The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Mikhailis rested his elbows on the scarred oak bench, the emerald-leaf box between him and Serelith like a small, stubborn kingdom that still needed a treaty. The lamplight struck the heart-wood lid and bounced soft green flecks across their cheeks. Rodion hovered to one side, white shell bobbing in the warm currents rising from rune burners. At a glance the AI looked like a thoughtful cushion—harmless, huggable—but the faint blue slit cutting across its "face" tracked every motion with tireless precision.

Serelith smoothed a curl of pink hair behind one ear, then let her palm drift across the bench's pitted grain. "This place…" she murmured, violet eye sweeping over coiled wires, rune-etched lenses, and the neat rows of tiny chimera tools lining the far wall. "It's bigger than half the academy's research wing. How long did it take you?"

"one month for the main chamber," Mikhailis said, flicking a loose screw toward a parts tray. "two months to coax the side tunnels into something an ant and a prince could both crawl through. And a lifetime if Elowen ever reads the monthly expense sheet." He tossed her a grin meant to be breezy.

Serelith's answer was a single, unimpressed eyebrow. The expression looked oddly regal beneath the stubborn wisp of hair falling into her lashes.

Calm, Mik, he told himself. Joke, then truth—just like fencing: feint, then thrust.

He thumbed the brass latch; the box opened with a click no louder than a cricket leg. The leaf pulsed once—soft emerald glow racing through gold-fleck veins—then settled into a faint shimmer. The light colored Serelith's lips jade for an instant. She leaned closer, eyes bright, but discipline held her hands motionless on either side of the box.

"I want the truth first," she said, voice low but steady. "All of it."

Mikhailis drew a breath past the mint-sweet steam of the nearby kettle. "Fine." He tapped the bench, producing three hollow knocks. "Everything here—the spectral readers, the mapping nets, the ant scouts—exists so I can protect Silvarion Thalor. That's the line." His finger traced the nearest grain scar. "And that's where the line stays."

Serelith's gaze felt like warm silk threading through every half-confession. "You're holding tech that could leapfrog the continent by centuries," she said. "Crystal logic, self-repairing alloys, living cartographers." Her gloved fingertips made a tiny circle in the air, as if drawing halos over each marvel. "You realise that?"

"I do." Mikhailis's shoulders lifted and fell. "And I'm not about to throw a lightning engine at a world that still thinks iron nails are a luxury. Technology needs a matching mindset. Handing out power without patience? That's just a prettier form of arson."

Serelith's lips parted—she'd expected another joke, not a lecture—but she recovered with a small, intrigued nod. "Yet you're keeping it."

"To stop other people using worse versions," he said. "Global progress has a rhythm, like sap rising. Push it too early and you split the bark."

Her earlier amusement cooled into something more reflective. "That's… surprisingly responsible for the man who once tried to patent exploding candy."

"Hey, kids loved those."

"Kids lost eyebrows."

Their laughter mingled, bouncing off rune-stamped copper pipes overhead. Some tension slipped from his shoulders; the room breathed easier.

"Look," he went on, voice falling to a husky murmur that seemed to settle between the copper pipes overhead, "the Technomancer League is itching to shove crystal cores into every wagon wheel and dinner plate in Talamar. They see shiny gears, not social cost. That's how distortions start—minds grabbing power they're not ready to steer."

He let the words sit. Steam curled from a nearby rune burner and drifted over Serelith's face like pale silk; the glow painted her lashes green-gold each time the leaf pulsed behind them. She folded her arms, silver corset buckles catching lamplight like tiny flares. "Arcane circles warn about the same thing," she said, voice softer now, almost regretting her Academy's failures. "Raw magic without ritual breeds arrogance. We've watched young mages burn their own houses down—sometimes their cities. We put out the fires and mutter about lessons learned." A sigh slipped from her, half irony, half sorrow. "Now I see the mirror on your side."

Rodion floated forward a hand-width, as if clearing its nonexistent throat. The blue slit narrowed to a surgical line.

<Probability of prolonged philosophical detour: eighty-three percent. Recommendation: refocus on present protocol to avoid analytical drift.>

Serelith blinked, that teasing curve returning to the corner of her mouth. "Is he always this charming?"

"Rodion learned sarcasm from me." Mikhailis tapped the AI's shell with two knuckles, like rapping a kettle. Can pillows glare? he wondered.

<>Statement inaccurate. I learned sarcasm as a survival mechanism.>

The dry rebuttal drew a bright laugh from Serelith. It slipped from her lips in a quick cascade—like bells shaken once—then died as she focused on the maze of readers surrounding them. "Show me how all this works," she said, stepping close enough that the satin hem of her skirt brushed against his boot. Warm vanilla-rose perfume rose with the movement and curled around his senses.

He swallowed. Easy now—teacher voice. "First, the view." Mikhailis bent under the bench, flipped a tarnished copper switch. Metal plates slid apart overhead. A polished crystal lens unfolded like the petal of a moon lily and caught lamplight. Soft blue images sprang into the air: floating squares, bubbles of dull light, a spiderweb of white lines racing across a black field.

Serelith's violet eye widened. "Goddess… "

She stepped under the lens, tilting her head as panels rearranged around her face. One showed dozens of ants in glossy bronze helmets marching single file across a parchment terrain. Their tiny mandibles carried seeds that blinked like fireflies. She reached out, fingertip hovering over the lead ant.

The panel brightened. A squeaky chirp burst from hidden runestones and a string of glyphs scrolled under the parade: SECTOR 17B — SOIL ACIDITY DROP 1.2%.

"You're mapping the continent," she breathed.

"Slowly," he said, leaning on the bench so their shoulders almost touched. "Autonomous scouts. No one knows they're not regular insects. Well—" he shrugged, "—mostly no one."

Her gaze snapped to a second panel. A map unfurled there, the familiar silhouette of Silvarion Thalor shaded emerald. From the capital outward, pale green dots fanned like flower pollen, drifting toward distant borders: north to the river kingdoms; east where sand spilled into desert; southwest toward mountains older than myths.

"And the data?" she asked, voice low with a mix of awe and dread.

"Stays here. Locked." Mikhailis slid a brass lever back; iron iris shutters closed around an array of amber crystals behind them. "If a flood threatens a village, I pass the tip through official channels—anonymous courier, coded script. Otherwise?" He snapped his fingers. "Archive."

Serelith's hand rose, hesitated, then swiped the air. A new window flared to life, raw mana currents rendered as luminous ribbons. They curled over painted ridges, descended into canyons, vanished below seas. Ghost rivers, pulsing and shifting with every heart-beat of the earth.

"You can see ley flow in real time." She sounded half-breathless, like a climber glimpsing dawn above clouds.

"Roughly," he admitted. "There's a two-second buffer so the servers don't melt."

"This would end half the Academy's debates before breakfast." She gave a short, incredulous laugh, but her pupils glimmered with all the questions scholars loved to chase. "You could prove or disprove entire theories."

"Exactly why it stays secret." His tone gentled, but there was iron buried in it. He reached across the narrow space, took her fingers—cooler than he expected after feverish work—and folded them around nothing, as if wrapping her hand round an invisible promise.

Her lashes fluttered. A flush crept across the cut of her cheekbones. She looked up, lips parting not with words but with soft surprise.

He didn't speak either. Instead, he bent, brushing a light kiss against her knuckles—a knight's vow turned into a lover's spark. The smell of resin, copper filings, and rose sugar swirled between them. She drew a short breath, free hand slipping onto his shoulder.

"I get it now," she whispered, fingers tightening. "Without the ethic, the tool is a sword pointed at children."

He answered with a faint nod and a glance toward the suspended panels, as if the tiny ant soldiers could eavesdrop. Then he dipped his head, stealing a second kiss—this one from the inside of her wrist where pulse beat quick and shy. Serelith's breath hitched, pleasure rising through her voice: a hum, low and approving.

"You sound relieved," he teased, letting his lips hover just above her skin.

"I'm relieved you're not an idiot with a bomb," she whispered back, tilting up to brush her mouth against the corner of his. Heat seared along his jaw. Her lashes dragged across his cheek in a fleeting caress. "And… I admire the restraint. Very much."

Their noses bumped. A quiet laugh spilled loose; tension melted further, replaced by fizzing thrill. He slid a hand to her waist, feeling satin press under his thumb, but forced himself to keep it respectful—for now. She rewarded restraint with a playful nip at his lower lip, too quick to bruise but sharp enough to warn.

"Come on, responsible prince," she murmured, stepping back though her fingers lingered on his collar. "Walk me through the rest. I promise to behave." That last word purred, utterly unconvincing.

He coughed, cheeks warming. "Right. Next station."