The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"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."

Talyra's companion, Nessa, offered a pleased nod. "Only one born beyond the Grove can speak it so plainly without sacrilege."

They stepped into a chamber shaped like a nautilus shell, its spiralling walls inlaid with moonstone tiles. Overhead, glyph-lanterns floated in gentle choreography, their light breathing in slow pulses that aligned with the hush of the distant canopy. A reflective pool claimed the floor's center, its black surface unmarred save for pinpricks of light that mirrored the equinox stars exactly as they would appear overhead weeks from now.

Mikhailis paced a slow circle, eyes scanning every design choice. "These lanterns aren't random," he observed, squinting at their drift. "Their positions iterate prime factors of the Grove's founding year. And the acoustics here—listen."

He clapped once, a soft tap of palm on palm. The sound didn't echo so much as ripple, bending around the spiral until it returned on a lower frequency—like a thought whispered back in meditation.

"They aren't merely preserving history," he said, awe sneaking into his tone. "They're encrypting it into lived experience—forcing body and mind to resonate with memory."

Talyra's smile widened, pride gleaming. "And few who walk these halls ever notice the intent, let alone articulate it."

A mural arrested his attention then—one he nearly walked past. It spanned half a curve of the shell-wall, rendered in mineral pigment so old it had fused to the stone. Moonlight glyphs illuminated the scene in pulses, revealing and hiding details like secrets glimpsed through parted curtains.

There, painted in heroic lines, stood a towering ant-like figure—yet noble, wings outstretched to shelter fleeing villagers; mandibles parted not in menace but warning as a tide of nightmare silhouettes surged behind her. In her clawed hands she held a sigil similar to the Tree's root-knot, glowing bright enough to dwarf the moon.

Mikhailis froze, breath caught between ribs.

This must be... A coincidence, right...?

He couldn't help but held his breath as the picture is very similar to the chimera ant queen.

In the next corridor, countless folded paper scrolls filled niches, softly pulsing as if breathing. He paused, recognizing an alignment with equinox patterns and faded inks subtly interconnected.

"Recursive intention," he noted in awe. "Layered devotion encoded here."

Nessa, the other priestess, regarded him gently. "You perceive clearly because you share blood with us."

He blinked in confusion. "Blood?"

"Yes," she clarified softly. "We—the Saintess, Talyra, and myself—are kin to Queen Elowen. The bloodline of Silvarion split long ago. Some ruled openly, others returned here, guardians of memory and spirit."

The realization hit him sharply. It explained everything—Elowen's unhesitating approval of his meeting with Myria, their shared psychic sensitivity, and why the Tree had reacted so intensely to him.

They finally arrived in a vast dome where shelves breathed, rearranging texts softly with each gentle wind. His fingers traced ancient symbols reverently.

"Pre-Dawn script," he murmured in fascination. "Older than written Silvarian."

<Even my extensive database lacks a complete lexicon. Remarkable discovery, Mikhailis.>

"We must let you rest," Talyra said gently. "The Saintess will return when the Tree stirs again."

Mikhailis nodded slowly, mind still racing through layers of connection, history, and profound realization.

"Actually," he said softly, smiling faintly, "I prefer to rest here, amidst these whispers of the past."

He sat quietly, lost in thought, feeling for once that he was closer to unraveling the deeper threads of this world—and perhaps, himself.

There, painted in heroic lines, stood a towering ant-like figure—yet noble, wings spread wide to shield a cluster of villagers clutching infants and baskets. Even from a distance Mikhailis could tell the artist had taken pains to soften the angles of the carapace, to turn what might have been a monster into a guardian. Moon-silver highlights traced every segment, catching the lantern-glow that drifted overhead. Beneath the chitonous thorax a faint blush of rose pigment suggested a beating heart.

At the figure's feet, scorched fields rolled away into a churn of dark silhouettes—long arms, jagged teeth, eyes like empty lanterns— nightmares rendered as black voids outlined in angry crimson. They surged forward in a frozen wave, but the ant-queen's body formed an unbreakable line. In her raised claws she cradled a sigil: an intricate knot of roots, almost identical to the living emblem he had passed at the Grove's gate. Its luminous paint still pulsed faintly, as if feeding on the mana that saturated these halls.

Mikhailis felt his pulse thrum in his ears. He leaned closer until he could see the brushstrokes, tiny swirls that broke into fractal spirals under scrutiny. One spiral matched almost perfectly the whorls on the Chimera Queen's forearm plates—markings he had studied under lamplight back in his workshop.

He swallowed hard. "No ordinary coincidence," he whispered, voice too quiet for the priestesses to catch. Either the artist knew her… or the Tree did. A shiver walked his spine. The air smelled faintly of cedar smoke and cooling metal—his mind's association with late-night forging sessions.

Behind him, Talyra paused, head tilted as if weighing the silence. "Few linger here," she said softly. "This wing holds memories the kingdom has preferred to forget."

He straightened, offering a wry smile. "History never forgets, Lady Talyra. We just stop reading it."

Her lips curved, approving. "Then you honour the Grove by looking with open eyes."

Together they moved on, but the mural's after-image clung to his vision like an ember behind shut lids.

The next passage narrowed, walls honeycombed with thousands of alcoves no larger than a tea cup. In each niche rested a folded prayer scroll, edges browned, inks faded to ghost-colours—yet every slip of paper beat with a dim pulse, like breath beneath ribs. Pale light drifted in languid spirals overhead, illuminating motes of dust that seemed reluctant to land.

Mikhailis slowed instinctively. He counted five alcoves per vertical tier, forty tiers stacked to the arching ceiling. Each scroll's seal pointed north-east—toward the equinox sunrise. He traced the spiral arrangement with his gaze, noticing a secondary pattern: every seventh alcove was empty, a deliberate pause in the lattice.

"Recursive intention," he murmured, fingers hovering just shy of a niche. "Each prayer strengthens the next, but the gaps let the flow rebound—like breathing chambers in a flute."

Nessa, walking at his left, stopped. Her veil shifted, revealing warm brown skin and a thoughtful frown. "You perceive clearly," she said, words almost reverent. "Most visitors only notice the glow."

He turned, brow raised. "Patterns are my trade. Machines, insects, constellations—they all speak if you listen."

She gave a small nod, then ventured, "You see because you share blood with us."

The words struck him harder than he expected. He blinked. "Blood?" His mind jumped to Elowen's pointed ears, their subtle glow when she read star-maps late at night. Then to the Saintess's similar eyes, to the echoes he had sensed between them.

"Yes," Nessa continued, voice gentle but firm. "We—the Saintess, Talyra, and I—descend from the royal line that branched back toward the Grove. We are sisters of spirit and, long ago, sisters of flesh to the Queens that now sit upon the throne."

Mikhailis released a slow breath. The corridor's dim light suddenly felt brighter, as though the scrolls themselves leaned in to listen. Elowen never hid her lineage, but she rarely spoke of cousins in cloistered orders.

"It explains," Nessa added, "why the Tree welcomed you without quaking. It sensed the bridge already forged."

"And why Elowen allowed this meeting the moment it was requested," he finished, half to himself. "She trusts family—even if distance and centuries separate the branches."

Talyra inclined her head. "The Grove keeps memory; the Palace keeps power. Both are needed."

Mikhailis let that sink in. Under his robe, his heartbeat reset to a steadier cadence. "Then let's see what other memories you're willing to share."

They emerged into a vast dome that stole his breath. The floor appeared to float—broad planks of pale root-wood suspended on invisible currents. Shelves grew straight from the ground, each one a rib of dark heartwood curving upward before unfurling into delicate fingers that held brittle folios. At every faint gust, the ribs flexed, sliding volumes left or right so gently the pages hardly rustled.

Lanterns shaped like seed-pods drifted through the air, tethered by threads of glowing sap. Whenever a pod rose, an answering shelf descended, trading places in a slow dance that reminded him of planetary gears meshing in silence.

He stepped forward, feet sinking slightly into the pliant floor, and reached out. His gloved fingertips grazed symbols etched in a script composed of flowing arcs and star-shards. The grooves were shallow but crisp, untouched by erosion.

"Pre-Dawn," he whispered, reverence mixing with scholarly glee. "Could be fifteen, maybe twenty thousand cycles old." He traced another rune. "This one looks like an early form of the word boundary."

A subdued chime vibrated against his collar. <Even my extensive database lacks a complete lexicon. Encourage high-resolution scans when diplomatic conditions permit.>

He smiled thinly. "Patience, Rodion." Quietly he added, "We ask, we don't seize."

Talyra watched him with a glimmer of pride. "When the Great Storm burned the first libraries, the Tree swallowed what knowledge it could. Here, it lets us borrow its memories."

He imagined giant roots drinking up fallen texts like water, converting language into living fiber. An organic archive—an idea beautiful and terrifying all at once.

A hush fell. Petals drifted from some unseen height, spiraling around him before settling at his feet. Their soft landing sounded like tiny drumbeats.

Talyra and Nessa bowed. "We must let you rest," Talyra said, her voice as hushed as the petals. "The Saintess will return when the Tree stirs again."

Mikhailis forced himself to step back from the shelf, though every instinct begged him to open the nearest folio. His mind buzzed with converging lines: the mural of the ant-queen, the royal blood branching into hidden orders, the living library breathing around him.

"Actually," he said, voice low but steady, "I prefer to rest here, amidst these whispers of the past."