The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"Do it," he said. "Rim only. Keep the circle hungry."

Obedient bone drifted up out of the gray. Knees found knees. Elbows learned elbow. Rims touched without scraping. Bows bent and sang a single low note as their strings took first tension. The line's sound dropped a shade, like a choir adding an alto.

"Wrists quiet," Thalatha said again, not bored, just certain. "Let the blow travel wood."

He breathed through his nose. Metal taste. Don't bite your cheek again, idiot, he told himself, and released his jaw.

The Juggernaut came through its own clutter, too graceful for its size, like a bull that had been taught ballet by a cruel teacher. The scissor swung low-to-high, precise as a barber with a fresh razor. Chains hissed out, hooks hungry for ankles and wrists, always two motions layered—cut, yank, punish. Wedges met without pride. Rims kissed and held. Hooks scraped along those edges and hissed like snakes denied a hole. A pair of Tangle lines shot in a V and wrapped a hook mid-flight, stretched, hummed, and slung it off-course. The chain skimmed a Silk veil instead of a wrist and stuck there for the length of one rude word. It was enough. A spear leaned and poked the bicep seam with the exact lack of drama Mikhailis loved.

He didn't grin. He knew better. But his shoulders loosened half a finger.

Thalatha paced the front and touched a tower shield with the back of her glove. The touch wasn't a correction; it was a reminder. The shield's rim settled deeper against its mate, and the line's sound made a tiny change, less clang, more hum. She kept moving, calm as a woman checking door latches at night.

The air was thick with smells: sour gel, old bone, cold iron, and under it all the dry sweetness of the elvish seam that had no right to be in a place like this. The Whiteways breathed in and the lamps swelled. The blue strip kept its own law. The army stepped on law, not on fear.

The Scurabons flowed to the edges of the Juggernaut's reach, always just inside the place where a full swing would miss them by a hair. They treated the weapon arms like stubborn doors. Tap at the hinge. Tap again when the hinge forgets. They never stayed for the slam. They had dignity. They had instructions. They were very good at both.

The Crymber Twins worked like an old argument that had become a marriage. Frost's breath frosted a thin seam on a veil, Ember tapped, and the line turned from curtain to brace. They spoke to each other in tiny hisses, each correction like a note under the music. They didn't show off. They just made the floor give up the idea of being dangerous.

Archers breathed in pairs. One pair loosed on the lamp swell; the next pair loosed on the strip's slide; the sky above the ring never felt empty long enough for the Skullcasters to feel brave about opening their jaws. The Ankles squad found shins the way cats find warm spots. Wights stumbled into places Slime had already marked with quiet rudeness. A pile formed where a wall had planned to be.

Mikhailis watched, counted, and did not take the bait of the space that opened in front of him like a dare. You are not the hero. Not right now. He moved his fingers as if turning invisible knobs—tiny gestures that meant lower your point, stand over your knee, let the wood take the blow, not the bone.

The Juggernaut stepped in once more, scissor singing with a new little flourish at the end, the kind that says, I am still the loudest person at this party. The chains came snaking, hooks whispering for meat. The formation answered by being exactly as boring as he had asked them to be. No one chased a gap. No one tried for a bright kill. They met. They absorbed. They punished on count, not on feeling.

<Seven-stroke cycle unchanged. Sub-beat detected under layer: four-count auxiliary.>

Mikhailis's eyes narrowed. He felt the small chant under the bigger one, like a child's clap game hiding under a marching band. He didn't need to ask Rodion to explain. The strip told him enough: where it swelled, where it wanted to break, where four counted mattered hidden inside seven.

He leaned just a fraction and let the cold light brush his cheek. His mouth moved. The words came out soft, almost fond.

"I hear you," he murmured. "Don't worry, we'll make it trip on its own feet."

The chant under the fight was a small thing at first, a thin thread under the drum of steel and bone. Mikhailis felt it more than heard it. Four beats, neat and mean. One, two, three—birth. One, two, three—birth. It kept trying to line its breath up with the Juggernaut's bigger seven-stroke cycle, like a child running beside men with longer legs.

He tilted his head a little, as if that could make the floor talk clearer. It did. The sub-beat stood up out of the stone when he looked straight past it. He didn't smile. He wanted to. There you are, little metronome. Hiding under the loud uncle.

Rodion drew the line for him in cold light, a slim filament that rippled under the main count, then folded it back into his peripheral so he wouldn't chase it and trip. The strip pulsed once in quiet agreement.

"Hypnoveils," Mikhailis said, low. "Mirror on four. Show the last mistake then."

Mantles rose like breath being held. No bright lies. No painted dreams. The Hypnoveils chose honesty and cruel timing. On the tiny breath between three and four they lifted their frills and threw back the last ugly truth: a Skullcaster that had dipped too early, a halberd that had over-corrected, a chain hook that had kissed a shield rim and found no mouth to bite. Memory arrived right when pride reached for the next perfect note.

The effect was immediate and petty. Runes blinked wrong, like eyes catching smoke. A chant that wanted to be a clean ladder became a step that wasn't where it should be. Mandala mouths opened just half a hand late. The newborns that should have stepped out like soldiers slumped into the world shoulder-first, like foals that had missed a step in the dark.

Thalatha's chin moved the smallest amount. She had seen it too. "Again," she said to the Hypnoveils, gentler than command. "Catch their breath wrong."

"Moth," Mikhailis called, already turning his wrist. "Cuff sweep."

Mothcloak's pinion brushed two glowing jaw-cuffs mid-phrase. Not a slash. A smear. Consonants went to mush. Syllables stumbled over each other. Loose glyphs fluttered like panicked moths trying to become words, and Silk was already there with thimble-cones that popped shut like quiet bells. The runes hit silk and stopped being anyone's problem.

"Sky, loft above the mask," he added, drawing two fingers up and over. "Make the filaments flinch."

The Sky squad angled bows and let go in one calm breath. The volley didn't aim for eyes or teeth. It arced for air, for the thin threads that drifted from the antlers like a spider web waiting for weather. Arrows fell through nothing—and still the filaments twitched all together, a net thinking about closing too soon.

Mikhailis didn't need to shout. He snapped two fingers and pointed down.

"Scurabons. Link."

A sickle spine kissed the exact junction where chain met hook. Then another. Tap, tap. The next slam came in one breath late. Hooks bit the floor instead of shield, teeth on stone with an embarrassed rasp. The sound ran through the mandala like a wrong note in an arrogant choir.

The floor stuttered.

Not a crack. Not damage. The pattern lost agreement with itself, like two musicians realizing they had not been playing the same song.

Rodion's count strip pulsed a quick brightness at his ankle. <Inference: Node is listening to its own correctness. Disrupt alignment; birthrate declines.>

"Good," Mikhailis said, almost kindly. "We'll embarrass it into manners." He rolled his wrist toward the right. "Ankles, keep tripping. Sky, keep them shy."

The Ankles squad kept their arrows where gravity could be a friend—shins, insteps, ankles. They didn't hunt hearts. They hunted angles. The Sky squad softened the air above the Skullcasters again, a steady rain that made any jaw feel watched.

One Skullcaster tried to fix the insult by singing louder. The Hypnoveils were waiting with its own recent stumble cupped like water in both hands. They offered it back, gentle and rude at once. The rune-voice caught on pride and came out a cough.

Thalatha moved a shield rim with two fingers, then nudged a spear haft down a thumb. "Don't reach,"