The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

The carriage hit an incline; wheels creaked. In the window's reflection, he caught sight of himself: moonleaf robe glowing faintly, silver bell resting in his lap like a quiet heartbeat. He straightened, smoothing the front of the garment, then traced the charm Serelith had given him still hidden under the first fold. Protection, he thought, or a comfort blanket disguised as jewelry.

A soft rustle. The opposite door opened, and Elowen stepped in, having ridden her own horse alongside until now. She closed the door behind her, breath only slightly quickened from the ride. Silver wisps clung to her temples; sunlight haloed her figure.

"No last-minute catastrophes?" she asked, settling onto the bench beside him.

"Rodion claims statistical perfection," Mikhailis said. "A dangerous boast."

Elowen's laugh was soft, like cloth brushed against strings of a harp. As the carriage slowed toward the Grove's outer gate— a towering arch grown from living silverwood— her mood shifted. She reached out without preamble, cupping his face firmly between her palms. Her eyes gleamed, equal parts fierce and tender.

The kiss she drew him into tasted of morning tea and honeysuckle. It surprised him with its urgency. Her fingers threaded through his hair, anchoring him as if the carriage might tip and hurl him away. Heat spread through his chest, a warmth that steadied his pulse and sharpened his senses all at once.

When she withdrew, she didn't release him right away. Their foreheads touched. "Remember whose you are," she whispered—a reminder, a plea, and a promise braided into five words. "Even if she offers star-dappled dreams, your roots were planted beside mine first."

Mikhailis's answering smile was gentle but sure. "I'm not a leaf easily blown away."

She nodded once, satisfied. Then she squeezed his shoulder, opened the door, and stepped down to rejoin her escort—leaving him with lingering warmth and a light floral scent that mingled with the pine of the carriage.

_____

The wheels crunched over a new surface—smooth slate set into the earth, each slab etched with curling runes. Beyond the arch, the world hushed as if air itself bowed. The driver halted; twin shrine maidens awaited. Mikhailis descended, the mossy path springy beneath his sandals.

Silence enfolded him, thicker than velvet. The only sound came from subtle wind threading through high branches, carrying murmurs too soft to decipher. Every tree along the path bore living runes—pale ridges resembling claw marks, glowing faintly blue. Wisps of luminescent moss gently brushed his ankles, leaving specks of light on the robe's hem.

The maidens guided him toward the Three Circles. Rodion dimmed his glow to a muted azure in compliance with Grove law.

First Circle: statues. Mikhailis paused before each stone monarch—some wearing chipped crowns, others clasping stone scrolls. Their expressions varied: stern, wistful, serene. He felt their gaze weigh him, and instinctively straightened his shoulders, offering a silent greeting. The quartz bell trembled in his belt pouch, but he did not ring it; words would break the reverence.

Second Circle: purification pool. Translucent as blown glass, the water reflected sky and branches in shifting mosaics. He stepped in; cold seized his calves, spreading needles of ice through bone. Halfway across, warmth flooded up from the stone beneath, soothing as hot tea on a bitter night. Vapors rose around him, carrying away invisible dust from his spirit— or so the Grove believed. He emerged, robe oddly dry despite droplets clinging to his skin.

Third Circle: garden maze. Flowering saplings arched overhead, petals drifting like pink snow. The path curled and branched, each junction signaled only by the echo of his own heartbeat. He focused on that rhythm— steady in, steady out— letting it guide his left or right turns. Once he hesitated, and instantly the path rippled, edges blurring like wet ink. Heart quick, he centered himself, chose the beat, stepped forward; clarity returned.

At last, moss gave way to polished root-wood, leading to the threshold of the Heart Shrine.

Rodion remained silent, his glow dimming softly, only recording internally.

_____

Entering the Heart Shrine, awe tightened around Mikhailis's chest like a silken cord. The threshold alone felt holy—root-wood polished to an almost mirror sheen, cool against his sandals. At his first step beyond it, sound fell away: no rustle of leaves, no distant birdcall, not even the faint hum of Rodion within his collar. Only the slow rhythm of his own breath remained, echoing in new, cathedral-wide quiet.

A crescent amphitheater unfolded before him, carved from seamless white stone that glowed as if lit from a slumbering sun inside the rock. The tiers were empty, yet he felt watched—by history, by memory, by whatever spirit wound itself through these walls. Above, living branches intertwined to create a vaulted canopy. Their leaves shimmered like shards of night sky, each one pricked with a star-bright mote. Between those drifting constellations, paper-thin lanterns hovered and pulsed—gentle inhales, gentle exhales—glassing the chamber in muted pinks and blues.

He swallowed. Easy, Mik. Walk like you belong here—even if you're not entirely sure you do.

Slow, deliberate strides carried him along a curving aisle. To his right, a mural stretched across the inner wall, painted in sweeping strokes of iridescent ink gathered from cloud-octopuses. In swirling blues and opals it showed the moment the first Saintess called rain to parched valleys; next, the founding monarchs kneeling amid saplings that would grow into Silvarion Thalor; and finally, Queen Elowen crowned beneath the Holy Tree, Myria's luminous hand resting on the circlet as though anointing both queen and kingdom. Each scene flickered faintly—as if the paint still remembered the light of the events it captured.

This place… older than my lineage, older perhaps than some gods. The thought returned with heavier weight. He had joked earlier about humility, but here humility wasn't optional; it pressed down like gravity.

On the open side of the crescent, water shimmered in a shallow channel. Lotus blossoms—silver instead of pink—floated in perfect lines, their petals tight against morning chill. Each time he passed one, a petal unfurled in silence, releasing a breath of fragrance that reminded him of moonless summer nights in the palace gardens.

At the center of the chamber, a wide archway fashioned from braided silverleaves marked the passage to the waiting area. Two maidens, veils brushing the floor, stepped aside in measured symmetry. They crossed their palms over their breasts, heads bowed. Mikhailis matched the gesture—slightly clumsy but earnest. They inclined their heads a degree deeper, accepting his respect.

Beyond the arch lay the silverleaf chamber, open to the sky yet somehow warm. Panels of translucent foliage formed walls that drifted on unseen currents. Soft gold incense spiraled upward from bowls of polished agate, and somewhere hidden crystal plates thrummed a chord that vibrated inside bone rather than air. It was neither music nor heartbeat—something between.

He eased onto a seat shaped from a single living root, its curves fitting the contours of his legs with uncanny perfection. The starflower tea waiting on a low side-table sent lazy curls of steam toward a ceiling that wasn't there; instead, the upper leaves parted to reveal a slice of firmament, pale and cloud-flecked.

Mikhailis reached for the cup, then paused. The rim was etched with tiny runes that glowed the same hue as dawn's edge. He set it back untouched. Better not risk breaking some unknown fast rule. He clasped his hands instead, thumbs worrying the quartz bell.

Is she truly formidable, or just another lofty seer? He replayed tales from breakfast—generals in tears, vines whispering sins—and frowned. Those stories sounded theatrical, yet nothing here felt false. Even the air tasted potent, like it carried more oxygen than the palace gardens. Every inhale cleared webs from his head, leaving thoughts sharp. Sharp enough to be cut by the memory of her letter: elegant curves of ink that seemed to pulse when he turned the paper, as though the words exhaled with his touch.

He rubbed at a phantom ache on his ribs—old Technomancer bruise flaring with ghost pain—then smoothed the moonleaf robe over his knees. The silence became a cloak around him. Time lost edges. Perhaps minutes passed. Perhaps the length of a single steady breath.

Subtle change: the resonance of those hidden crystal plates slipped a note lower. Incense coils reversed direction, smoke curling downward before rising again in a lazy ribbon. A bell, small and high-pitched, sang somewhere distant—three quick tones, as delicate as water droplets striking metal.

Two shrine maidens stepped through a curtain of silverleaf. Their veils parted just enough to reveal serene smiles.

"The Saintess will see you now," they whispered in unison. Even their hush carried the acoustics of a marble hall, echo threading the syllables.

Mikhailis rose. The robe fell into place with barely a rustle. He inclined his head—once to each—then followed.

The corridor beyond was paved in panes of sapphire glass that captured light and bent it into slow waves underfoot. Each step set aurora colors sliding beneath the transparent surface—greens chasing violets, blues blooming into rose. Above, vines thick as his wrist arched overhead, leaves unfolding as he passed to clear a path. Petals drifted free, some brushing his cheek like perfumed snowflakes, leaving cool traces on warm skin.

Halfway down, he glanced sideways. Between two vines the wall became translucent. Beyond it, a courtyard balanced at the center of the Holy Tree's roots spread like a spiderweb of silver. Pools mirrored the sky; acolytes knelt beside them, sprinkling handfuls of blossom dust that burst into light on contact with water. The glimpse lasted two seconds before the vines closed again.

They curate wonder by the breath, he mused, awe softening into quiet appreciation. A lesson in controlled reveal.

Ahead, double doors fashioned from living wood dwarfed any he had seen in royal halls. The bark was polished smooth, yet he could discern a slow pulse—sap or something older—threading through faint veins. Intricate shapes grew directly from the grain: chimeric insects, blooming buds, curling script in a language predating scripts. A thousand tiny carvings held by life itself.

Rodion stirred—a flicker of blue on the edge of vision—then dimmed again. <Internal note: environmental humidity ninety-three percent; bioluminescence stable.>

Mikhailis resisted a smile; even muted, the construct couldn't resist cataloguing.

The maidens reached the doors. Instead of pushing, they placed their palms flat. Thin tendrils of light ran from their fingertips through the wood. Locks unseen disengaged with a sound like a distant tide pulling pebbles. The doors breathed open.

Light spilled outward—cool, white-blue, like moonrise condensed into a single shaft. It haloed the threshold, drawing every shadow backward. Mikhailis's pupils tightened; still, he stepped forward.

The floor beyond was not stone, but living root knit so densely it felt smooth. A faint vibration traveled up through his soles—steady, measured, like the heartbeat of something colossal dreaming far beneath. He registered the temperature first: neither warm nor cold, but uncanny, the exact degree of his own skin.

Then he saw her.

She stood where the beam of light widened into a small clearing. Platinum-silver hair fell straight to her waist, shining with its own inner glow, as though the strands remembered starlight. Bare feet rested on the living stone, toes pale against dark root veins. A simple robe of soft white draped her frame, cinched at the waist with a braid of living vine that still bore two tiny buds. Golden eyes watched him without blinking, bright and steady, as if reading the echo of each heartbeat that had guided him through the garden maze.

For a breath he forgot every posture of reverence Rodion had drilled into his skull. The quartz bell felt suddenly heavy in his hand, sweat dampening the chain. He managed to lower to one knee, bowing his head until the silver hair at his temple brushed the robe's collar.

The air did not move, yet he sensed her approach—quiet as moonlight across still water. A faint scent reached him: crushed starflower and something clean like mountain rain. His pulse stumbled, then steadied.

So, not just another lofty seer, he conceded inwardly. Definitely formidable.

He took one slow breath, preparing to rise and ring the bell as protocol demanded. Before he could, she spoke. Her voice was a soft chime, echoing without echo, threading through his bones.

"Welcome, Prince Mikhailis," she said. "The Grove has been expecting you."

The Saintess awaited.