The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

The sanctuary was bathed in a gentle starlight, filtering down softly through an intricate weave of roots high above. Mikhailis stepped forward carefully, his breath catching as he took in the subtle beauty around him. Silver-blue moss crawled up the walls, illuminating them softly and casting the room into an otherworldly glow. The air was thick with the fragrance of burning incense, a strange combination of damp earth, ancient scrolls, and a metallic tang he couldn't quite place.

It almost smells like old blood-magic—sealed and forgotten. Intriguing.

He let out that breath in a slow hiss, the sound swallowed by the hush that pressed on his eardrums. Every heartbeat felt amplified, each exhale oddly loud in a place where even dust motes seemed reluctant to stir. It wasn't fear, exactly—more a reverent tension, as though one wrong move might crack the floor of this sacred silence.

A soft rustle drew his gaze upward. The moon-vine parted like gauze, and the Saintess stepped through, her arrival as quiet as dawn. Platinum hair draped down in straight sheets, shimmering faintly as if inner moonlight trickled along each strand. The geometric linework on her robe pulsed once—an exhale of pale light—and settled into a slow, steady rhythm that matched the gentle throb of the roots overhead.

Golden eyes, strangely luminous in the half-dark, took him in from head to boot-tip—a measured, unhurried inspection that suggested she was cataloging as thoroughly as Rodion ever could. Mikhailis resisted the urge to tug at the collar of his moonleaf robe.

"Welcome, seeker, beneath the Tree whose roots grasp the depths of destiny," she intoned softly. Her voice threaded through the hush like a clear bell. "You carry many names, but which do you offer the Grove?"

For a split second he considered replying with one of his sillier aliases—something that would earn a laugh at court—but the weight of her gaze warned him this was not the moment. He bent forward in a practiced bow, the quartz bell at his hip chiming once.

"Mikhailis Volkov, Prince Consort of Silvarion Thalor, at your service."

When he straightened, his silver-blue eyes watched her with the same calm he might use to examine a rare insect: respect, curiosity, caution. Iron in silk, he decided. The robe is merely the scabbard.

Her lips curved—as if acknowledging a private thought—yet no smile appeared. Instead she gave a slow nod and gestured with one slender hand. The simple motion sent runic light rippling along her sleeve, and for an instant the entire chamber brightened, then dimmed again.

"Mikhailis," she repeated, tasting the syllables. "A name unfamiliar to our Grove, yet the Tree whispers eagerly of your arrival."

"I hope those whispers speak kindly," he said, letting a faint teasing lilt into his tone. His fingertips brushed the bell again, steadying its faint swing.

A heartbeat of silence. Then—did her eyes soften? Just a fraction, a minute shift in golden irises. "Kindness is but one facet of truth. The Tree speaks of many things. Sit, please."

She glided to a low, root-wrought table sunken into the floor—its surface polished smooth but still pulsing with sap-light. She knelt with fluid grace, robes pooling like moonlit water. Mikhailis followed, folding his long legs under him. The seat embraced his weight as though it had been grown to his exact measurements.

The Saintess lifted a crystal decanter, its contents shimmering with faint motes like drifting stars. "Starwater," she explained. "Dew gathered on the cusp of dawn, fermented in sealed pollen-urns. It teaches the tongue to hear truths layered beneath words."

He accepted the cup she offered, tilting it slightly so starlight danced across the surface. A delicate aroma rose—sweet but edged with something herbal, reminiscent of meadows under frost.

<Rodion analysis complete. Psychoactive resonance mild. Expect heightened perception, possible emotional amplification. Dose manageable.>

Thank you, nursemaid, he thought dryly, then sipped. The liquid was cool, sliding over his palate with a silvery taste that reminded him of first snowflakes melting on the tongue. Heat unfurled behind his eyes—not burning, but crisp, clearing.

The Saintess cradled her own cup but did not drink. Instead she watched him, as though the way he swallowed told another story. When he set the empty vessel down, she finally lifted hers. The two cups produced a near-silent chime as she placed hers beside his—an echo of the bell at his side.

Silence stretched, supple as rope. In that stillness he noticed details he'd missed: fine cracks spider-webbing one pillar where a vine root had shifted over centuries, faint specks of cosmic dust trapped in the moss like glittering seeds, and the subtle tremor of Myria's pulse visible at the hollow of her throat.

"Tell me," she said at last, voice lowering into something more intimate, "do you find your destiny bound by stars or by choices?"

"An interesting question," he replied, rolling the empty cup between his palms as if weighing its significance. "The stars lay out possibilities, but choices are the stitching that binds each possibility into something we can actually wear. Destiny might whisper, Saintess, yet we decide which whispers deserve to become song."

The depth of his answer tugged at the tension lining Myria's shoulders. A glow, almost imperceptible, warmed the golden rims of her eyes. She lowered her lashes for the briefest moment, absorbing the thought as one might savor an unexpected note of sweetness in a familiar tea. When she looked up again, a gentler curiosity shimmered there.

"You speak wisdom older than you appear," she murmured, folding her hands atop the root-table. Her fingertips traced a slow orbit around one grain-knot glowing with sap-light. "Most who visit the Grove quote scripture or parrot courtly aphorisms. Your words feel… lived."

A wry grin twitched across Mikhailis's mouth. "I have my moments." He tapped the quartz bell at his hip, its chime skipping across the silence like a pebble on still water. "But tell me, Saintess, what does the Tree whisper about the shadows it cannot name?"

Myria's breath caught. For an instant the pulse of her robe's geometric runes missed a beat. She recovered quickly, but Mikhailis noted how her fingers laced tighter, how her shoulders drew back as though bracing against a chill no one else could feel.

"It speaks," she answered, voice dropping to a near-whisper, "of a silver-threaded shadow, born beyond the Tree's memory. Such shadows, it claims, might heal…" Her pause lingered like a held note. "Or unweave."

That flicker of uncertainty—barely a tremor in her measured calm—rang louder for him than any temple gong. Heal or unweave… Rodion's dead-branch readings, the hush in Elowen's eyes when certain prophecies surface—this dovetails too neatly to ignore.

Before he could press further, soft footsteps brushed the moss-stone threshold. Two shrine priestesses entered, their arrival as quiet as snow. They moved in mirrored grace, skin deep rosewood beneath robes dyed with root-extract so rich it caught the starwater lanterns and shimmered dusk-purple. Slender ears tapered to elegant points, marked by silver cuffs stamped with the Tree-sigil.

The taller of the two placed a hand over her heart and bowed, voice like a flute's lower register. "Seeker by Fire and Root, the Grove deems you worthy of deeper understanding. Come, we shall guide you."

Mikhailis's brow lifted at the unfamiliar title. Seeker by Fire and Root? He rose, brushing a phantom speck of dust from his robe to buy half a heartbeat, then inclined his head in return. "Lead on."

Myria stood as well. A faint bloom of color warmed her high cheeks, almost as if the air had grown too warm. "If the Tree permits," she said, her tone carefully formal, "I shall return shortly." Without another word she stepped back, letting a curtain of braided mistache branches swallow her silhouette—leaving only the scent of starflower and something humanly fragile in her wake.

The corridor ahead curved downward in an easy spiral, walls breathing with interwoven stone and living wood. No two surfaces met at a straight line; everything flowed in organic arcs that coaxed the eye forward. As Mikhailis followed, his usual half-saunter straightened into the gait of a scholar on the brink of revelation. The bell at his hip settled, its clapper stilled by his sharpened focus.

Silver-blue veins pulsed faintly within the walls, the rhythm not unlike a heartbeat magnified through a stethoscope of root and rune. He ran his fingertips along one vein, feeling a thrumming warmth.

"The slope…" he muttered, mostly to himself. "Follows logarithmic spirals. Mimics planetary orbital curves. Clever."

The priestess walking at his right—Talyra, judging by her subtle vine-embroidered wristband—tilted her head, a smile ghosting across her lips. "This shrine is a memory engine," she explained, voice so soft it felt woven into the ambient hush. "Every prayer since the Grove's birth is absorbed through dendric recursion."

Mikhailis's eyebrows arched. "So the shrine isn't merely a place of worship—it's hardware. You're encoding scripture into living architecture, letting every visitor add a heartbeat of data." He gave a low whistle of appreciation. "Elegant and resilient."