The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Guards around the corner coughed—wet, hacking barks that bounced off the narrow stone walls in panicked echo. Leather and steel clattered as they stumbled against stored crates, the men swiping at the irritant cloud that never made a sound. Their halberd tips banged and scraped, searching for an enemy they could no longer see.

Cerys pressed herself flat against the storeroom wall, heart hammering behind her ribs. She felt Lucien's pulse racing just under the bandage where her hand steadied him. The smoke, a soft gray sheet, poured low and wide. Within seconds it filled every lantern beam, turning torch-light to formless haze.

The chimera ant squad moved with eerie coordination. One skittered along the wall's edge, bronze carapace catching the faintest glimmer of light. Its legs—delicate-looking yet strong as hammered nails—clicked in deliberate rhythm. It slid behind Lucien's calves and hunched. Chitinous arms, jointed like a craftsman's folding yardstick, locked around his knees and under his arms. With a practiced pivot, the ant lifted him just enough that Cerys could reposition her hold without strain. Lucien gave a startled gasp, both feet hovering an inch above the gritty flagstone.

The second ant climbed a splintered storage shelf, mandibles clamped around a slim rune disk the size of a playing card. It found the torch bracket nearest the guards' line of sight and bit down. Tiny metal needles—finer than sewing pins—protruded from its mouth. One jab, two, three: the bracket's iron nails came loose. The torch dropped into the smoky gloom and guttered, its flame suffocated before it could give a warning flare. Darkness swallowed the corridor's far end.

Cerys's breath caught. In any other moment she'd have marveled, but urgency drove every heartbeat. She gave the ants a quick nod of respect—no words necessary—and whispered, "Thank you," the syllables slipping past chapped lips like smoke of their own.

All three ants rotated in perfect unison, forelimbs snapping up in a salute: mandibles angled, antennae tucked back. Then, as though the salute were a cue in a silent stage play, they vanished. Their bodies melted into the haze and the cracks between stones—gone before Cerys could even blink.

Lucien stared wide-eyed, the glaze of thorneleaf drug fading as adrenaline surged through him. "Did that ant just… lift me? No, wait—did it salute?"

Cerys allowed herself a brief, tired grin. "They're good friends." The words tasted odd—she rarely called anyone friend—but the ants had earned something deeper than gratitude.

<Correction: "They" are elite auxiliary units. "Friend" is subjective and biologically inaccurate.>

Rodion's voice was perfectly flat, tinged only with that mild condescension it saved for statements it deemed imprecise. Cerys rolled her eyes, though affection colored the motion. "Oh shut it," she muttered, lips curling despite the tension. Lucien looked between them, uncertain whether the remark was for him or an invisible partner. His confusion almost coaxed sarcasm from her, but there was no time.

Blue vector lines blossomed across Cerys's visor—glowing arrows marking turns, doorways, ladder hatches. Red dots blinked where guards fumbled in the smoke cloud, bumping into each other. A sweeping amber cone showed where torches still cast light farther ahead.

<Updated grid loaded. Corridor status: Green indicates safe. Amber indicates recent movement. Red indicates hostiles active.>

Cerys studied the overlay, mind slicing possibilities as swiftly as sword cuts. A path curved left through the scullery washroom and down into what Rodion labeled "Sub-Kitchen Access." Another looped right through a lecture corridor where Calderon scribes often rehearsed speeches at dawn.

She spoke aloud so Lucien could follow her logic: "Path A goes past the kitchens—longer but fewer guards. Path B cuts through lectern hall—fast but they'll be jumpy after that noise."

Lucien, pale but alert, peered at the shimmering map though the symbols clearly drifted beyond his exhaustion. "I don't get any of this…"

She squeezed his wrist once, guiding his finger to the glowing arrow: "All you need is to follow my steps, pup. Left when I say left, crouch when I drop."

He nodded, teeth clacking slightly as he tried to muster courage.

The smoke behind them began to thin; agitated voices carried curses. A guard bellowed orders—indecipherable through the haze, but urgency sharpened each syllable. Cerys inhaled through her nose, catching the reek of sweat, lamp-oil, and that faint magnet sting of ward runes flickering back to life.

Time to move.

She slipped under a sagging doorway, cloak brushing years-old cobwebs. The corridor ahead dipped; condensation dripped from overhead bricks, splashing like slow clock ticks. Each droplet felt louder than drums. She steadied Lucien's forearm, steering him around a mound of burlap sacks that reeked of old turnips.

They reached the scullery edge where narrow stairs descended to the sub-kitchens. Steam rose from floor grates—kitchen fires warming caldrons for breakfast porridge. The warm updraft swirled around Cerys's ankles, a brief comfort before the damp resumed its chokehold.

Below them, silhouettes of sleepy cooks bustled between giant stockpots. Pans clanged, spoons scraped. The smell of yeast and onion floated upward, thick and inviting—reminding Cerys how empty her own stomach was. She shoved the distraction aside.

Rodion whispered in her ear: <Current sound levels masked by kitchen activity. Visibility low due to steam. Proceed.>

Cerys guided Lucien down tiers of shelving stacked with jars of preserved mushrooms. Most cooks were occupied near the hearths, their backs turned. One nearly spotted the pair when she pivoted to fetch salt, but Cerys angled Lucien behind a stack of beet crates. The woman muttered about missing ladles, none the wiser that two fugitives had slipped past at arm's length.

Midway across the kitchen floor, a stray ladle rolled underfoot. Lucien's boot nudged it—metal on tile rang like a struck bell in Cerys's ears. She reacted on sheer instinct: a swift drop of her cloak hem muffled the clatter. Her free hand hovered near her remaining dagger, ready to throw. A kitchen boy looked up from chopping root vegetables, brow furrowing. But an older cook shouted his name, tossing him a bundle of herbs, and his attention flicked away.

Cerys exhaled soundlessly. Beneath her fingers, Lucien's shoulders trembled. She squeezed again— reassurance transmitted through pressure rather than words.

At the far end of the sub-kitchen, a servants' hatch—little more than a half-height door—led to the castle's wine cellar. The hinges bore rust freckles; she feared they would shriek. From a pouch she pulled a sliver of sap-wax. She rubbed it along the iron pivot, breath held. When she eased the door open, it sighed in barely a whisper.

They slipped through.

The cellar felt like stepping into another realm: cool, silent, rich with the perfume of oak, resin, and dusty grape skins. Row on row of barrels stretched into the gloom, ribbed hoops gleaming faintly where morning slits cut across them. Somewhere beyond, mice scurried, their tiny claws scratching wood.

Lucien sagged against a support column. His lashes fluttered, and for a heartbeat she feared he'd faint. She guided him to a low stack of casks and eased him down.

"Breathe slow," she advised.

He obeyed, eyes shuttering. Each exhale blew tiny clouds of mist in the lantern-lit haze. She listened—counting four of his heartbeats, then hers, letting the combined rhythm settle her own nerves.

Up above, the silence shattered.

Clang! Mirrored by a chorus of metallic bangs—silver platters colliding, goblets tumbling onto marble. The crash rolled through the vaulted ceilings of the banquet hall, reverberating like thunder inside a cavern.

Rodion's alert bloomed crimson across her visor.

<ALERT: Security density rising on level two. Rapid deployment detected. Visual ID confirmed—pursuit team led by Marshal-grade signature. Tag: Mikhailis.>

For a heartbeat Cerys's heart skipped—half relief, half exasperation. She pictured the prince, that maddening half-grin, probably pretending to trip over an entire table just to scatter cutlery and draw guards. A distraction tailor-made for her escape. Only he would think throwing himself into mayhem qualified as "help."

She wiped a hand down her face. Exhaustion tangled with reluctant amusement. "Always has to make an entrance," she muttered, words almost drowned by the distant storm of guards responding to the new disturbance.

Lucien looked up at her, puzzled, the dark circles under his eyes making his confusion look almost child-like. "Did you… plan all of this?"

Cerys shook her head once—quick, almost embarrassed. She opened her mouth to answer, but a shadow slid across the narrow window slit above the wine racks, blotting out the thin beam of morning light like a curtain pulled by unseen hands.

A tousled shock of chestnut hair poked through the opening first, followed by a familiar, lopsided grin and a dust-smudged nose. Mikhailis's copper eyes gleamed with that unhelpfully calm amusement he seemed to reserve for the worst possible moments. He wiggled his fingers in a lazy greeting, as if they were meeting for tea instead of fleeing a castle swarming with armed patrols.

Lucien managed a weak wave in return, still half-reclined against an oak cask. "How did he beat the guards down here?"