The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"Lovely melody, isn't it?"

The lilt in her voice scraped across every half-healed nerve in Mikhailis's body. She sounded like a bard reciting nursery rhymes—except every note reminded him exactly which song she was echoing: the breathy cadence of two priestesses singing his name a short hour ago.

I'm surrounded by wolves, he decided, pulse drumming behind his ears—half-terrified, half-thrilled. Outside, the dusk-blue scenery rolled by in gentle rhythm, but inside the coach felt like the tight deck of a warship in heavy seas. Velvet curtains swayed, lantern crystals swung, and five sets of eyes pinned him like crossbow bolts.

The elk picked up speed on a downhill stretch, jostling the carriage. Cerys braced a hand on the ceiling, the polished steel of her gauntlet brushing his hair. "Steady," she muttered. Even her concern sounded like an order.

Lira, elegance incarnate, smoothed her skirt as if the bump were a personal insult. "Honestly, Vyrelda, could you drive with less… turbulence?"

From the coachman's perch, Vyrelda barked a laugh through the hatch. "Turbulence keeps passengers honest."

"Meaning?" Lira shot back, eyes narrowing.

"Meaning," Vyrelda called, "any loose secrets will tumble out on the floor, ready for sweeping."

Mikhailis nearly choked on the pastry crumb sliding down his throat. Loose secrets. Goddess spare me.

Elowen's fingertips pressed his arm once, firm and warm, a silent assurance she still had his back. Yet even her royal calm couldn't smother the prickle of dread climbing his spine.

He shifted, hoping to gain a breath of space, but the move earned him fresh scrutiny. Serelith draped herself across the opposite seat, bottle dangling from two fingers. A tiny bead of amber liquid rolled down the glass neck, sparkling in lantern-light before slipping onto her gloved knuckle. She licked it away with exaggerated languor.

Cerys scoffed. "Can you be serious for one moment?"

"I am serious," Serelith purred. "Spiritual well-being is essential to national security. If our prince is depleted—" She tapped the bottle against her own lips. "—who knows what disasters await?"

Elowen cleared her throat. "Serelith… perhaps tone down the dramatics." She tried to sound stern, but Mikhailis saw amusement in her eyes. Perhaps she was enjoying the spectacle a sliver too much.

Rodion's voice slipped through, calm as ever. <Telemetry indicates your stress hormone is eighty-seven percent above rest. Breath control recommended.>

Breath control? he thought. Hard to breathe with five interrogators inches away.

Another bump. His knee knocked Cerys's scabbard; the metal rang dully. He mouthed an apology. She flipped her ponytail with curt efficiency and returned to the parchment.

Serelith hummed again—same melody, slower this time. Lira's head snapped toward her, suspicion flaring like a struck match. "That tune… you picked it up where exactly?"

"Oh, around," Serelith answered breezily. "Sound carries in the Shrine."

Cerys frowned. "What sound? I thought the Shrine was silent."

"You'd be amazed," Serelith murmured.

Heat rushed to Mikhailis's ears. He stuffed another bite of pastry into his mouth, hoping sugar-shock would mute his embarrassment. It didn't.

Through the haze, he caught Vyrelda adjusting reins as the elk trotted onto the castle approach. Turrets rose beyond treetops, pink granite glowing in the last sliver of sun. Almost home. Almost safe.

The coach rolled under the portcullis; torches flared to life along the courtyard. Mikhailis blinked. Why is half the castle staff gathered? Footmen stood in neat rows, cleaning cloths ready but unused. Maids clutched clipboards yet watched with rapt attention. Even two scribes hovered, quills poised as if expecting a proclamation.

Elowen looked mortified. "We might've… accidentally cleared the schedule to pick you up."

Cerys grunted. "Accidentally," she echoed, leaving the word to hang.

The carriage squealed to a halt. Vyrelda swung down first, opening the door with crisp precision. Sun-touched hair framed her still-stern face. "We'll resume our duties now," she declared. That single statement scattered the group like pigeons from seed. Within breaths, Cerys marched toward the training yard, parchment in hand. Lira glided toward the treasury wing. Serelith twirled the bottle, winked again, and sauntered off humming. Vyrelda vaulted to the driver's seat and flicked the reins, eager for another patrol.

Elowen lingered. She placed a soft kiss on Mikhailis's cheek—quick, private, gone before anyone could second-guess propriety. "Tonight, we talk," she whispered. Then she, too, disappeared through an archway, cloak swirling.

Silence crashed down. A stray leaf tumbled across the flagstones, crackling louder than a shout. Mikhailis exhaled, shoulders sagging. Survived the ambush. But relief morphed into restlessness. The courtyard's hush felt too tame.

He rolled his neck, bones clicking. I need to move, he thought, excitement flickering. No council meeting, no Shrine chanting, no jealous dagger-eyes. Just him and his curiosity.

He slipped through servant corridors until he reached his personal suite. Opulent drapes, polished oak desk, a bed too large for one occupant—all suddenly felt stifling. He wanted hidden gears and earthy smells, not velvet and candles.

The floor-to-ceiling bookshelf waited like an obedient dog. He traced his fingertip along the spines—field manuals, insect taxonomies, six volumes on romantic poetry he pretended not to own—until he found the right gilt rune. One whispered phrase and a panel slid inward. Cold air smelling of chalk and resin spilled out.

Rodion spoke instantly. <What in the world are you doing?>

Mikhailis grinned, that old thrill lighting his eyes. "A hunch. Bring your fluffy body. Let's go."

He ducked into his underground lab. Bioluminescent crystals embedded in the stone flickered awake, illuminating neat rows of vials, half-assembled clockwork wings, and parchment strewn with ant colony schematics. Chimera workers skittered to greet him, antennae twitching in the soft light. One presented a shiny pebble—today's offering. He patted its carapace. "Good work, little engineer."

Rodion descended a hidden stair behind him, now in his marshmallow-white chassis—round belly, stubby arms, eyes of gentle blue light. If a snowman married a mother hen and produced a cloud, the result would resemble Rodion. He ambled forward with soft plup-plup footfalls. <I do not bounce well. Confirm slide integrity before use.>

"That's why we test," Mikhailis replied. He clapped twice. The floor unfurled like a living scroll, revealing a ribbed tunnel lined with rubbery sap. A faint breeze smelling of mint and stone drifted up.

Rodion's eyelids—the only part of him remotely expressive—half-closed in resigned disapproval. <User safety protocols breached.>

"Protocols bent," Mikhailis corrected. "Not breached." He pressed on the edge. The material depressed pleasantly then pushed back. "Feels like a perosotan." Childhood memories of slick banana-leaf slides bloomed in his mind. He laughed, a sound that startled the ants into a flurry of wings.

Without another thought, he dove. The tunnel swallowed him, slick and cool. It spiralled like a nautilus shell, occasionally dropping steeply before levelling out. Wind roared in his ears, whipping his hair. He whooped—an unprincely sound he rarely allowed. Laughter echoed back, multiplied by twisting walls.

Rodion followed, arms tucked like a beanbag. <Trajectory stable. Velocity: mildly reckless.>

The slide dumped them onto a springy patch of fungal mat. Mikhailis bounced once, twice, then sprawled on his back, panting with exhilaration. Bioluminescent moss climbed every wall, glowing turquoise and soft chartreuse. Air hung warm and damp, smelling faintly of cinnamon bark.

Rodion rolled to a stop beside him, righted himself, and patted imaginary dust from his plush casing. <Undignified. I liked it.>

Mikhailis barked a laugh, pushing himself upright. Five ant sentinels awaited, mandibles clicking in welcome. One tapped a claw against a crystal panel embedded in the wall. A map shimmered to life: branching tunnels, glowing nodes, the intricate arteries of the Hive's ever-growing world. New blue lines pulsed beyond established borders; one pulsed crimson: ??? — Under Testing.

He frowned, tracing the crimson pulse. "I didn't authorize an expansion this far." The unknown tunnel veered toward an uncharted quadrant beneath the Grove's oldest roots.

Rodion zoomed in with a fingertip. <Path was carved using high-frequency vibrations. Likely an autonomous worker initiative. Risk factor: unknown.>

Mikhailis's gaze glittered. Risk meant discovery. Discovery meant knowledge. And knowledge, well—knowledge was his favorite elixir.

He addressed the ant squad. "Escort protocol Delta-Seven." They saluted—an odd motion on six legs—and formed a protective semicircle.

He plucked a glowshard from a wall sconce. Soft blue light pooled on his palm. "Let's explore," he said, excitement buzzing deeper than any aphrodisiac vial ever could.

Rodion shuffled to his side. <I will log environmental readings. If we encounter structural instability, retreat path Y-two remains open.>

"Copy that, captain fluff." He brushed imaginary dust from Rodion's smooth shoulder. The AI huffed—if an orb of marshmallow could huff—but allowed the nickname.

They stepped into the new tunnel, leaving the moss chamber behind. Immediately, air temperature dipped; condensation beaded on stone. Their footsteps—soft pads from Rodion, leather from Mikhailis—echoed like distant drumbeats.

Roots as thick as boathouse pillars twisted along the ceiling, pulsing faintly with green luminescence, as though sap were liquid starlight. In places, the ants had carved stepping ridges into the root-bark itself—nature and engineering clasped in partnership.

Mikhailis's mind hummed. Why here? Why now?