The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"Lady Serelith?"

The voice snapped her back. The vision dissolved, the walls of her study rushing back into focus. She jumped, her teacup nearly toppling. "W-What?" Her voice came out sharper than she intended.

A young apprentice peeked around the bookshelf, wide-eyed. "I… I just wanted to deliver the mana crystal requisition forms. S-Should I… should I come back later?"

"No! No, that's fine. Just… leave them on the desk." Serelith tried to steady her breathing, brushing a trembling hand against her flushed cheeks. The apprentice nodded nervously, scurrying away.

Serelith let out a long, shaky breath. "Okay, Serelith… work, work… focus…" she whispered to herself, straightening the scattered pages on her desk, her fingers still tingling, the warmth in her chest stubbornly refusing to fade.

_____

Across the palace grounds, Cerys planted her boots in the sand of the western training yard and let the morning sun warm the nape of her neck. Dust motes drifted in lazy spirals through shafts of light, caught between the tall practice pavilions like tiny golden embers. Two dozen knights waited in orderly ranks before her—shields up, helms gleaming, discipline tight as drum-skin. They looked ready, but Cerys could still taste the sleep in their posture, a sluggishness in the way they shifted weight from foot to foot.

Inside the visor, faint blue tact-lines buzzed to life, sketching silhouettes around every soldier.

<Enemy-formation analysis complete. Central shield wall vulnerable on the right knee axis. Suggested flanking maneuver at 27 degrees. Enemy response timing: three seconds. Would you like a counter-formation?>

Her mouth quirked into a small, proud grin. "Yes, Rodion. Overlay the pattern."

Pale arrows spread across her vision, angling through the sand in crisp, luminous trails. Cerys's pulse kicked up with the old thrill of command—like hearing a war-horn just before the charge—but this time it pulsed in perfect unison with the measured beat in her ear.

She raised her voice, clear and even, letting it roll over the field. "Left flank, pivot twenty-seven degrees. Rear line advance on my mark—three, two, one, move!"

Boots thundered. Shields clacked as the outer ring spun, and spears lanced forward right as the front rank split. From above it must have looked like a flower unfolding: precise, deadly, beautiful. Cerys watched the maneuver bloom, chest swelling with pride. Only a few weeks ago they would have hesitated, lost half a heartbeat to guesswork. Now they flowed like water from a high spring.

On the sideline, Vyrelda—tall, blonde-haired, arms folded—tracked every motion. When the final spear snapped into place she gave a single nod, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her stern mouth. "You've sharpened them," she called. "And yourself. Your corrections are minimal, your timing uncanny."

Heat crept up Cerys's neck, but she kept her tone casual. "Repetition breeds instinct, Commander."

<False modesty detected,> Rodion said with a hint of smug digital drawl. <Your command latency has fallen by twenty-one percent since adopting my tactical overlay.>

Cerys nearly coughed at the dry brag. Shut it, she thought, fighting a grin. We talked about humility, remember?

<Humility module currently set to thirty percent. Increasing to forty on next update.>

Training continued for two full circuits: shield drills, close-quarter grappling, live-blade sparring. Through it all the visor mapped threat cones, highlighted weak wrists, suggested footwork angles. Cerys found herself adjusting stances without conscious thought, gliding in half a step to deflect a strike here, barking a quicker order there. The knights noticed too—eyes bright beneath their helms, shoulders set with newfound confidence.

When Vyrelda dismissed them for water, several lingered to clap Cerys on the back. Sir Jorin, broad as an ox, shook his head in disbelief. "Never seen coordination like this outside a tourney final. What's your secret, Wolf?"

Cerys shrugged, wiping sweat from her brow. "Early mornings and a lot of yelling."

Rodion piped up privately. <Correction: twenty-five percent yelling, thirty-five percent visor support, forty percent your inherent brilliance.>

Her lips twitched. I'll take the flattery.

Once the yard emptied, she slipped into the shade of the equipment shed. The rush of command still hummed through her blood, but a different heat simmered underneath—one she'd been denying since dawn. She closed the wooden door, leaned against a rack of practice halberds, and exhaled.

"Rodion," she murmured, voice husky, "run the tent playback. Timestamp four minutes in."

The visor darkened, then the cramped fortune-teller tent bloomed around her—lanterns swinging, skin gleaming, breath rising in ragged plumes. She saw herself perched on the edge of the low table, legs spread, cheeks blotched scarlet as Mikhailis's mouth traced a sinful path down her neck. Beside them Serelith lay sprawled, violet hair tangled in candle wax, moaning into Mikhailis's wandering hand.

Cerys's throat went dry. The audio—softened but clear—caught her own voice gasping, "Harder… gods, harder…" She winced and flushed, half mortified, half aching to hear more.

"Show me from behind," she whispered.

The angle shifted: now she watched her scarlet ponytail whip as she arched under Mikhailis's thrusts, saw the ripple of muscle in his back each time he drove forward. Wet sounds, slick and urgent, filled her ears. The way his broad hands splayed over her waist—she could almost feel the imprint on her skin again.

Her knees buckled. She braced herself on a barrel, breath shallow, heart thundering. "Save," she said when she could speak. "Mark as private file 'Tent—Rear View.'"

<File encrypted. Key phrase required for future access.>

"Key phrase… 'moonlit wolf.'"

<Confirmed.>

She let the vision fade, darkness bleeding back to the dim shed. But the memory clung stubbornly—heat pulsing low in her belly, the ghost of his weight pressing her into imaginary straw.

"Later," she told herself, pushing off the barrels. "Sparring dummy now, fantasies later."

Still flustered, she returned the visor brightness to training mode and trudged out toward the yard for cooldown drills.

_____

Evening settled in warm, rosy layers over the palace. Long shadows stretched through the stone corridors like sleepy cats. Cerys, freshly washed and back in her uniform, rounded a corner near the library stacks—and nearly collided with Serelith.

The magician wore soft lilac robes now, monocle glittering under torchlight. Her cheeks were still pink, eyes glassy as if she'd stepped from a sauna. They froze, inches apart.

An awkward beat passed. Then Serelith arched an eyebrow, lips curling. "Someone looks flushed. Overdid the push-ups?"

Cerys folded her arms. "Look who's talking. Your hair's frizzed, and you've got that just-escaped-the-oven glow."

Serelith sniffed. "Violet hair does not frizz, dear. It billows." Her gaze dipped to the faint red mark still visible on Cerys's collarbone. "Enjoying your little insights too much, Cerys?"

"At least I don't tangle myself in ribbons while squealing his name." Cerys smirked, pleased when Serelith's ears reddened.

"Oh, please. From what I heard, your moans could stir the castle gargoyles."

"Careful—I'm armed." Cerys tapped the hilt of her side dagger.

"And I'm dangerous even naked." Serelith flicked her monocle chain.

Banter crackled like kindling, sparks flying closer to laughter than anger. Curiosity tugged at them both, louder than pride.

Serelith lowered her voice. "Rodion… show the full playback of the tent scene. Both angles. Side-by-side."

Cerys's breath caught. "Make it wide. I want to see everything."

Blue light flickered in the monocle and visor. The corridor's stone walls fell away, replaced by overlapping vistas of heaving bodies, lantern glow, and raw, breathless pleasure. One pane showed Mikhailis bent over Serelith, hand fisted in violet curls; the other captured him lifting Cerys's leg to his shoulder, driving into her with slow, deliberate power. Audio merged—gasps, broken pleas, the slap of skin.

They watched in silence, lungs syncing with the frantic rhythm on display. Serelith's fingers drifted to her own throat, brushing the pulse hammering there. Cerys dug nails into her forearm to stay upright.

A soft whimper escaped Serelith. Cerys shivered, heat spiraling low. They leaned unconsciously closer, shoulder to shoulder, mesmerized by their own mirrored sin.

"By the stars," Serelith breathed. "Look at your face right there—so… hungry."

Cerys swallowed. "You're one to talk. You look like you're about to faint."

"Worth fainting for," Serelith whispered, eyes shining.

Another minute and they might have kissed—from shared arousal, from mischief, from the dizzy power of voyeurism aimed at themselves. Instead a crisp voice sliced the air.

Serelith's pulse quickened, her fingers trembling slightly as she whispered, "Rodion… increase the audio just a bit. I want to hear… everything."

<Volume adjusted. Audio clarity enhanced. Proceeding with playback.>

The scene in the display shifted, and now the tent came alive—not just with the swaying lanterns or the heated embrace, but with sound. The soft rustle of Mikhailis's cloak falling to the floor, the muffled gasp as Serelith's back arched, the wet, rhythmic sounds of their bodies meeting—all of it wrapped around Serelith and Cerys like a whispered confession.

"M-Mikhailis… please… more…!" Serelith's own voice cried out, breathless and desperate, a perfect echo of her passion. Cerys's voice followed, a throaty moan. "F-Faster… gods… yes…!"

The display split into two views—one capturing Mikhailis's strong, bare back flexing as he leaned over Serelith, her violet hair spilling like liquid silk across the table, her fingers clawing at his shoulders. The other view showed Cerys, her red hair a fiery cascade, her toned legs wrapped around Mikhailis's waist as he leaned forward, their lips crashing together, tongues entwining with wild hunger.

The sounds deepened—the slick, rhythmic wetness, the muffled slap of skin, mingled gasps, and whispered names. Each thrust, each breath, each desperate whisper seemed to resonate louder in the narrow corridor where Serelith and Cerys stood watching. Their own faces, flushed with desire, twisted with pleasure, mirrored in the display. Cerys bit her lip, her own pulse racing faster.

"L-Look at his face… the way he… looks at you…"