The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Mikhailis stepped out from the shrine's hushed interior into the violet hush of early dusk. Cool air kissed his heated cheeks, and the unfamiliar sweetness of rain-damp ivy drifted through the colonnade. Lantern beetles began their slow ascent up the trunks, trailing dots of amber light. Steady, he told himself, passing a palm down the front of his robe. Silk clung to lingering perspiration; he smoothed the fabric anyway, pretending the gesture erased the memory of two warm bodies pressed to him only minutes ago.

Birdsong fluttered above—a fluted chorus that usually calmed his mind—but tonight each note felt like a teasing nudge. Stop it, he scolded the birds, then himself. He rolled his shoulders, slipped on his outer coat, and forced a casual smile.

Stone wheels whispered over gravel. The royal carriage curved into view, lacquered blackwood gleaming even in low light. Two dusk-paw elk shook their antlers and snorted, releasing white puffs that curled in the air. Mikhailis's smile broadened. Cerys drives—good. After everything, a quiet ride with a taciturn knight will be perfect.

A footman opened the carriage door. Mikhailis hopped up the single step, the playful quip already formed: "Miss me, Lone Wolf?" He never finished. Inside, a forest of legs blocked his path—booted, stockinged, slippered: far too many to belong to one person.

He counted instinctively. One, two—Cerys's armored greaves. Three, four—Vyrelda's polished riding boots. Fifth pair—elegant velvet slippers he recognized as Lira's. Sixth—decorative high heels, shimmering with little sapphires: Serelith's unmistakable flair. And then, tucked gracefully beneath the opposite seat, Queen Elowen's white-silk shoes. Five women. Zero solitude. His mouth opened, closed, opened again.

Cerys fixed him with a narrowed stare, arms folded over her chestplate. Vyrelda leaned back, gloved fingers drumming on the window ledge, eyeing him like a hawk that had spotted a rabbit suspiciously wiping its mouth. Lira sat perfectly straight, hands folded atop her skirts, reminding him of a butler inspecting dusty shelves. Serelith reclined like a cat, ruby lips curling upward, bottle of something suspicious already uncorked. Elowen, radiant even in travel cloak, offered a tender smile that made the flush on his cheeks deepen.

He coughed into his fist. "...Didn't expect a full team here."

Cerys delivered the first volley. "You took a while. We got worried." Her tone held the crisp snap of a drillmaster.

"Unreachable. Suspicious." Lira's soft voice somehow hit harder; nothing cut quite like elegant disappointment.

Serelith extended the small crystal flask, fingers brushing his. "Drink. You look… spiritually drained." The pause before the last word dripped with innuendo thick enough to swim in.

Elowen's gentle whisper flowed over him like warm tea. "We simply missed you, dear."

But the dagger landed from Vyrelda, who leaned forward until iron-grey eyes nearly touched his. "You didn't… say anything unnecessary, did you?"

Mikhailis felt sweat prickle at his hairline. I didn't do anything with the Saintess! his mind yelped. A traitorous second voice coughed, Well, maybe with the priestesses—but definitely not the Saintess!

<How noble. A sacred ritual in a holy shrine. Shall I etch this in your hagiography?> Rodion's sardonic tone rippled from the crystalline lens of his glasses.

He slapped a hand over the frame. "Shut up," he hissed, disguising it as another cough. Cerys raised a brow. Elowen's head tilted, curious.

He took the only empty corner of the seat, wedged between Cerys's armored hip and Lira's perfumed shoulder. The carriage lurched into motion, elk hooves tapping a steady rhythm on the road. Lantern crystals outside cast slow-moving bars of light across everyone's knees.

Mikhailis inhaled, hoping to collect himself, but the faint smell of moon-petal soap clinging to his sleeves only resurrected images he'd rather forget: silver lanterns, soft gasps, a spill of long curls over moss. Heat shot back to his cheeks.

Cerys leaned an inch closer, red ponytail swinging. "Your face still looks flushed. Fever?"

"Just the humidity," he lied.

"It's a cool evening," Lira murmured.

Serelith giggled softly, swirling the liquid in her bottle. "Humidity of the soul, perhaps."

A groan brewed in his chest. If I die right here, entomb me in the Grove; at least the roots will keep my secrets.

But secrets never stayed buried around Serelith. She tapped the glass lip against his knuckles. "Really, take a sip. Your energy's practically humming. Or buzzing?" She cast a sly glance at Elowen, who feigned innocence while hiding a smile behind her hand.

He accepted the bottle, if only to keep her from describing the "buzz" in greater detail. The draught was honey-thick and pepper-sharp, some tonic to re-circulate mana. It burned down his throat, clearing lingering tension—briefly.

Elowen reached out, fingertips brushing the back of his hand. Her touch was steady, grounding. Yet before comfort could settle, Cerys thrust a parchment across his line of sight.

"Your Highness, please review the rookies' footwork diagrams. I altered formation B-seven." She pointed at tiny sketches of swords and arrows. "Does the pivot look balanced?"

He blinked between her earnest eyes and the cluttered sheet. "Balanced is relative—"

Serelith plopped a pastry atop the parchment. "Food first, numbers later." Sugary crumbs cascaded, peppering Cerys's ink. The knight's eye twitched.

Lira's cool fingers closed on his opposite arm. "Ignore them. How many sigils did they force you to chant? Your spiritual reserve is finite." She pressed lightly, searching for a pulse.

"I'm fine," he said, voice an octave higher than intended. Vyrelda snorted.

"You look decimated." The sword-captain crossed her long legs, metal greaves clinking. "Just keep quiet about private ceremonies. The last time a prince returned from the shrine flushed, the gossip lasted a decade."

Elowen squeezed his hand, eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and concern. "Let him breathe, everyone." She turned to him, thumb stroking his knuckles. "We can talk later, in peace."

Peace proved theoretical. The carriage's velvet interior vibrated with overlapping questions, concerns, and insinuations.

Cerys angled the parchment again, dead-set on correcting formation geometry. Serelith prodded him to bite the pastry. Lira dabbed a cool cloth on his brow, judging his skin temperature. Vyrelda flicked invisible dust off his shoulder, eyes narrowing each time she caught the faint scent of moon-petal on his robes. Elowen attempted calm conversation but was cut off by each new interruption.

Is this what war feels like? he wondered, smile plastered while chaos buzzed. Small jolts of carriage wheels sent everyone swaying; knees bumped his thighs; perfume and steel mingled until he no longer knew which scent came from whom. His heartbeat tried to sync to five different rhythms and failed spectacularly.

Elowen leaned close, voice barely a whisper. "Truly, love, are you all right?"

He nodded, but guilt tugged. If she knew what actually happened—how the vial had tipped, how heat had spiralled—would that gentle concern shift to hurt? Shame tightened in his chest. He bit into Serelith's pastry to hide a grimace. Sweet berry filling burst over his tongue. Seed of sin in sugar crust, he mused darkly.

Rodion, ever helpful, offered a private commentary. <Data indicates your cardiovascular output is thirty-seven percent above baseline. Either you're aroused, terrified, or both.>

Both, he admitted silently.

The memory resurfaced—silver hair glimpsed through the lattice, the Saintess standing outside, quiet witness to his folly. He pictured her tranquil eyes widening, then turning away, perhaps in disappointment. She knows. By dawn, everyone will know. Panic fluttered, but he buried it under a cough.

"Your Highness, eat slower," Lira scolded softly, wiping stray crumbs. Her fingers lingered, half-concern, half-something else. He remembered saving her, the gratitude that blossomed into devotion. Now her gaze shimmered with protective fire he didn't deserve.

Cerys cleared her throat pointedly. "The diagrams?"

Serelith nudged Cerys's elbow, causing ink to blot. "Oops."

Vyrelda sighed, muttering, "Children," though she looked scarcely older herself. She stared out the window at the lengthening shadows, tension coiled in her shoulders.

Elowen laughed—gentle, melodic, diffusing the moment. "Let him rest until the gates, at least." Her gaze slid back to Mikhailis, apology and affection mingling. "We were simply anxious when you didn't return on schedule."

"I appreciate the… escort," he managed, voice still strangled with nerves. He risked levity: "Next time I'll bring souvenirs—maybe a pocket prophet or two."

Cerys's lips twitched despite herself. Lira rolled her eyes but smiled. Even Vyrelda's stern mouth softened at the corners.

For a brief, luxurious minute, the carriage quieted. Hoofbeats padded, lanterns swayed, and his heartbeat slowed to something manageable. He breathed in—berry pastry, sandalwood from Elowen's cloak, faint iron from Cerys's armor—and exhaled tension.

But calm shattered the moment Serelith hummed a hymn from the shrine, deliberately echoing the cadence of earlier moans. Color rushed back to his ears. Lira's head whipped around, suspicion flaring. Cerys looked confused, though a faint blush crept up her neck. Elowen's eyes narrowed knowingly at Serelith. Vyrelda groaned into her palm.

Serelith winked at him. "Lovely melody, isn't it?"