The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Serelith glided between towering shelves of shimmering grimoires, soft lamplight catching on the tiny silver beads woven into her hair. Every few steps she paused, letting her monocle focus on fresh curiosities that lined the hallway: a suspended cube of frozen lightning; a set of bronze rings spinning in opposite directions, refusing all known laws of motion; a tapestry stitched from phantasmal thread that shifted scenes each time you blinked.

Through the lens, each object bloomed with translucent data-ribbons—temperature, mana drift, age estimations—numbers dancing like excited sprites across her vision. She felt the pleasant thrum of being permanently "plugged in," a private lecture only she could hear.

Rodion's measured tone kept pace with her thoughts.

<Heat levels around the lightning cube are five percent above safety margin. Recommend lowering ambient torches by two lumens or installing a frost glyph under the pedestal.>

She cocked her head, noticing a faint distortion in the air—a shimmer like summer haze. "Good eye. Send a maintenance ticket to Apprentice Doma. He loves frost work."

<Appending. Apprentice Doma notified. He appears currently idle—likely polishing that sub-par thesis you rejected last week.>

"Rodion!" She suppressed a giggle. "Less sass."

<Respectfully noted. Mild sarcasm module throttled.>

Down the corridor, Senior Magister Kael—stooped, hawk-nosed—approached, a new staff tucked beneath his arm. Seeing Serelith, he lifted a brow. "Lady Vyrel, a moment? The wolf-bone focus on this staff refuses alignment."

She accepted the rod, monocle flicking through spectral views. Runes flared scarlet, indicating mismatched etch-depth. "The third sigil's cut too shallow. Needs a half-hair deeper."

Kael's eyes widened. "You spotted that without a tool?"

She tapped the glowing lens. "New assistant. Never sleeps."

Kael chuckled, both impressed and slightly unnerved, then hurried off muttering about "unfair advantages." Serelith smiled after him. A month ago his approval was rare; now he sought her first.

She rounded the corner into her personal alcove—an airy nook draped in violet chiffon, scented faintly of lavender and ink. Crystalline jars of spell reagents lined an oak desk. Floating quills scribbled notes on hovering parchment, following Rodion's silent dictation.

At the center of the desk sat today's prime puzzle: a heart-shaped ruby core sealed in a cage of orichalcum vines. It pulsed with slow fire, like a sleeping dragon. The monocle's overlay rendered a full diagnostic: pulse rate, internal fractures, comparative resonance to known draconic hearts.

<Warning: minute stress fissures detected. Recommend incremental mana siphon to relieve pressure before extraction procedure. Failure to do so may induce sympathetic detonation. Estimated blast radius: four metres.>

"A blast in my study would ruin the upholstery." She laid two fingers on the cage, murmuring a stabilizing chant while Rodion supplied harmonic pitch values in real time. The ruby's fiery glow evened to a calm heartbeat.

Apprentice Talia hovered in the doorway, eyes round. "Ma'am, how did you balance that so quickly?"

"Teamwork," Serelith answered, lifting the monocle with a wink. "And practice."

Talia blushed, bowed, and scurried off. Serelith's cheeks warmed with pride; mentoring felt less burdensome when every answer sat a whisper away.

A soft chime rang inside her ear—Rodion's break reminder. She sighed. "Time for tea, apparently."

She poured fragrant moon-flower brew, settled into the plush velvet chair hidden behind a barricade of reference tomes, and allowed the tension in her shoulders to melt. Steam curled around her face, and for a luxurious moment she simply enjoyed the quiet.

Yet curiosity tugged. She bit her lip, glancing toward the doorway to ensure privacy. Heart fluttering, she spoke barely above a breath. "Rodion… show me the third-person playback of our... encounter in the tent with Mikhailis."

The monocle's overlay dimmed; colour drained from the real world. In its place blossomed a crystal-clear image of the cramped fortune-teller's tent, lanternlight painting gold on bare skin. She watched herself, flushed and trembling, pinned beneath Mikhailis while Cerys's freckled hands dragged desperate trails across his back. It was surreal—like viewing an illicit stage play starring her own body.

The angle was frontal, respectful yet achingly intimate. Serelith pressed a fist to her mouth, breath catching.

"Rodion… switch to an overhead view… I want to see…"

The perspective soared. Now she saw the curve of her spine arching off the cluttered desk, violet hair splayed like a fan, the ripple of muscles along Mikhailis's flank as he moved within her. Cerys's wild red hair framed a fierce, hungry grin. Serelith's thighs instinctively pressed together under her skirt.

<Would you like me to enhance the audio quality?> Rodion offered.

"Yes… but… but keep it at a low volume…" she whispered, cheeks hot.

A soft gasp filled her ear—her own voice. "M-Mikhailis…" Then his low growl, tender and sinful at once. The counter-rhythm of Cerys's breathy cries braided through. Every moan, every wet kiss, each needy slap of skin on skin: it all flooded her senses.

She shivered, fingers tightening around the teacup as steam kissed her face. Her heart hammered. The playback felt impossibly vivid—like stepping outside her own body to watch desire unfold in perfect clarity. A secret theatre only she could attend.

"M-Mikhailis… you… you're too much…" she heard herself whimper in the recording. Hearing it made her stomach flip pleasantly.

For one indulgent minute she let the scene play, cheeks burning, chest heaving. Then a shuffle sounded down the hall. She jolted, nearly spilling tea. "Close playback, Rodion!"

The tent dissolved; shelves and scrolls rushed back into view. She patted her flushed cheeks, straightened her robes, and drew a deep breath.

Back to work, Serelith… don't lose focus…

Yet the warmth lingered—an ember beneath her ribs—as she rose to tackle the next artifact, monocle gleaming like a conspiratorial star over her eye.

Serelith leaned back in her plush chair, the warmth still pooling in her cheeks, her pulse racing beneath her skin. The room around her felt distant, a mere shadow against the vivid memory she had just relived. But an insatiable curiosity tugged at her, a gentle, wicked whisper that coaxed her to indulge a little longer.

"Rodion… show me the… the horse scene," she whispered, her voice barely more than a trembling breath.

<Understood. Displaying requested memory—third-person perspective. Enhancing audio at preferred volume.>

The room dimmed once more, reality fading as the vision filled her sight. She found herself staring at a vast, moonlit forest path, trees looming like silent guardians on either side. Silver leaves whispered in the gentle wind, their glow a soft, ethereal light. And there she was—riding on a sturdy brown mare, her thighs pressing against the horse's warm, muscular frame. But that wasn't what stole her breath.

Her own body was pressed against Mikhailis's strong chest, his hands resting on her hips, guiding her every subtle movement. The steady rhythm of the horse's gallop sent a delicious, pulsing sensation through her, and she could see the faint sheen of sweat glistening on her bare thighs. The fabric of her dress was bunched around her waist, and every stride of the horse sent a jolt of pleasure racing up her spine.

From the rear angle, she saw it—Mikhailis's thick, pulsing length pushing deep inside her with each rhythmic bounce of the horse. His lips were at her ear, his breath hot against her cheek, his voice a low, teasing whisper. "Careful, Serelith… if you moan too loudly, Cerys will hear."

Serelith's breath caught, her cheeks burning. In the vision, she saw herself bite her own hand, muffling a desperate, trembling moan. Her violet hair flowed behind her, caught in the wind, a wild, silken curtain. Her eyes squeezed shut, her fingers clawing at Mikhailis's arm, her body pressing back against him, desperate for more.

"M-Mik… Mikhailis… p-please… s-slower…" she whispered, her voice a trembling plea. But he only chuckled, his hands tightening on her waist. "Don't pretend you want me to stop… I can feel how much you love this."

Her voice came out a desperate, muffled gasp. "B-But… Cerys… she'll see…"

"Only if you lose control," he whispered, his lips grazing her ear. And yet, with every bounce of the horse, her control slipped further. Wet, needy sounds filled the playback—the subtle, slick rhythm of their desperate union, the faint, muffled moans that escaped her even through her bitten hand.

"Rodion…" Serelith's voice trembled, her fingers digging into the armrests of her chair in the real world. "Show me… show me her expression…"

The view shifted instantly, and now she saw herself from the side—Mikhailis's fierce, hungry gaze fixed on her, a playful, dominant smile tugging at his lips. His hands held her firmly, his powerful frame pressing against her back. And there, just ahead of them, rode Cerys—her red hair fluttering in the wind, completely oblivious to the forbidden passion unfolding mere feet behind her.

The contrast made Serelith's heart race faster. To be so close to being caught… the risk, the thrill, it all sent a shiver racing through her.

The view shifted again—an overhead angle. Serelith's violet hair flowed like a silken river, her slender fingers gripping Mikhailis's forearm, her teeth biting into his palm to stifle her desperate cries. His other hand wrapped possessively around her waist, guiding her rhythm. His strong, toned chest pressed against her back, his lips tracing along her neck.

Her breath in the real world came faster. "Rodion… enhance the audio just… just a little more…"

<Enhancing audio. Applying noise isolation for clarity.>

Now she heard it perfectly—the wet, slick sounds of their union, her muffled gasps, the desperate, trembling whispers slipping free. "Nnnh… M-Mik… M-Mikhalis… I… I can't… I-I'm going to…"

"You're not going to give in that easily, are you?" His voice was a low, teasing growl, his grip on her waist tightening, his thrusts growing faster with the horse's steady rhythm.

Serelith's own voice was a desperate, shuddering whisper. "I… I can't… I can't hold back…"

And then she saw it—the moment her body arched, her head falling back against his shoulder, her lips parting in a silent scream. Her fingers dug into his arm, her body shuddering as pleasure crashed over her, the rhythmic slap of their heated union growing louder.

"Serelith…" Mikhailis's voice was a low, possessive growl, his own movements growing more desperate. "I love… seeing you lose control…"

"M-Mikhalis…!" Her voice was a desperate, trembling cry, her teeth biting harder on his hand, her body pressing back against him, desperate for every inch, every touch.

Serelith's cheeks burned, her chest rising and falling, her breath a frantic melody in the quiet of her study. The sight, the sounds, the sheer intensity of it all—she felt her own thighs pressing together, a sweet, aching heat blooming beneath her robes.

But then—

"Lady Serelith?"