The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

They moved—almost dazed—toward the leftmost table where etched bronze cages housed humming crystals. Each pulse matched the glow inside the emerald leaf, though subtler.

"Resonance array," he explained. "I tune these to pick up ant reports. Converts chitter into chime."

He flipped a dial. Soft bell tones drifted out—delicate, like glass rain. Serelith's lips parted in delight. She closed her eyes, listening. "It's beautiful. What is that message?"

"'Forage line found sweet sap to the west. Worker troop requesting larger jars.' " He grinned, then nudged the volume. "They get poetic sometimes. One described sunrise as 'sky honey.'"

Serelith opened her eyes, humor dancing there. "I'm starting to envy your ants."

He picked up a thin silver band, set it gently over her ear. "Here. Translator rune." The band buzzed; her pupils grew huge as new sounds filled her head—tiny fiddles, soft trills.

She gasped. "They're singing."

"Working rhythm," he corrected, but quietly drank in her wonder: the slight part of her lips, the bright flare behind her lashes. Just like the first day you saw the royal observatory, he remembered, warmth spreading in his chest.

Before she could return the band, he leaned in, brushing mouth to her temple—one silent thanks for every piece of awe she'd gifted him tonight. She turned her head, catching his lips with hers, gentle at first then bold. Heat punched through him. He tasted mint from shared tea, a breath of clove from her mother-tongue spells, and underlying sweetness all her own.

Her hand cupped his jaw, thumb grazing the faint stubble he'd missed shaving. He slanted deeper. Their breath mingled, quickening. Soft wet sounds echoed off copper, subtle but unmistakable. Rodion wisely drifted three inches higher, as if granting them privacy.

When they broke, air fled quickly from both lungs. Serelith's cheeks glowed rose, corset rising and falling. She pressed their foreheads together, whispering, "Show me more, or kiss me again—either will do."

He chose both. Another quick kiss, tasting her ragged laugh, then guided her to the next table where a half-disassembled sphere rested on velvet. Copper ribs, quartz veins, a dormant rune core sputtering faint sparks.

"What's that?" she asked, still breathless.

"Prototype loft engine," he said. "Turns hot air and mana into lift." He spun a gear; the core flared, then flickered out. "Not stable yet. Last test nearly crashed through the greenhouse."

Her fingers stroked a curved rib. "Could carry messages over the northern peaks," she murmured. "You could reach the storm monasteries before the mail pigeons even sniff the wind."

"Could crash on a village," he countered, hand covering hers. "I'm not ready to gamble lives on imperfect toys."

She angled closer, nose almost brushing his. "We'll fix it someday. Carefully." Her words were warm against his mouth, promise and challenge at once. So he kissed her—slow slide of lips, soft exhale, fingers threading her pink hair—and the world shrank to satin, brass, and heartbeat.

They moved station to station. He demonstrated a thin pane of crystal that showed insect-eye views of wheat fields; she mapped that image onto ley curves, weaving silver ribbons above the crop like protective nets. He explained worm-gear ratios; she offered rune shortcuts. Twice she corrected his glyph grammar, each time rewarding herself by tugging him down for a quick smack of lips—playful, almost greedy. He pouted at the corrections; she bit his lower lip until he forgot to complain.

Rodion hovered near the ceiling.

<Note: Prince Mikhailis has spent 3.2 hours daily studying world lore and arcana to date.>

The dry announcement floated down like a lecture-hall echo. Serelith, still half-bent over the data console, snapped upright so quickly her skirts fanned. A fine sheen of exertion glazed her cheeks, but astonishment flashed brighter than the sweat.

"Three hours? Daily?" Her voice pitched between outrage and awe, as if he'd confessed to juggling wyverns before breakfast.

Mikhailis rocked on his heels, trying—and failing—to disguise the bloom of pride curling in his chest. One shoulder rose in a lazy shrug. "Pesky someone keeps pestering me to study." He reached across the glowing panel, flicking a stray pink strand at her brow like a teasing kitten.

She swatted his arm, not hard—just enough to ripple the sleeve and remind him she carried lightning in her fingernails. "I pester because you have potential, you incorrigible man." Stern look, gleaming pride: the blend that always tightened something low in his stomach. "I didn't expect you to devour the entire restricted library."

She really never sees the nights I stay up memorising trade dialects, he mused, warmth threatening to leak into his grin. But he said nothing—just tapped another rune. Two charts flared side-by-side: one a jagged gold pulse of mana readings, the other a humble blue line of grain prices. Every intersection bled crimson.

"Culture, economics, weather—" he pointed, eyes narrow with focus "—all connected. A mana surge in spring warps soil moisture. Germination falls. Result?" He dragged a finger to a spike. "Famine. Last year's drought wasn't drought. Ley turbulence. Nobody noticed."

Serelith's head shook slowly, glossy strands whispering across her shoulders. "People think you're a carefree flirt." The wonder softened her scold, turned it into something fond.

"Best disguise around." He popped his brows. She laughed, the sound breathy, and the corners of the lab seemed to brighten.

Silence settled—comfortable, weighted by the glow of graphs and candleglow. She watched him for a long heartbeat, violet gaze roaming from the lines of his brow to the curve of his mouth, admiration melting into something gentler. Then her attention snagged on a dormant crystal sphere on a lonely pedestal, half-veiled by curling blueprints.

"What's that one?"

"Emergency beacon," he said. Tone casual, but his hand closed around his opposite wrist. "Calls every ant in the network. Last resort only."

She brushed the sphere with two fingers. A tremor of stored power thrummed up her arm, buzzing through bone. She shivered; eyes widened. "Feels like bottled thunder."

"Would scatter half my colony if triggered wrong." His lips quirked. "Imagine ten thousand ants trying to report at once. Even Rodion would fry."

Her hand fell away. She swallowed, throat working. "You juggle storms while telling jokes. Reckless or heroic, I can't decide."

He winked, playful ease returning. "Both keeps life interesting."

They drifted back to the bench where the emerald leaf rested. Serelith rolled aching shoulders—the motion caused her corset stays to creak softly and drew his eyes to the curve of her waist. Heat licked his skin. She caught the glance, smirked, then raised her palm. Silver mana threads unfurled like gossamer, spiralling over the leaf's surface in deliberate arcs.

Mikhailis answered with science: spectral graphs blossomed beside her conjured shapes—rings of numbers whirling like obedient fireflies. Rodion stitched the feeds together, holograms latticing overhead in a constellation of teal and silver.

Minutes slid into hours. Candle stubs guttered; the breath they exhaled fogged in the cooling air. Every so often they paused—stretching cramped fingers, rolling stiff necks. Those pauses, inevitably, pulled their bodies close. One glance, an answering spark, and lips met—soft, hungry, tasting of rosemary tea and wax-warmed honey.

Once, Mikhailis snuck up behind her to adjust a projector crystal. She leaned back against his chest, arching. He stole a kiss beneath her ear; she laughed, sultry and low, then snared his mouth over her shoulder. Her hand reached back, threading his hair, tugging just enough to curl his toes. Only a shrill ping from a drifting data point broke them apart, breathless, blushing, but grinning like co-conspirators.

Charts updated; candles melted shorter; hearts beat faster. Yet the work advanced—magic and engineering dancing in tandem, each splice of data tightening the intimacy between them.

At last Serelith sagged onto a stool, lashes heavy. A smile—soft, gleaming—curved her mouth. "We make a disturbingly good team."

"I supply the jokes," he said, gently tucking a rogue curl behind her ear. His fingers lingered at her nape, thumb stroking the delicate cord of muscle. "You supply the competence."

She stifled a yawn with a gloved wrist, cheeks rosy. "I'd slap you if I weren't exhausted."

"We're done for tonight." He threw a lever; the floating graphs winked into ghosts, then dissolved. The room dimmed to amber hush. "Time to smuggle you out before dawn patrol."

She rose, tugging her skirts smooth, though satin still bore wrinkles from hours perched on lab stools. Mid-gesture she paused. Eyes softened, voice low. "Thank you, Mikhailis… for trusting me." She traced the heart-wood box's edge, fingertips reverent. "I'll keep this secret, I swear it."