunch?" he quipped, his tone light, but his gaze danced between them, caught between amusement and exasperation.

Cerys huffed, her cheeks a brilliant pink that crept all the way to the tips of her ears. But her indignation didn't stop her from tearing another chunk of bread and devouring it like a warrior seizing victory.

Serelith's gaze lingered on Cerys for a moment longer, her teasing smile softening just a touch. Then she turned her attention back to the table, helping herself to a slice of roasted pheasant. The rich, apple-wine glaze shimmered under the light, and Serelith savored it with a soft, delighted hum.

But then Serelith's expression shifted to one of feigned innocence. She leaned back slightly, a hand lightly touching her throat. "I must confess, I'm quite famished myself. I wonder why?" Her voice dropped to a soft, almost sultry murmur. "Perhaps because someone kept… pounding me so hard last night that I thought my throat might go hoarse from all the screaming."

The words hung in the air like a spark over dry kindling. Cerys's amber eyes widened, and a fierce, determined light flared within them. She refused to let Serelith claim victory. "Oh, is that so?" Cerys shot back, leaning forward, her voice a low growl. "You're not the only one who got pounded. He wasn't exactly gentle with me either. I can still feel it."

Mikhailis, in the middle of a sip of wine, choked, the liquid burning down his throat. He coughed, quickly covering his mouth with a napkin, his face a mix of shock, amusement, and embarrassment. "Ladies… please…" he managed, voice strained but laced with a helpless, affectionate laugh.

Serelith leaned closer, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. "Oh? Are you blushing, Your Highness? Surely you weren't shy last night… when you had both of us at your mercy."

Cerys's fierce glare softened, a faint, amused smile tugging at her lips. "He's not shy. He's just trying to keep his dignity intact."

Mikhailis let out a long, exaggerated sigh, finally recovering his breath. "Dignity? In this room? With the two of you? I surrendered that hours ago."

The three of them laughed, the sound light and warm, filling the chamber. Mikhailis leaned back in his chair, feeling the tension in his shoulders melt away. Around them, the table groaned under the weight of the extravagant feast, a banquet fit for a minor barony. Roasted pheasant, crisp greens, fresh bread still steaming, honey-drizzled figs, golden-browned potatoes, and a custard tart as large as a buckler—all delicacies that seemed almost too much for just the three of them.

Mikhailis's gaze drifted over the dishes, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. "Did… did you two order all this?" he asked, incredulous.

Cerys crossed her arms, leaning back with a smug smile. "Of course. After everything last night, we figured you'd need it."

Serelith's smile softened. "And you nearly skipped lunch entirely because of that procession. Honestly, someone has to make sure you don't faint in front of the nobles."

Mikhailis chuckled, warmth blooming in his chest. They knew him too well—better than anyone else in this palace of masked smiles and whispered ambitions. They saw through his lazy, careless facade, saw the man beneath who tried to maintain the delicate balance of power between himself and Elowen.

Because in truth, Mikhailis didn't want power. He didn't want influence. He didn't want the court's whispering admiration or fearful respect. Those were Elowen's realm. His place was here—in this small, chaotic bubble of laughter, teasing, and shameless indulgence.

But he wasn't naive. He knew that his recent involvement in the Serewyn affair had drawn too much attention. Whispers followed him now—rumors of his cunning, his influence, his connection to the Queen's decisions. Some nobles saw him as a rising star, others as a shadow behind Elowen's throne. Neither image suited him. Neither image was one he desired.

So he played his role—the charming, foolish Prince Consort. The man who seemed more interested in wine, women, and whispered jokes than in the subtle dance of court politics. But even that mask had to be worn carefully. If he appeared too competent, if his influence seemed too great, it would undermine Elowen. It would threaten the balance they had both worked so hard to maintain.

And that… he would never allow.

"Are you going to keep staring at the food, or are you going to eat?" Cerys's voice broke through his thoughts, her tone teasing but gentle.

"Right, right. Before Serelith starts a lecture on proper nutrition," Mikhailis quipped, grabbing his fork. He piled his plate with a mix of roasted vegetables and a slice of the glazed pheasant, the rich scent filling his senses.

Serelith leaned forward, a faint smile on her lips. "Oh, I wouldn't lecture you, Mikhailis. I'd simply watch you faint from hunger and then remind you I was right."

"Charming as ever," he muttered, but his grin was genuine.

They ate, the three of them falling into an easy rhythm—bickering, laughing, sharing bites of the best dishes, each moment filled with warmth. Mikhailis tapped the enchanted crystal panel on the wall, the enchanted screen flickering to life. He flicked through the options—epic dramas, heroic sagas, historical tragedies—before finally settling on a goofy action-comedy that had Cerys chuckling and Serelith rolling her eyes.

The sound of explosions and witty banter filled the room, a cheerful backdrop to their cozy meal. Mikhailis leaned back, his gaze drifting between the two women beside him. Cerys, with her fierce, sharp grin and warrior's pride, who always tried to be strong but melted under his touch. Serelith, with her mischievous smile and veiled wisdom, who hid her soft heart behind a mask of playful arrogance.

They were his chaos. His peace. His world.

And as the golden light of the afternoon slanted through the window, casting a warm glow over them, he let himself forget the rumors, the whispered ambitions, the careful balance of power. Here, he was just Mikhailis. The fool prince who laughed with his lovers, stole kisses between bites, and spun ridiculous jokes that made them groan.

"Hey, don't hog the custard," Cerys protested, leaning across to swipe a spoonful.

Serelith caught her wrist, gently but firmly. "Patience, wolf-girl. Or I'll turn your next wine to vinegar."

"Try it, mage, and I'll use your precious spellbook as kindling," Cerys shot back, but her grin gave away the empty threat.

Mikhailis leaned back, watching them bicker, and his smile softened. This was his happiness—messy, loud, filled with warmth. A life he had never imagined but would never trade for any throne, any title, any kingdom.

Plates clinked, cutlery chimed. Steam rose in lazy spirals, warming the cool spring air that drifted from the balcony. Every so often Mikhailis caught Serelith murmuring soft preservation cantrips so the dishes stayed piping hot, a tiny kindness that made his chest tighten.

Halfway through, he tapped the enchanted crystal panel on the wall. Icons flicked by—dramas, battle epics, tragic operas—until he settled on Blades & Banter, a ridiculous action comedy about an assassin forced to babysit a noble brat. Cerys's grin bloomed the moment the first pratfall landed; Serelith rolled her eyes but didn't protest, nibbling her custard tart in dainty arcs.

Between explosions Mikhailis let conversation drift to safer waters: a new training yard roof Cerys wanted for rainy-season drills; a rare herb Serelith had coaxed to bloom in her rooftop greenhouse. He sprinkled jokes like breadcrumbs, keeping their laughter light enough to drown the faint hum of court rumours outside the walls.

Still, every now and then a hush fell, and he felt those rumours prick along his spine. Admirers in Serewyn calling him "storm-breaker." Detractors in the capital whispering "ambition." He chewed slower, disguising the weight in his stomach as appetite.

Serelith noticed. Of course she did—she'd studied him like spell diagrams since the day they met. She reached across the armrest, poured crisp water into his goblet, and tapped the rim twice—a silent breathe. The concern in her small gesture steadied him better than any spell.

Cerys leaned back, boots propped on a footstool, and stretched with a catlike groan. "Film's over. We survived luncheon. Now what?"

Mikhailis leaned his head against the cushion, eyes half-closed. "Now I practise the ancient Veillon art of thinking-with-eyes-shut."

"You call that napping," Serelith said dryly.

"I call it strategic disengagement," he corrected, sipping water. "Keeps me from accidentally taking over the kingdom."

Cerys snorted. "As if you'd want the paperwork."

Exactly. He let the joke mask the truth—Elowen's crown shone brightest when he pretended it weighed nothing at all.

Sunlight shifted, pouring molten amber across Serelith's hair. She followed the glow to the balcony and pushed the doors wide. Warm air swept in, carrying far-off market chatter, the clink of wagons, the faint tune of a lute. Below, the city gears already turned for festival evening: banners of harvest gold fluttered, and carts of late-spring fruit rolled toward the plazas.

Serelith braced elbows on the balustrade. "Lanterns will go up soon," she murmured, voice dreamy as the wind tugged her sleeves. "Last year they shaped them like silver drakes. Even the grumpiest merchants laughed."

Cerys crossed the room, curiosity bright in her eyes. "Stalls stretch from south gate to riverfront. I used to sneak down after drills, buy fried dough, watch the fire dancers."

Mikhailis joined them, resting forearms on cool stone. From here the palace gardens swept downhill in terraces of violet iris and golden crocus. Beyond, rooftops clustered like painted tiles, smoke stacks rising, and the distant citadel wall drew a hard line between royal order and city chaos. He loved that line—the threshold where titles lost weight and night markets offered anonymity.

He turned, grinning. "Field trip?"

Cerys's answering grin was all wolf. "Thought you'd never ask."

Serelith tapped her chin. "Disguises mandatory. If the bards spot His Serene Consort trying to juggle caramel apples, it will make tomorrow's broadsheets."

Mikhailis mimed offence. "I'll have you know my juggling improved since last year's fiasco. One toasted vendor, minimal property damage."

"Three concussed dockworkers," Cerys corrected, laughing.

He shrugged. "Collateral charm."

Rodion chimed, tone drier than salted parchment. <Probability of collateral charm escalating to royal inquiry: high. Suggest contingency exit routes.>

Spoilsport. Mikhailis mentally filed the suggestion anyway; Elowen would scold but forgive bruises—scandals required careful escape plans.

Back inside, Serelith flicked her fingers and set wardrobe doors flying. Plain cloaks floated out: dark brown for blending, deep green for Cerys's hair, charcoal grey for herself. She laid them over the couch like a dressmaker presenting samples.

Cerys eyed the fabric, then tugged on the green cloak. "Matches my eyes. Good for shadow work."

"Your eyes are amber," Mikhailis pointed out.

"Same family," she said, fastening the clasp like a general donning colours.

He reached for the brown cloak but paused to rope his hair into a low tail—a trick taught by Lira to soften his aristocratic profile. Serelith caught the motion, stepped in, and smoothed a curl at his temple that defied every comb. The intimacy of the gesture—quick, confident, tender—turned his heartbeat sideways.

Cerys watched, expression unreadable, but when Serelith stepped back Cerys reached up and retied his cloak string that had already been perfect. Possessiveness, gentle and fierce. Heat pooled low in his chest.

Serelith cleared her throat. "Lantern lighting starts at seventh bell. We'll leave an hour before, use the western servants' gate. Few guards after shift change."

"Smart," Cerys agreed, buckling a short sword beneath her cloak. "No crests, no visible steel for you," she added to Mikhailis.

He saluted. "Prince of Subtlety, at your service."

They migrated back to the couch, meals finished, city buzzing beyond stone and ivy. Serelith curled against his left side, head pillowed on his shoulder. Cerys claimed his lap, legs stretched across, ankles crossing Serelith's calves. The afternoon sun painted them in molten topaz, every exhale slower than the last.

Mikhailis's gaze drifted to the empty plates, then to the two women breathing softly against him. No council table, no foreign envoy, just this fleeting quiet. He committed the scene to memory: fig-sweet scent on Serelith's hair; Cerys's gauntletless hand resting over his heartbeat; Rodion voluntarily silent, as if recognising the moment's fragility.

Bells tolled from the distant spire—four slow chimes marking the hour. The reverberation seeped through stone walls, curled around the trio like a lullaby.

Mikhailis let his eyes close. Even a fool prince deserves a sliver of peace. He felt Serelith's slow breaths feather over his collarbone, heard Cerys's contented hum. The weight of daggers and masks and whispered ambitions slipped away, replaced by an ache so sweet it almost hurt: the ache of belonging.

Outside, a breeze rattled the lantern hooks along the balcony, hinting at tonight's revelry—music, luminarias, chance chaos. Inside, contentment curled like smoke around them, warm and fragrant, holding them still, holding them safe, for just a few stolen heartbeats before the next adventure.