The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Mikhailis stepped into his private chamber, rolling his shoulders as the lingering warmth of the training grounds still clung to his skin. His muscles tingled with that familiar, pleasant ache, a reminder that he was still far from the soft, sheltered image some nobles assumed of him. As he reached for a fresh tunic hanging neatly by the wardrobe, his glasses flickered with a soft blue glow.

<I thought you had finally ended your romantic escapades, Your Highness. Yet it seems you have merely begun anew.>

Rodion's voice was a perfect blend of dry sarcasm and that polished, formal tone that Mikhailis knew so well. The prince couldn't help but smile, a chuckle slipping out as he pulled the shirt over his head. "Shut up, Rodion. You know the situation better than most."

<Yes. The situation where your own wife subtly arranges for trusted women—knights, maids, scholars—to fall in love with you. So that when the time inevitably comes for you to take consorts, they will be those she trusts completely. Ingenious. And you, my dear prince, accept this arrangement with such… enthusiasm.>

Mikhailis felt a faint heat brush his cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and amusement. "Oh, shut up. It's more complicated than that." He adjusted the tunic's collar, trying to regain his composure. "And speaking of Elowen… she's away again, isn't she? With Lira… well, that's understandable. But what about Serelith and Vyrelda? What's she really up to?"

Rodion's digital presence pulsed in the faint reflection of the glass, and the text on the AR screen rearranged into a detailed, three-dimensional map of Silvarion Thalor's western border. The colors shifted, illuminating the highland regions in warm amber hues.

<Elowen is leading a diplomatic mission to Serewyn's western border, where unrest has stirred among the highland tribes. Serelith, with her expertise in negotiation, and Vyrelda, the vigilant warrior, are there to provide both diplomatic and martial support. Their mission includes stabilizing local leadership, negotiating trade security, and monitoring rumors of rogue mages smuggling artifacts. Lira's presence ensures secure communication, as her stealth and observation skills keep Elowen's party informed.>

Rodion continued without missing a beat, the image of the highlands expanding to show faint outlines of suspected bandit routes and hidden mountain passes.

<Furthermore, there is a rumored magical relic in the hands of the mountain chieftains, which Elowen aims to secure before it causes trouble. A relic that could destabilize the region if it falls into the wrong hands.>

Mikhailis crossed his arms, staring at the image. "I see… Elowen never stops, does she? Always a step ahead, always in control."

<Nor do you, Your Highness. A perfect match, if I may say so.>

A chuckle escaped him, softer this time. "Save the poetry, Rodion. I'm going for a bath. Keep an eye on the network."

<Of course. I shall ensure that your romantic misadventures do not cause diplomatic incidents.>

Mikhailis laughed as he stepped away, waving dismissively. "Save your judgmental tone for later, you cheeky algorithm."

He stepped through the ornate, arching doorway into his private bath—a sprawling chamber of white marble veined with silver, steam curling in lazy spirals. The vast, warm pool shimmered beneath hanging crystal lanterns that cast soft, prismatic light over the mist, making the chamber seem like a dream caught in dawn's first light.

He shed his tunic, letting it slide from his shoulders to the cool, polished floor. The air was thick with the subtle scent of lavender and mountain pine, a calming blend designed to melt tension away. He sighed, letting his fingers brush over his tired muscles, tracing faint scars earned through adventures and mischief. Even here, in the palace, a part of him always remained on edge—sharp, aware.

The old robotic chimpanzee butler—an earlier version of Rodion's system—scuttled in on gentle, rubber-tipped claws, its fur-like fiber coat neatly groomed, metallic eyes glowing a soft amber. It collected his discarded clothes with careful, almost reverent precision, folding them with a grace that seemed almost too delicate for its mechanical limbs.

Beside it, a smaller monkey-shaped automaton busied itself with the towel rack, ensuring each plush towel was perfectly aligned. A faint mist of herbal scent sprayed into the air—subtle, refreshing. Mikhailis watched them with a warm smile, a touch of nostalgia in his gaze. These old companions, relics of his early days tinkering with Rodion's systems, were still as efficient as ever.

"Still going strong, huh?" he murmured to the chimpanzee, who tilted its head, letting out a cheerful, mechanical chitter in response.

Mikhailis slid into the bath with a contented sigh, the warm water enveloping him in an embrace of soothing heat. He leaned back, eyes drifting shut, letting the tension drain from his muscles. The steam curled around his face, tracing gentle trails along his cheeks and jawline.

But even as his body relaxed, his mind refused to follow. Equations began to dance before his inner vision—mana density flux calculations, optimized irrigation patterns for mana-soil fields, and the intricate algorithm of adaptive worker ant pathways in the Chimera Ant Nest. Numbers twisted, variables shifted, and formulas rewrote themselves in his thoughts like living ink.

His fingers absently traced symbols in the water, mathematical notations that rippled and dissolved beneath the surface. He muttered half-formed hypotheses, his voice a quiet whisper blending with the soft bubbling of the bath.

"If the mana saturation exceeds 14%, then the crystal yield should be… no, that's too volatile. Maybe a 12% threshold with a catalytic modifier... but that would destabilize the root structure…"

His brow furrowed, and his eyes tightened. The warm water did little to cool the feverish race of his thoughts. It wasn't just about numbers—it was about solutions, about outsmarting the limits of nature, about creating something better.

A soft chime echoed through the mist, and the robotic monkey stepped forward, a small tray in its metal hands. A fresh cup of herbal tea steamed invitingly. It leaned forward with a polite, practiced bow, offering the cup, then withdrew a respectful distance.

"Thank you," Mikhailis murmured, his fingers curling around the warm porcelain. He barely noticed the subtle scent of mint and chamomile rising with the steam. His eyes remained half-lidded, but his mind raced.

"Adaptive pathways… iterative flow… if the ants could process shadow-thread like silkworms, then…"

His voice drifted, the bath's soft warmth a comforting embrace against the sharp edge of his thoughts. Numbers spun, diagrams formed, and the mist seemed to take on shapes—lines of light, pathways bending and merging like spider silk. A part of him wanted to drown in it, to sink beneath the surface and let the visions carry him away.

But the tea's warmth against his palm grounded him. He sipped, the taste both soothing and refreshing, pulling him back to the present. His mind slowed, the feverish calculations easing into a soft hum at the back of his thoughts.

Finally, with a soft splash, he leaned forward, letting the water cascade from his shoulders. Droplets sparkled against his skin, sliding down the lean lines of his arms, tracing the subtle definition of muscle earned through more than just idle luxury.

He stood, the water parting around him, steam curling in lazy spirals. The old chimpanzee butler approached, holding out a thick, plush towel of deep emerald green. Mikhailis wrapped it around his waist, the fabric soft and comforting.

The chimpanzee's mechanical head tilted, its glowing eyes watching him with a faint, amber warmth. Mikhailis reached out, his damp fingers patting the metal shoulder with a familiar, affectionate touch.

"Thank you, old friend."

The chimpanzee's claws tapped the floor in a cheerful rhythm, its metal lips parting in a polite, chirping sound. It bowed slightly, then turned, retreating with quiet, precise steps.

Mikhailis watched it go, a faint smile lingering on his lips. The steam swirled around him, a last lingering embrace of warmth before the cool air of the chamber greeted him. His thoughts finally settled, a calm, steady rhythm replacing the feverish dance of equations.

He dried his hair, the towel catching stray droplets that clung to the dark, unruly curls. His reflection in the polished silver mirror caught his eye—sharp, keen, and yet softened by a quiet contentment. Even a restless mind needed rest, and for a moment, here in the gentle mist and warm light, he allowed himself that peace.

_____

Mikhailis stepped out of the bath, steam curling behind him like a fading mist. His dark hair was damp, clinging to his forehead, and his robe hung loosely over his shoulders, the plush fabric still warm against his skin. He rubbed a towel over his hair absently, each step leaving a faint trail of wet footprints along the cool marble. The quiet of his chambers was soothing—until he noticed a faint, flickering light coming from the sitting room.

His first thought was a brief flash of caution, but it melted when he recognized the familiar spill of red hair over the back of the couch. Cerys. Not in her usual armor, but dressed casually—dark, snug tunic hugging her figure, fitted pants, and a pair of soft leather boots. Her crimson hair was loose, a wild cascade that seemed to drink the flickering glow of the screen she was so intently watching.

Rodion's voice—disguised in a deep, dramatic tone—echoed from the screen. "Survivors must reach the mall, but beware of the infected swarms hiding beneath the food court…"