The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Why here? Why now? The Queen rarely approved expansions without his consultation. Could the Grove's resonance be guiding them? A thought both thrilling and unsettling.

Every thirty paces, he paused to jot glyphs—observations for future mapping. Each pause allowed his pounding heart to settle, but curiosity tugged him onward faster each time.

Half an hour in, walls changed: roots thinned, giving way to old stone blocks mortared with glittering herbal resin. Age radiated from them—older than castle foundations, older than the Shrine perhaps. Each block bore chiseled images: leaves encircling eyes, ants cradling seeds, crescent moons dripping water into open hands.

Rodion paused, sensor organs whirring. <Chronological estimate: pre-Silvarion, likely era of the First Planters. Preservation level: impressive.>

Mikhailis brushed moss from a relief panel. "Memory Leaves—Buried so Dreams Do Not Rot," he read aloud, translating archaic script. Gooseflesh tingled across his arms.

A hall branched left, marked by a crude symbol of three converging roots. He peered in—nothing but darkness hugging rune-laced arches. Right branch held a soft flicker—reflection. He followed.

A mirror awaited, body of root-glass polished to impossible clarity. As he stepped closer, reflections multiplied—ten, twenty versions of himself fanning outward. Each wore a different expression: fear, arrogance, grief, serenity. One donned a crown of ant chitin. Another carried a staff entwined with glowing vines. A third stood alone, eyes hollow, no Hive behind him.

Mikhailis's breath caught. Possible futures, he realized. Mirrors were seldom literal down here. They revealed crossroads. He raised a hand; all versions mirrored him—except one, the crowned variant, who smiled a heartbeat later, as if slightly out of sync. He shivered and backed away.

Rodion hovered, optics dim. <Psyche-projection device. Recommend limited exposure.>

"Noted," he muttered, shaking off the chill.

They pressed on. The corridor narrowed before blooming suddenly into a cavern larger than any feasting hall. Fungal chandeliers swung from vines like ghostly lanterns, lighting an altar of crystalized sap. Embedded at its center—a heart, petrified yet faintly pulsing. Green-gold veins spider-webbed through amber flesh.

Mikhailis approached reverently. Warmth radiated, humming against his palm. He closed his eyes, listening. Thump… thump… The beat matched his own.

Rodion broke the hush. <Biological core appears dormant yet viable. This is no fossil. It is stasis.>

He swallowed. "A Dryad Heart. Nobody's seen one intact in… centuries." Carefully he withdrew his hand. Touching was one thing; stealing such knowledge felt sacrilegious.

A faint breeze stirred, carrying syllables softer than sighs: "He carries scent of the Tree."

Mikhailis spun. No one. Only roots and silent workers fanned around the perimeter. Yet the whisper lingered, reverberating through marrow.

Rodion's sensors pinged. <Auditory phenomenon confirmed. Source unknown.>

They reached a final archway. Across the threshold, a door of overlapping stone petals awaited, center emblazoned with a glowing memory sigil—the same design Myria had once pressed to her own chest in prayer.

Symbols flared against his palm, flinging pale-green reflections over every curve of the passage. One after another, stone petals slid apart in a slow spiral, rasping like sand across parchment. The hush that followed felt too deep for breathing—or for mistakes—so Mikhailis simply stared into the dim space beyond.

A sigh of cedar and cool earth drifted out, carrying specks of golden dust. The temperature dropped a few degrees, prickling goose-flesh up his arms. Bioluminescent guide-rails flicked on in sequence—soft pearls of light blooming down a gentle ramp—inviting, yet watchful.

He took one cautious step. The floor was springy root-wood, grooved with natural veins that pulsed faintly whenever his boot touched. Rodion waddled at his side, white marsh-mallow bulk making almost no sound, blue optic strips sweeping the gloom.

<Atmospheric analysis: elevated phyto-ether concentration, minimal airborne pathogens, trace sap fragrance consistent with old-growth heartwood,> the AI reported, voice soft to match the hush.

"Smells like the inside of a violin," Mikhailis whispered, running fingertips along the nearest rail. Cool sap clung to him, then retreated, as if tasting his presence. Welcoming or warning? he wondered, but there was no alarm—only the steady glow urging him deeper.

The ramp widened into a chamber the size of a palace ballroom, yet the domed ceiling sat low enough to feel intimate—woven roots knitted together like the ribs of a sleeping giant. In the heart of that dome stood an organic cradle, half pod, half altar, sculpted from polished bark and crystal resin. Thin vines looped around the cradle in elegant spirals—equal parts swaddling and chain.

Rodion halted, sensors humming. <Bio-signature detected. Moderate heat. Slow respiration.>

That close, Mikhailis saw it was not a coffin at all but a nest cradling something… someone? No—wait.

Held within the pod lay a form smaller than an adult, limbs folded under layers of bark-scale armor. The plating followed natural growth rings, overlapping like feathers hardened into wood. Moss tufted at the joints and shoulder ridges, softening lines that might once have looked predatory.

A rounded helmet of living bark masked its face, but the jaw was blunt, snout-like—neither fully human nor fully beast. Two crescent ear-plates rose from the helmet, ending in furled fronds. Between the armor gaps, Mikhailis glimpsed fur the color of pale wheat; where skin might have been, green runic pulses slid beneath translucent sap.

The creature's chest heaved in a slow, steady rhythm—deep sleep, not death.

Rodion's optic strips brightened, processing. <That's not a corpse. That's a sleeper. And… it smells like the Saintess.>

Sleeper? In full armor? Mikhailis's pulse quickened. He leaned closer, hands twitching with scholarly instinct. If he made one wrong move, the Grove might snap shut like jaws, but the hunger for knowledge gnawed louder.

He circled the cradle, noting details. Each bark plate was etched with micro-glyphs—miniature leaves spiraling into fractal shapes. Where human armor would use straps, this shell fused organically into place, as if grown around the wearer.

He dared a question: "Can you identify the species?"

<Unknown. Hybrid traits detected: 37 % Leporidae musculature, 22 % juvenile dryad fiber, remainder undetermined.>

That explained the lithe legs tucked beneath it— powerful haunches like a meadow hare's, poised to leap even in sleep. He pictured the creature bounding through midnight groves, half guardian, half ghost.

A thought tingled. If this being is linked to the Saintess's scent, could it be her familiar? Or a fragment of her magic given form?

The cradle shifted. Mikhailis froze, breath hitched. Vines tightened, then loosened with a sound like rustling parchment. The creature's head tilted, bark visor creaking. Moss peeled away from its cheek, revealing downy fur dotted with tiny white spores.

Rodion's tone sharpened. <Vital signs accelerating. SOMNIA level rising.>

A low, almost plaintive whine escaped the sleeper—high-pitched, uncertain. Then the visor split down the center, each half curling like petals to reveal eyes the color of young leaves after rain. They glowed faintly, reflecting the moss-light, and for one heartbeat they focused on Mikhailis with raw, newborn wonder.

He raised both palms slowly. "Easy… I'm not here to harm you." His voice felt absurdly loud in the hush.

The creature's nostrils quivered, drinking his scent. Ears—yes, they were ears, not fronds—perked forward. It blinked once. Twice. Then a ripple raced through every bark plate, cracks forming in the armor like ice under sudden sun.

Mikhailis stepped back. Rodion tensed, marshmallow arms half- lifted. But instead of shattering outward, the armor contracted, plates sliding over plates until they flattened against the creature's spine. Beneath, fur bristled in a breeze none of them felt.

Another step. The sleeper unfurled an arm, slender and delicate, ending not in claws but in leaf-shaped digits. It raised the hand as if to test gravity— then pressed the palm against its own chest.

A glow flared—bright emerald. The fur dissolved first, scattering as glowing pollen. Bark scales shrank to flakes, twirling in micro-eddies. Finally, the body itself thinned, edges shredding to curls of green light. The eyes lingered last—two wide circles of gratitude or apology—before folding into brightness.

With a faint whoosh, the glow collapsed inward. Mikhailis shielded his eyes; Rodion's sensors whined. When the light faded, nothing of the creature remained save a single fresh leaf, still trembling, perched on the cradle's center.

Silence swallowed the chamber. Even the distant drip of water seemed to pause.

Mikhailis exhaled slowly. "It… became a leaf."

Rodion scooted closer to the cradle, round body rotating for a better view. <Matter conversion complete. New mass negligible. Life-signature... dispersed.>

"No trace of spirit energy either?" He reached toward the remaining leaf but halted a breath away. The leaf, no bigger than his thumb, was emerald with gold veins trailing toward its stem. It looked ordinary—yet shimmered as if dusted with starlight.

Rodion performed a gentle scan. <The leaf carries faint thaumaturgic resonance identical to that of Saintess Myria's prayer signature. Probability of symbolic message: high.>

Mikhailis rubbed his temple. Symbolic message? Or warning?

He took out a small, clear vial—thankfully not the incriminating one—and coaxed the leaf inside with utmost care. As it slid through the glass mouth, a static tingle jumped to his fingertips, like tiny root-threads tasting his skin. The leaf settled, still pulsing faintly.

Above them, a single vine untwisted from the ceiling's weave. It moved purposefully—slow yet deliberate—until it hovered above the cradle. A droplet of amber resin formed at its tip, hung heavy, then dropped. It struck the cradle's lip with a soft plink and sizzled into fragrant vapor. Cedar, wild mint, and some crisp undertone like frost.

Mikhailis felt the hairs on his arms lift. The Grove was acknowledging the event—marking it, perhaps even sealing the chamber's purpose. Yet he sensed no anger, only solemnity.

He turned to Rodion. "Log everything. Root patterns, air composition shifts, spectral readings."

<Already compiling. Suggest immediate report to Queen Elowen and—>

"No," he interrupted, voice low. "Not yet. Elowen deserves calm tonight after the day she's had. Let me piece this puzzle first."

Rodion's blue lights dimmed, thinking. <Ethical probability of withholding data?>

"Temporary delay," Mikhailis insisted. "We'll tell her soon. But I need context. A half-truth protects no one."

He stared again at the cradle—at the empty space where a strange hybrid had breathed only moments ago. It felt like a riddle carved in living wood: Form is fleeting; message endures.

On instinct, he placed a hand on the cradle's rim. Smooth, warm, almost heartbeat-slow beneath his palm. He closed his eyes. The residual energy was soft, curious, and surprisingly gentle—like a child's uncertain hand reaching for a parent's.

He whispered, "Thank you." He didn't know if the Grove, or the vanished creature, or the Saintess herself was listening, but gratitude felt necessary.

As he withdrew, the cradle's interior shimmered briefly. Lines of green light crawled across the resin floor—tiny vines sketching out new glyphs. They formed a single sigil: two overlapping leaves, one large, one small, their stems entwined.

Rodion recorded the pattern, filing it among unknown scripts. <Symbol resembles guardian-bond rune used in pre-Grove maternity rituals.>

Mikhailis flinched. Guardian? Maternity? He thought of Myria, of the whispered "fulcrum" the Tree seemed intent on forging between him and the Shrine. Then he thought of Talyra and Nessa, of silver-hair glimpsed through the lattice. A network of connections fanned out— dizzying, dizzyingly possible.

His inner voice, so often masked by jokes, fell silent. Decisions—real, heavy ones—loomed.

Rodion's soft bulk nudged his calf. <We should exit. Structural harmonics show rising flux. Chamber may reseal.>

"Right." Mikhailis tucked the vial into an inner pocket. He cast one last look at the cradle, now calm and empty, save the faint outline of glowing vines.

Whatever secret you were, you chose release, he thought. Or the Grove chose for you. Either way, message received—life in leaf, leaf in life.

He turned toward the ramp. The guide-rails brightened, sensing departure. Rodion toddled beside him, recording every shift in luminance.

As they crossed the threshold, the stone petals began to furl inward— sealing the cradle once again in darkness and cedar chill. A gentle thump echoed, like the slow heartbeat of an ancient tree settling into slumber.

Back in the main corridor, the map's crimson pulse no longer looked ominous to Mikhailis. It looked inviting— a promise that the Hive and the Grove were still writing new chapters beneath his feet.