The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

The royal chamber glowed with sleepy afternoon light, gold flooding in wide pools across the carpet and soaking the walls in warmth. Outside, late-spring breezes teased the balcony curtains, making them puff and settle like lazy sails. It smelled faintly of lavender polish, cooling cocoa, and parchment ink— the odd mix of work and comfort that had become their everyday.

Mikhailis sprawled sideways across the enormous bed, legs tangled in silk sheets that had long given up trying to stay neat. One arm pillowed his head; the other dangled a half-drunk mug of cocoa over his stomach. A smear of dark chocolate streaked the rim where he kept taking distracted sips. Reminder: tell the kitchen staff to add more cinnamon next batch, he thought, then promptly forgot.

Elowen sat closer to the headboard, blanket up to her hips, ankles crossed. Every few heartbeats she twisted a strand of her moon-silver hair around a finger, then let it slip free again. Her crown lay abandoned on a side table— a silent metal sentinel watching its queen relax for once. The tiny crystals in the circlet caught sunbeams and threw rainbow specks over the sheets.

Between them hovered Monkey's projector— a tulip-shaped pod balanced on the little bronze bot's hands. Holographic light spilled out and bathed the covers in pale aqua. The screen hung in mid-air like a floating page ripped from some luminous book.

Rodion's first-person feed filled most of the display. The movement was silky, almost weightless; Monkey's stabilizer made every turn of Rodion's visor feel like a smooth camera crane glide. At the top corner flickered neat telemetry lines: LOCAL MANA 64 %, HUMIDITY 88 %, HOSTILES UNKNOWN. Rodion's own vitals scrolled— power levels, capacitor charge, cool iron numbers that looked oddly alive in the soft bedroom light.

Scattered across the bed sprawled trays and cups— candied almonds piled high, bread twists glazed with honeyroot syrup, a dish of sliced star-fruit shining like little suns. Planning scrolls meant for the afternoon council lay half-unrolled, now serving as impromptu coasters. One, stamped with three crimson wax seals, drooped off the mattress edge like a tired tongue. Elowen had tried to rescue it earlier, decided it could wait, and let it dangle.

An ink bottle near her elbow tipped just enough to dribble. A slow black bead crept down the parchment. She saw it, sighed, blotted gently with the corner of the blanket, then shrugged. "We'll tell Lira it's modern art," she murmured.

Mikhailis answered with a lazy grin, eyes still on the screen. "Call it 'Midnight Treaty.' I'll sign it."

Monkey chirped twice— a sound like tiny cymbals— and the projection snapped into Thermal View. Instantly the picture blazed in violent reds and neon blues. Rodion's silhouette became a walking furnace; cooler cave walls bled deep violet.

Mikhailis let out a low whistle. "Look at our boy— hottest guy in Verdant Canopy."

He flicked a bread twist crumb into his mouth, rolled it on his tongue like a judge tasting wine.

Elowen leaned forward, shoulder brushing his. "Switch it, Monkey. Recon Overlay."

The bot obliged with a flourish, petals of the tulip pod unfurling and closing again. The garish colors drained away, replaced by crisp grayscale relief. Faint silver lines traced the cave's root-web. Hostiles glowed muted red shapes; friendlies pulsed soft blue. Rodion's vitals slid neatly to the left margin: CORE TEMP STABLE, MANACORE 70 %, FLUFFINESS: N⁄A. That last tag made Elowen stifle a giggle.

Mikhailis reclined deeper into the mattress, stretching until his spine popped. "Recon mode. So serious." He let his tone droop with melodramatic complaint. "We could've had Mana Flow— all rainbow sparkles and fairy dust."

Elowen sipped her cocoa, pinky elegantly crooked despite the blanket burrito around her waist. "We are supervising a military operation, my dear."

He tipped his head, acknowledging. There she goes, Queen of Cuddles and Command. "Fine, fine. Recon it is. Serious faces on." He puffed his cheeks, crossed his eyes for half a second, then settled into a thoughtful expression.

Monkey, eager to impress, zoomed the feed just a touch. Rodion's view grew sharper, every pebble of the cavern floor suddenly more defined. The dungeon mouth came into full clarity— jagged stone teeth dripping with mist.

Mikhailis, still half-sideways, reached out blindly and captured a fistful of almonds. "Thank you," he murmured to no one in particular, popping them like popcorn.

On the screen Rodion advanced, silent and sure. The Twilight Root Caverns were a study in gloom: cold, eerie luminescence leaking from fungal sconces; petrified roots twisted like frozen lightning; curling fog hugging ankle-high. Scarab scouts zipped ahead, their bronze shells glinting, little lights on their backs flickering Morse commands only Rodion could read.

Four Chimera Recon Soldiers— compact, lithe forms with shadowy carapace— fanned out in perfect diamond. On Elowen's side panel they appeared as blue glyphs sliding smoothly through a wireframe map.

Rodion's optics twitched left, then right. Micro text rippled at the top of the feed, unreadable at this distance but clearly busy.

From the bed, Mikhailis narrated in a low stage whisper. "Checklist: don't trip, don't embarrass the consort, double-check death spores, admire own reflection if possible."

Elowen gave him a playful nudge with her knee. Cocoa sloshed dangerously close to spilling, but she steadied it with practiced grace. "He's more professional than you give him credit."

Mikhailis raised an eyebrow. "Which is exactly why he's overdue for a dramatic face-plant." He winked. "Statistics never lie."

The mini-map in the top corner showed Rodion's breadcrumb trail curling deeper. Their bot cam even overlaid a soft arrow showing intended path— Monkey's helpful touch.

Mist thickened ahead, swirling like stirred milk. Shadows writhed in the ceiling net above, roots sagging under unseen weight. Elowen's breath hitched; she leaned in, blanket slipping to reveal one bare shoulder catching the light.

Three dark forms disengaged from the gloom, falling like dead vines. Vines that hissed. Mossfang Lizards— lumbering, heavy reptiles whose mossy hides blended into stone. Claws sparked as they landed.

Rodion reacted in less than a blink. His polished soles hissed as magnet linings engaged; he slid back with dancer precision. Left arm snapped up, plates folding together into a broad shield. A heavy jaw slammed against it— clang like hammer on anvil.

Twin Scarabs on overwatch fired thin arcs of stun energy. Electric green crawled across scaled hides, but the beasts kept momentum.

Elowen gasped softly, knuckles whitening on her mug. Hot cocoa odor rose, sweet and anxious.

Mikhailis smirked, tracking the interplay of blips on the overlay. "Ten seconds until he shows off. Watch."

His voice carried easy confidence, yet his heart beat a little faster. Come on, Rodion, make it pretty.

And Rodion did.

He twisted, angle sharp but elegant, shield sliding away to bait the creature. Then, center of balance shifting, he feinted left— a tactical ghost step. The lizard lunged, jaws snapping air. Rodion's right fist pistoned forward, servos whining, colliding with the creature's temple.

Monkey, as if anticipating an audience gasp, instantly queued slow-motion. The entire chamber on screen dropped to syrup time. Rodion's gauntlet contacted scaly skull; shock rippled like water; reptilian eyes rolled back. The monster hit the ground in a heap of twitching tail and mossy flakes.

Elowen pressed her free hand to her chest. A delighted breath escaped her lips, almost a squeal though she kept it queen-soft. "Stars…"

Mikhailis chuckled, one eyebrow arching. "Did you program that flip flourish?"

She caught the tease, cheeks blooming pink. "He's improvising."

"Show-off," Mikhailis muttered around another almond.

The remaining two lizards attacked from opposite flanks— coordinated? Lucky timing? Rodion didn't wait to find out. Right heel pivoted, hips turning. A hook kick sang through the mist, connecting square with a moss-plated ribcage. The creature yelped, spinning out in an arc that sent dew spraying.

Scarab No. 5 streaked past, trailing a faint whistle. It spat a glossy pod that smacked the final lizard's tail mid-lunge. Sticky mass exploded, rooting hind legs to stone.

The reptile thrashed but stuck fast; stun current arced, locking muscles rigid.

Rodion landed from his kick, cloak fragments fluttering up then settling. He surveyed the mess for half a breath: one unconscious beast, one winded, one immobilized. No wasted motion, no sharp intake of breath. Just efficient calm.

<Threats neutralized. Scarab pod integrity: 83 %. Suggest harvesting venom glands for later study.>

The AI's voice rolled flat but faintly smug— or perhaps Mikhailis only imagined the tone. Either way, it fit.

Elowen exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She set her cocoa down, flexed tingling fingers. "He makes it look easy."

Mikhailis reached over and dusted a crumb from her sleeve, fingers lingering. "That's the idea— inspire confidence."

But keep the drama, he thought, watching Rodion already directing Scarabs to scout ahead. People remember the drama.

He nudged a scroll with his toe, rolling it off the bed entirely. Somewhere after that, Lira would sigh and scold. For now, papers could wait. The show had only just begun.

Monkey chirped, sliding the camera point of view back to normal speed. On screen, Rodion strode deeper, mist curling around his calves like worshipful ghosts. Recon Soldiers darted ahead, silent shades. New danger pulses blinked faint red warnings on the overlay.

Mikhailis settled back, topping off his cocoa from a tiny silver pot. Outside, the shadows of late afternoon lengthened, but inside the chamber excitement felt bright and crackling. Elowen pulled the blanket up again, eyes never leaving the projection.

Mikhailis smirked, comfortable, confident, and perhaps the tiniest bit proud.

"Ten seconds until he shows off. Watch."

Rodion shifted his weight, the faint hum of servos purring through the projector speakers like a distant cat. One heel skimmed back, scattering gravel in a crescent. Then he ghost‑stepped left, empty air swallowing his silhouette for half a blink.

The lizard lunged at the wrong phantom. In the same breath Rodion's real fist rocketed forward, shoulder driving in behind the strike. The feed shuddered with the punch's raw shock. Bone and scale met alloy, and the skull dented inward with a deep, wet crunch that echoed around the bedroom like someone snapping a melon in two.

Monkey, delighted, froze time. The screen zoomed until every fleck of moss flung off the creature's hide hovered mid‑air. A tiny trumpet fanfare burst from the bot's chest grill—tinny but triumphant. In slow motion they watched the ripple of kinetic force travel down the lizard's neck, skin rippling, eyes rolling white. A floating subtitle—"IMPACT VELOCITY: 312 m/s"—flashed for good measure.

Elowen squeaked, palms clapping once before she managed to restrain herself to dignified applause. "Please tell me you coded that little trumpet."

Mikhailis raised both brows. "I wish. Monkey's cultivating bad habits all on his own." He shot the bot a proud grin anyway.

Two more lizards bounded in, bellies skimming mist. Rodion didn't waste the momentum. He planted his left foot, torso twisting like a spring, and released a hook kick so tight the feed barely caught the whirl of his cloak. The nearest reptile took the heel under its jaw; its whole body arced sideways, splash‑landing in a puddle with a hiss of displaced gas.

Scarlet targeting reticules danced over the last attacker. Scarab No. 5 swooped from above, carapace blades humming. A grapefruit‑sized capsule launched from its abdomen, thunked onto the lizard's tail, and detonated with a wet plop. Sticky gray resin ballooned outward, pinning hind legs and tail to a jagged root. Blue stun runes flickered across the goo, spider‑webbing jolts through the creature's nervous system until it stiffened like a gargoyle in mid‑snarl.

Rodion dropped into a low guard, daggers half‑drawn—then, realizing the fight was already finished, eased upright. He flexed each hand as if cracking nonexistent knuckles, gauntlet plates clicking in tidy sequence. A status ribbon slid across the top of the feed: MICRO‑CALIBRATION ±0.3 mm COMPLETE.

He resumed walking with all the drama of a man returning from fetching the mail.

Mikhailis reclined, waving a flaky bread twist like a rating card. "Style points: ten. Practicality points: six. Could've saved thrust energy by sixty newtons, but hey."

Elowen nudged his knee, laughter hiccupping out. "Let him enjoy himself. You toss flourishes every time you pour tea."

"Guilty."