The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Mikhailis emptied his coat-pockets onto the uneven wooden table with a slow, almost ceremonial sweep. One by one the items landed, each giving off its own soft note of contact—metal, glass, wax, and plastic composing a quiet percussive chord that drifted away far too quickly in the damp, hushed air.

The holo-phone clinked against the brass pocket-watch, the old brass answering the slick glass with a deeper, older ring. A few honey-tart wrappers—all that remained of dinner—fluttered free of a wax-paper fold and settled like faded petals. A foldable tablet, hinges worn to the raw aluminum, snapped half-open and slid forward as if eager to dive off the edge. A slender glass flask engraved with delicate runes rolled, bumping gently into his wrist. The blue runes along its spine pulsed once, dimly, then went still.

He eyed the collection. They looked small, even pitiful, under the moss-glow. To him they were charms, survival kits, and distractions in equal measure.

Pocket detritus is an autobiography, he mused. A timeline told in crumbs and cracked screens.

He lifted the phone first—its matte surface beaded with condensation—thumbed the power key out of habit. The screen bloomed faintly, a swirling blue circle dancing in place before freezing mid-spin. No service. Of course. Underground fortress, living roots for walls—there were no cell towers here, no matter how advanced Silvarion's palace network had been.

The room was breathing around him: slow, steady breaths of cool fungal air that carried a ghost of cinnamon and something burnt. He tilted his head. Somewhere, maybe three chambers away, water dripped, a steady plink-plink-plink echoing off root-rib ceilings. Dust motes drifted in the lantern glow but never quite reached the floor, as if the air itself was reluctant to let go.

The moss-draped walls drank most of the sound—he could practically hear the quiet. No window, only that single vent near the ceiling, half hidden by a tangle of thin roots. The vent let in a thread of fresher air and, infrequently, the distant call of a hollow-bird far above. A bedroll—neatly folded, corners sharp—sat in one shadowed corner like a soldier waiting for roll call. Beside it lay abandoned vials, cracked quills, curling scrolls. Whoever worked here had left in a rush, or maybe been hauled away by something less merciful than time.

The wooden chair creaked as he sat. The sound was startling in the stillness, like a small animal yelping. He let his shoulders relax and allowed the hush to seep into his bones.

It smells like damp parchment and burnt thyme, he thought, rubbing his index finger over a dark scorch mark on the tabletop. This place was once a study—maybe even a lab. Or a prison with good lighting. Rooms like this always end up being both.

He raised the phone again, tilted it toward the faint lantern light, then shrugged and set it face-down. The tablet followed—its half-open screen reflected his own tired eyes before going dark. The pocket-watch he held a moment longer, thumb rubbing circles over the etched initials on the back: E.V. to M.V. Elowen's gift, the week he promised to keep time for her instead of losing himself in it. The minute-hand ticked, steady, unbothered by locational woes.

A sigh eased from his lungs. He wasn't sure how long he'd been here—an hour, maybe two—since the elves had shown him this so-called guest room and politely locked the door.

"Ah, so the underground Wi-Fi situation in tree kingdoms is about as bad as I feared," he muttered, half to the room, half to keep his voice from rusting.

He blinked twice, tiny biometric contacts in his lenses flashing green as they powered up the internal HUD. Code scrolled across a corner of his vision like micro fish in a tank.

"Rodion. Status check. Mapping arrays?"

<Signal strength: 12 percent. Primary feed suppressed by magical interference. Mapping drones are partially active, but data is buffered and incomplete.>

Rodion's voice slipped into his cochlear implant like chilled water: clipped, formal, with that faint aftertaste of mild annoyance. The AI never did like obstacles it couldn't punch through with sheer processing power.

Mikhailis kneaded his temple. "What about the ants I sent ahead with me? The micros?"

<Fifteen worker units and fifteen soldier units arrived successfully. Their signals are faint but traceable. However, they are not currently responding to my pings.>

"Not responding or blocked?" He kept his tone neutral—just in case the moss itself had ears. Nothing would surprise him at this point.

He lowered his gaze to his boots. Polished leather, scuffed at the toes from his earlier sprint through root corridors. Small sliding panels sat flush along the sides—indistinguishable from decorative buckles unless you knew what to look for.

With a pair of soft click-clicks, the panels slid open. One by one the micro-chassis units emerged, their black-and-bronze bodies glinting like shards of obsidian. Even in miniature they moved with soldierly precision: antennae sweeping, eyes glowing faint cobalt.

Workers, six-legged and quick, darted onto the tabletop, skirting crumbs and wrappers. Soldiers, slightly bulkier with reinforced mandibles, formed a neat row by the burnt-down candle. Mikhailis admired their discipline; even at thumb-size they carried themselves like elite guards.

"All right, you lot—time to move." He scooped two workers in his palm and crouched, placing them gently on the floor. Their tiny claws scratched the wood, then vanished into a crack between root and plank.

He mentally drew the east corridor in his mind: a T-intersection of tunnels lit by blue fungus, a perfect choke point if someone—or something—wanted to block an exit.

Soft taps and finger snaps guided the rest. "Alpha to Delta—patrol the east corridor. Mark anything with heat traces or magical residue." He shifted his gaze upward to the vent. "Zeta squad—stay close to the upper vent. Watch for movement." A quick flick of his wrist sent two soldiers scaling the wall, disappearing into shadow.

Rodion hummed—a pleasant, vibrating note that meant orders acknowledged.

He leaned back, listening as little clawed feet faded, muffled by distance. Satisfaction warmed him; coordination, even on a micro scale, was his art form. He'd tamed dungeons, navigated leyline storms—what was one root-maze?

"And Rodion," he added, scooping a stray wrapper and folding it tight, "if anything even thinks about breathing fire, tell them to hide in my shoe."

<Your shoe currently registers a 73 percent chance of honey-tart residue. They may decide fire is preferable.>

He snorted a laugh, tiny and helpless, but the sound felt good in the thick air.

The ants vanished like spilled mercury sliding between floorboards. He waited, counting heartbeats. Twelve. Fifteen. Twenty.

Rodion's voice returned, lower, edged with a note he rarely heard: unease.

<Warning. Unnatural lifeforms detected. Visual markers: semi-humanoid, cobalt rune patterns, elongated limbs. Biometric energy is erratic. Recommend evasion.>

Mikhailis straightened. "What do you mean, unnatural?"

<Anomalous. Outside catalogue.>

He double-tapped the side of his glasses. "Send visual feed."

The left lens sparked to life, overlaying a live stream onto the room. The view bobbed slightly—an ant soldier's perspective, low to the ground. Roots curved overhead like pillars. In the distance, water glimmered under flickering blue-green lumens.

Then movement.

Tall shapes, thin as warped willow branches, glided into frame. They were hairless, skin a pale opal that shimmered oddly, almost wet, and wrapped from collar to navel with glowing cobalt glyphs. Limbs too long for easy land locomotion, joints bending in fractions, like marionettes unsure of their strings. Their mouths—if mouths those were—twitched beneath slitted nostril ridges, sniffing the air.

They crept along the stream's edge, bare feet barely stirring pebbles. One paused, lowering its angular face to the water as if tasting scent rather than drinking. When it straightened, its hollow eyes tracked the corridor—the same one leading to his door.

What the hell are these? His stomach tightened. On the surface, monsters were theoretical, bestiary sketches. Underground, they were walking toward him.

He studied how they moved: light, efficient, no wasted gesture. Predatory but controlled. Their glyphs pulsed in a slow heartbeat. If he'd seen them at a distance he might have mistaken them for elves—starved elves left too long in moonlight and grief.

Rodion auto-translated a fragment of their hissing tongue—subtitles flickered at the bottom of his vision:

"Waste not the corruption. Offer to the root-lords."

Another line scrolled, rougher, reverent:

"The rot feeds what the sun forgets."

He exhaled through his nose. Elvish dialect—ancient, but mangled. Blight cultists? Possibly twisted by demonic sap… or volunteers who let themselves be changed.

The feed jittered as the ant ducked behind a pebble, lens dipping. Mikhailis paused the stream, blinking away the image.

"Rodion, tag them as Blight variants."

<Confirmed. Advising minimal noise until their patrol path is confirmed. Current estimated vector: south corridor—sixteen meters from your room.>

Sixteen meters. That was too close for comfort.