The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

The Time: 11:48 PM, Silvarion Thalor Royal Chamber

The royal bedchamber felt like a private world detached from the rest of the castle. Only the silence of the moonless courtyard seeped through the balcony doors, carrying the faint rustle of ivy leaves that shivered in an occasional night breeze. Pale beams from the hovering crystal projector painted everything in ghost-blue: the carved wardrobe, the harp in the corner, even the silverwork on Elowen's discarded crown. The crown itself rested on a side table as if it, too, had chosen to watch the show.

Pillows lay everywhere—embroidered, tasseled, some silk, some velvet—forming a careless nest across the carpet. In that soft chaos sat Mikhailis and Elowen, legs folded, shoulders almost touching. Dinner platters had been pushed aside hours ago. Now half-eaten star-fruit slices glistened on a porcelain dish. Almond-glazed crescents cooled beside them, sugar dulling as it lost its shine. A cinnamon stick bobbed lazily in the jug of lukewarm cocoa, scenting the air with sweet spice.

Monkey, the bronze-sheened little butler, moved between the trays with the solemn focus of a high priest. His gait was soundless, the tiny servos inside his joints humming softer than moth wings. He paused above the cookie plate, one mechanical finger extending. A green sensor bead at the fingertip pulsed as he leaned closer, scanning the pastries like a jeweler checking a priceless facet.

<Status: Cooling rate exceeds optimal enjoyment threshold. Initiating reheat sequence.>

The words scrolled across a miniature panel on his chest. Without waiting, Monkey opened the panel with a hiss of releasing latches. Warm amber light spilled from inside—enough to reveal a set of arc-runed filaments lining the compartment. He lifted three cookies, careful not to crumble their edges, and slid them inside. A cheerful ding! rang out a heartbeat later. Steam puffed when the drawer reopened, carrying the buttery smell of fresh-baked dough.

Mikhailis's eyes tracked the steam with catlike interest. He lounged sideways, elbow digging into a pile of cushions stitched with roses. He could re-engineer a crossbow but chooses to reheat cookies. Good priorities. With a lazy reach, he plucked a cookie from Monkey's repositioned plate and bit in. The chocolate center oozed. His expression melted the same way—half smile, half satisfied sigh.

A soft patter echoed near a wall panel. From a tunnel hidden by a hanging tapestry, a single Worker Ant emerged. The creature wore a laughably tiny apron sewn from off-cut silk. It approached Elowen, bowed with all six limbs spread, and tugged her blanket to cover her bare toes. She murmured thanks and brushed its antenna with her fingertip. The Worker clicked, pleased, then scuttled to the fireplace, where it stirred faint embers to revive a gentle warmth.

Another Worker followed, carrying a miniature puffball attached to a stick. It halted by Mikhailis, gave a dignified chirp, and dabbed pastry flakes off his coat sleeve. When crumbs were gone, it rearranged a pile of curled parchment at his side, organizing them largest to smallest. Mikhailis raised an eyebrow in amusement, but let it continue. Finishing, the ant dipped its head and retreated into the tunnel's darkness.

"We're going to forget how to function without them at this rate," he drawled around another bite, crumbs brushing his lower lip.

Elowen turned her head, and the projector's pale glow caught silvery strands of her hair, making them shimmer like threads of moonlight. She smiled, dimple showing. "I'll still remember how to shout for cocoa," she replied, voice soft yet unmistakably teasing.

As if summoned, Monkey's lens flicked to attention.

<Hot cocoa scheduled every 45 minutes during active viewing periods.>

Mikhailis lifted both brows at the efficiency. "You've trained him too well," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. "Now he schedules our indulgence."

"If only the Council obeyed half that promptly," Elowen murmured, selecting a reheated cookie. She broke it in half, steam rising, and offered a piece to him.

While he ate, Monkey observed them with a tilt of the head plate, lenses whirring in quiet calibration. <Royal designation not currently recognized. Would you like to update monarch registry?> His tone remained perfectly neutral, but Mikhailis imagined a mischievous twinkle.

"Don't tempt her," he warned, flicking imaginary dust off his sleeve. She would crown you just to see me fill out the paperwork.

Elowen laughed under her breath, nibbling the cookie's edge. The sound danced around the chamber like a bell.

For a few minutes they just sat—comfort in warm light, sugar on the tongue, and the steady hush of night outside. A log in the hearth cracked. Somewhere in a far corridor, a distant patrol helm clinked as a guard shifted weight, but it never intruded here.

Mikhailis let his shoulders loosen. The day's diplomacy, dungeon statistics, and quiet fears all slipped for a moment. How strange, he mused, that saving kingdoms sometimes means simply sitting still, letting the world be good for one hour.

On a low table a stack of scrolls waited—reports about trading guilds, Serewyn tariffs, encryption keys for spectral silk shipments—but none demanded their attention yet. Monkey glanced at them, clearly logging the untouched paperwork, then returned to his guests—his world.

The projector flickered, reminding them their champion still moved below. Rodion's audio feed buzzed once, a short digital chirp that Monkey re-routed to silence. But a caption pulsed above the cookies—FEED UPDATE INCOMING.

Elowen adjusted the blanket around her lap, sapphire eyes intent. Mikhailis mirrored the gesture, though he pretended casual slouch. Cookie still in hand, he licked melting chocolate from a thumb and muttered, "Let's see where our steel hero dances next."

The hovering image shimmered, pixels realigning into new geometry. The melody platforms faded beneath Rodion's boots, music runes dimming out, and an unfamiliar stretch of cavern scenery crawled into view.

A hush settled over cushions and stone hearth alike. Even the Worker Ant by the fire paused, antennae swaying toward the light as though eavesdropping on secrets. Mikhailis clicked his tongue once, anticipation glowing in his grey eyes. Elowen leaned in, the crownless queen ready for another plunge into shadows.

And in that breathless second—warm cocoa scent, glowing cookies, bronze butler on standby—the projector shifted as Rodion's feed updated. The melody platform faded beneath his boots, and a new region stretched ahead.

_____

Rodion stepped into a vast cave hall, and the change in atmosphere slapped his sensors like diving beneath warm water. The humidity here was almost alive—thick, damp, clinging to every plate of his armor until droplets formed and slid down in clear beads. Beneath his boots, the moss-covered stone floor shone as though varnished in emerald oil. Each step left a soft print that slowly filled with moisture, erasing his passage in seconds.

Overhead, stalactites dripped at a measured pace. Plip. Plip. Each bead of water glowed faintly turquoise, catching the distant shimmer of crystalline veins threaded through the ceiling rock. When they hit the ground they hissed, the mana-charged droplets chewing tiny pits in the moss before cooling into harmless steam. Rodion swept an optical scan upward; the software plotted every drip like falling stars, mapping safe rhythms so none would strike exposed joints.

On the left-most wall a crumbling mural stretched, jagged with missing chunks. Time had stolen the faces, leaving only spirals and branching lines that knotted together then vanished in cracks.

Monkey's feed enlarged the image, overlaying ghost-white lines over the original stone so those watching could imagine the missing parts. Mikhailis leaned closer to the floating projection, his grey eyes sharpening. "Mana flow diagrams," he murmured, tracing one curving line with his finger in the air. "They used to regulate air like a lung. Pull fresh currents from the surface, push stale mana down to be filtered by quartz roots."

Elowen studied the display, eyebrows knitting. Tiny shadows from the stalactite drips danced over her face. "If that system's collapsed," she said, "the dungeon's pressure pockets will spike. Rodion could walk into a backdraft and never see it."

Rodion himself stood motionless for a full breath, as if listening to the cavern's pulse. He raised one hand, palm open—a silent command. Three Scarabs disengaged from the small carousel at his belt and zipped forward, wings humming bright. Their bodies glowed with soft pilot lights—blue, green, yellow—each color an immediate status message piped back to Monkey's console.

In the royal chamber the 3D overlay blossomed: stalagmite clusters rendered as translucent polygons, micro-eddies of airflow sketched in swirling arrows, patches of elusive heat signatures flickering like candle flames. Monkey hovered just beside the projector, his own lens sweeping left to right as he reconciled the fresh data with the archived map.

"You see that split?" Mikhailis tapped two fingers on the projection, where three corridors branched from the hall's far end. "Left turns down fast. The way the airflow twists means there's something warm breathing in there—life. Could be creatures roosting."

Elowen's chin rested on her folded hands, but her voice was alert. "Left shows life readings," she confirmed, eyes flicking to the faint red pulses marking movement.

"Right has mana surge patterns," Mikhailis said, brushing his thumb across his bottom lip. A faint chocolate smear remained from a recent cookie. "Unstable mana pockets there. If I were a mage trap, that's where I'd set my glyph wards."

"Center's empty." Elowen's gaze lingered on the dark corridor marked by a calm blue wash—no heat, no life, no mana surges. "Too quiet."

"Which is why it's best." Mikhailis drummed a quick rhythm on the air—one, two, tap—like sealing a private calculation. "He'll take it."

At that moment, Rodion's helm dipped once, the motion eerily in sync with their decision—as though he heard the conclusion through stone. He drew his cloak tighter. The fabric's nano-threads shimmered, altering hue to a muted slate that matched the cave walls. A readout blinked across Monkey's feed:

<Middle path selected. Cloak draw: active. Noise damping 85%.>