The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"How did he beat the guards down here?"

Cerys didn't bother wondering. Of course he found a shortcut. She pointed two fingers at her own eyes, then at the prince. Mikhailis responded by raising an eyebrow and tilting his head toward the largest wine barrel crouched in the cellar's darkest corner. It had always looked too polished, too dust-free compared to its neighbors—Cerys had thought so even during training years ago, but she'd never asked.

Lucien frowned, lips parted. "What's he pointing at?"

"The barrel," Cerys breathed, already crossing the floor with soft, measured strides. Her cloak brushed cobwebs from the rack edges. "Stay close."

When they reached it, she ran her palm along the curved staves until her fingers snagged a hair-thin seam. She pressed. Click. The entire front quarter of the barrel hinged outward in silence, revealing an oval doorway and a lantern-lit wooden platform no bigger than a market cart's bed.

Lucien blinked hard. "A… wine elevator?"

"Welcome to royalty," Cerys muttered—half awe, half resignation—and helped him hop the short gap onto the platform. The hidden door swung shut behind them with a soft thud, sealing out cellar dust and daylight alike.

Mikhailis vaulted through the window slit—more agile than any scholar had a right to be—and landed on the platform's upper edge in a crouch. He grabbed the chain-pulley overhead, muscles in his forearms flexing as he eased the brake lever free. The platform shivered, then began its slow descent into darkness, guided by groaning timber rails.

Narrow beams from a hooded lantern dotted the shaft, each one spaced several yards below the last. They cast overlapping halos on damp stone until the light looked like stepping-stones fading into a black well. Cold air rushed upward, carrying the earthy scent of deep foundation rock and old, forgotten groundwater. Somewhere far above, muffled shouts echoed—guards still chasing phantom clues.

Lucien's knees buckled. Without thinking, Cerys moved behind him so he could lean into her chest. One of her arms circled his waist, the other hand bracing on the railing. His heartbeat thrummed against her ribs—fast, but steadying.

Mikhailis kept one hand on the chain, the other casually twirling a wind-key he'd produced from a pocket. "Next time," he whispered, voice pitched so low it barely reached them over the creak of wood, "leave a note. Or a raven. Ravens are dramatic; I like ravens."

Cerys inhaled slowly, counting two beats before answering to keep the gratitude out of her tone. "I prefer swords."

"Noted," he replied, smile flicking wider. "A sword strapped to a raven, then."

Lucien let out a breathy chuckle that caught him by surprise. The sound filled the cramped lift like a spark of warmth. His head lolled against Cerys's shoulder. "Don't give him ideas."

"There's a diagram for that somewhere in my lab," Mikhailis said, eyes half-lidded but voice genuinely fond. "Rodion hated it."

The AI's disembodied tone crackled from Cerys's earpiece, perfectly deadpan. <Clarification: I filed it under 'Extremely Dubious Flight Mechanics and Mild Animal Cruelty.'>

Mikhailis mouthed rude at the ceiling.

The platform jerked once when it reached the shaft's base, then settled. A faint clang of locking pins echoed, and a hidden door slid aside to reveal a long corridor banked with rough-hewn stone. The smells changed instantly: damp straw, horse musk, and the metallic hint of tack oil.

They stepped off into the stables' sublevel. Overhead, hoofbeats clopped in lazy circles—early grooms exercising mounts before sunup. Dust motes drifted through slanted light from floor-grates above, each mote turning gold as dawn finally breached the stable's slatted vents.

Lucien sagged. Cerys kept him upright, but her arms vibrated with fatigue now that the rush of danger allowed room for pain to return. Bruises throbbed under her leathers; a muscle in her thigh threatened to cramp.

A blur of motion drew her attention: a lone stable hand—barefoot, half asleep—blinked down the corridor at the sight of three disheveled nobles materializing from a stone wall. His mouth opened to form a question, but Mikhailis strolled by first, pressed a silver scudo into his palm, and winked. The youth's eyes widened; he tucked the coin into his belt and hurried on without a word.

Cerys wasn't sure whether to be grateful or irritated. Bribery works, but it leaves witnesses. She filed the thought away.

They threaded between hay carts stacked for the morning feed. Dust kicked up with every step. Cerys lifted her cloak collar to muffle a cough.

A faint, familiar clack-click-click skittered across the flagstones. From behind a feed bin stepped a single chimera ant worker—bronze back polished to a dull sheen. It approached, antennae wavering, then dipped its head in a courtly bow no bigger than two inches of motion. Tiny black eyes reflected morning light like gemstones.

Lucien stared again. "What… are those?"

Mikhailis leaned closer as if confiding a scandal. "Secret allies." He tapped an index finger to his lips. "Very hush-hush. Even I'm only technically their landlord."

The ant raised one forelimb and tapped its mandibles together softly—an insect salute. Then it scuttled into a floor crack, disappearing exactly as its siblings had: like a dream half-remembered once eyes are open.

Lucien's shoulders slumped in wonder and confusion. He looked ready to pepper Cerys with questions, but fatigue pulled his brows together instead. She squeezed his arm, urging him forward.

They reached a narrow door set into the outer wall—the gardeners' entrance. Morning sun spilled through the gap, almost blinding after the cellar gloom. Cool air brushed their swollen faces with the scent of dewy grass and fresh-cut rosemary. Beyond the threshold, the castle's east garden unfurled: hedgerows trimmed into spirals, gravel pathways sparkling with moisture, and clusters of early blossoms—foxglove, peony, starbell—nodding under gentle breeze.

A pair of florists in crisp aprons snipped brown leaves from topiary wolves, chatting in hushed tones about which tulip beds needed replanting. They barely glanced up as Cerys, Lucien, and Mikhailis stepped from the hidden door and merged with the maze of hedges. Nobles were always wandering the grounds at odd hours; three more silhouettes in dawn's long shadows raised no alarm.

Mikhailis shrugged off his charcoal cloak—threadbare in places, though still lined with warm wool—and swung it over Lucien's trembling shoulders. The fabric draped almost to the boy's ankles.

"Still breathing?" the prince asked, grin crooked but gentle.

Lucien pulled the cloak tighter, eyes shining with rekindled spirit. "Barely," he answered, echoing his earlier joke but delivering it stronger, a spark of humor returning to his voice. Color had crept back into his cheeks, enough that Cerys's hammering worry eased by a notch.

They wove along a side path bordered by blooming winter sage. Tiny honey-bees buzzed lazily from flower to flower, oblivious to battered knights and princes with dusty coats. The castle wall loomed to their right—high, sturdy, but peppered with old servant posterns rarely used these days. Mikhailis steered them to one half-hidden gate, its hinges disguised by ivy. A heavy latch gave way under his practiced shove.

Outside the wall, the lower gardens sloped toward the river road. Sunlight painted ripples of gold across the surface of a shallow ornamental pond. A gardener in a straw hat murmured instructions to his apprentice about trimming lilies; neither spared a glance as the trio slipped behind a tool shed and into a narrow lane lined with copper beeches.

There, at last, Cerys allowed herself to slow. Her lungs drew a full breath that did not taste of stone dust or fear. Lucien sagged against her side again, more from relief than pain.

They stood together in the hush of morning birdsong. Somewhere within the castle, bells rang the first work shift, but out here the world felt suspended—an exhale stretched across sunlight and dew.

Lucien turned to his sister. His voice shook, though whether from lingering drug or sudden emotion she couldn't tell. "I was wrong," he said, gripping her gauntleted hand. "About everything. You didn't abandon me. You saved me."

Cerys swallowed. Words stuck behind her teeth; humility was heavier than steel. She glanced away, watching a robin hop across the lane's moss, and found her jaw clenching. "I should never have gone alone," she managed. Her gaze flicked back to him, fierce with guilt. "I thought if I fixed it myself, no one else would bleed."

Lucien tightened his fingers, surprising her with unexpected strength. "You never have to." The earnest certainty in his tone disarmed her more than any blade. She inhaled sharply, chest aching in places she usually ignored. Maybe I don't want to carry it alone anymore.

A footstep scuffed gravel behind them. Mikhailis had given them distance, but now he approached, hands clasped behind his back in an oddly formal stance for him. His expression, for once, carried no hint of jest—only a quiet pride that made his eyes shine richer than molten copper.

"You terrify the council," he said softly, addressing Cerys yet glancing at Lucien with fondness. "And you inspire them. That combination is… rare." He paused, choosing words with care. "Let us carry the corners of the burden, at least. It's less likely to tear."

Cerys's lips parted, surprise fluttering across her features before she masked it with a rueful half-smile. "You're smoother than you pretend."

The prince bowed with exaggerated grace, dust coating his knee. "Only on alternate Tuesdays."

Lucien chuckled, shoulders easing as laughter shook out the last of his fear. He released Cerys's hand to adjust the oversized cloak—simple, habitual motions like pulling stitches from a wound.

Cerys shifted, fingertips brushing beneath her tunic to the little cloth pouch tied around her neck. Inside lay her mother's old signet: wolf-etched silver set with a chipped onyx. She felt its worn edges and the pulse of responsibility it symbolized—oaths sworn to protect, to stand.

She lifted her gaze toward the distant castle roofs glinting under sunrise. Calderon's banners would snap higher today, rallying their supporters with spin about the night's "intrusion." The duel loomed—her proof to the world that loyalty could not be forced into chains by arrogant Houses.

But the memory of chimera ants saluting… of Rodion's steady guidance… of Mikhailis tipping silver into a stable hand's palm, simply trusting that small kindness could guard a secret—those images whispered something new: strength did not diminish when shared.

Cerys squared her shoulders. Fresh determination straightened the set of her jaw—but softer somehow, like steel smoothed at the edge. She turned back to the others, voice low but sure. "We'll need a plan. Calderon won't fold easily."

Mikhailis grinned, all mischief returning in a flash. "I might happen to know where Aldric stores his fancy dueling breeches. Imagine his face when they shrink two sizes." He waggled his brows.

Lucien laughed outright, and even Cerys smirked, though she rolled her eyes. "Focus, prince."

"Perfectly focused," he insisted. "On creative humiliation and strategic victory. I multitask."

Lucien's shoulders convulsed with silent giggles. The simple joy warmed Cerys more than the rising sun.

She nodded once—to them, to herself, to the watching dawn. A duel waited, a kingdom balanced on knife-edge. But she could step onto that field with more than her own shadow now. Allies walked beside her: a prince who cracked jokes while pulling hidden levers, an AI who argued grammar while mapping enemy patrols, ants who fought with silent smoke and surgical precision, and a brother whose faith in her refused to die.

Maybe—just maybe—she didn't have to carry it alone.