The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"Care is cheap if you learn it early," he said. "Rebuilding is expensive. I am thrifty."

"Thrifty," she repeated, tasting the word. It fit him in some ways and not at all in others. She let it stand.

The line had finished eating. Bowls went back in a stack—wood on wood, soft knocks counted like beads. Bones from the broth lifted out with tongs and were set aside for later use. Nothing wasted. Even the offal from earlier had a place—a little packet Silk tied tight to dry into something that, tomorrow, would be soup again.

She pushed her bowl away, fingers slow. The warmth in her throat eased the sound of the Brake Choir from a worry to a fact. The ember blinked, and the light in the cones made shy friends with the darkness above them.

He looked at her, not long, not hard. Just enough to check for a crack he should mend. Finding none, he allowed himself a small piece of ease. The ugly string holding his hair did nothing to make him look tidy. He looked like a man who had been useful and knew it, which is as close to handsome as some people ever need.

She saw that, and she placed the knowledge next to the jar of gratitude and screwed the lid down tighter.

He nudged the ash-salt with the back of a finger. "You can take the rest," he said. "For later."

"For what later," she asked. "If we are lucky we have one later and not two."

"For any later that agrees to arrive," he said. It was foolish speech. She allowed it because men need a little foolishness the way fires need air.

The quiet tried to grow teeth again. She filed them down.

"You talk like a man who has eaten alone a lot," she said. She didn't mean to be kind. It came out sideways anyway.

He huffed a small laugh. "And you eat like someone who learned to ration everything except orders."

She wanted to be offended and found she was not. "Fair."

He turned the last skewer a quarter. The shine gathered and stayed where it should. No flare. He lifted it to cool, then set it where a hand could find it if night became day by accident.

He lowered himself to sit across from her, boots braced, shoulder a fist's width from her knee, eyes careful. He kept his hands where she could see them. In the cramped light their shadow-hands met on the stone between them and didn't fight.

"No heroics," she said. The words felt better the third time. They begin to be a wall, not a hope.

"Ask permission before every cut," he answered, not looking up, and that was correct.

They agreed to keep any tenderness private and quiet and less important than survival. It wasn't romantic. It was the kind of love a bridge has for loads correctly distributed.

A Tangle alarm hair thrummed—one soft pluck, like a fingertip on a taut string—and every body in the crack liquefied toward stillness.

Thalatha didn't bark or gesture big. She breathed out and let her weight settle an inch lower. Everyone understood. Faces turned from edges. Elbows tucked. Armor that loved to click was convinced not to. The marsh—Rodion's pliant gel—spread in quick, quiet hands across cheekbones, along jaw corners, over the hard peaks of kneecaps and vambrace lips. It dulled angles into dusk. It smelled faintly of clean stone after rain.

The veil-door at the mouth of the slot breathed once. The shimmer wobbled as something heavy and uninterested tested it with the patience of a bored animal. Not a strike—no focus, no teeth—just a pressure, a palm on glass.

She put count between herself and the shake rising in her calf. One, two, three—birth. One, two, three—birth. The numbers were plain and honest; they did not ask for anything she didn't have. By the second cycle her muscle stopped making little opinions. By the third, the tremor had gone where tremors go when they learn they have no audience.

The thing outside dragged its attention along the crack like a spoon along a bowl's rim. The sound scraped her eardrums at a place she couldn't scratch. Breath to the strip, she reminded herself. On the Anchor's inhale, everything inside the slot breathed in. On the Anchor's exhale, they let the air go. Even the liches followed, crowns dimmed to a dull worklight pulse that pretended it was an insect and not a lantern.

Mikhailis lay a hand's width from her, too close for comfort, not close enough to be improper, and she felt—more than heard—his breath fall into the same count on purpose. Not matching to command, not to perform: to lend steadiness. His chest rose when hers rose. Dropped when hers dropped. If she shortened a breath because the shimmer twitched, he lengthened his next one to even the rhythm. Stabilizing, not stealing.

He always did that when she had to hold too long. She did not say thank you. If she thanked every soldier who did the correct thing, mornings would take all day.

Outside, the bored weight pressed once more. The shimmer flexed like silk bowing to an elder and then lay down flat, pretending to be a mistake again. The crack felt larger by a finger-width when the pressure withdrew. The alarm hair cooled. The gel smoothed itself, losing the micro-ridges that had stood up when fear asked them to.

<Pressure wave receding. Vector north-by-down. Heart-rate variance: acceptable. Continue pretending you are furniture.>

Thalatha's mouth hadn't planned to react. A corner twitched anyway. She arrested it. It was not the hour for encouragement.

Her calf sent up a late, foolish twitch. She answered with one more cycle to make the message stick. One, two, three—birth. On "birth" she let a sliver of air hiss past her teeth, slow, controlled. Her body listened like a recalcitrant mount remembering the rider's hands.

The slot tasted of hot stone gone cool, of ash-salt, mint-paper, and the distant iron of the Whiteways' breath. Somewhere behind her, Slime shifted its weight a finger to keep the base gel from pooling wrong. A Hypnoveil leaned an edge closer to the mouth, adding one more layer of polite forgetfulness to the shimmer. The Tangles on either side hummed a tiny check through their anchor hairs—still taut, still ready.

No one moved more than a thought.

She let her eyes travel the little field she commanded. A shield leaned at the angle she had set earlier, rim wedged against rib. The chair edge—ridiculous and necessary—gave her back something to push into so she didn't have to ask her spine to work alone. A bow lay nested and unstrung in its wrap, string looped in a way that meant the hands who owned it had been careful when tired. A Scurabon's sickle-back rested against its forearm; the blade's edge faced harmless stone. She approved in silence. People worked better when praise didn't turn into attention.

The quiet had teeth and then, by degrees, forgot to bite. The pressure in the corridor faded to that ordinary, low hum the Brake Choir had found after they retuned the spring. The veil-door's shimmer relaxed into a surface that looked like it had always been there.

Thalatha's shoulders took back a fraction of their height. Enough to be a message to her own nervous system: see, you listened and were rewarded.

Keep the river. Don't become a statue, Mikhailis told himself, counting the same way she did. Boring is a skill. Boring is a weapon. The thought came with no triumph. His lungs stayed on her cadence, a quiet promise: I will not jolt your breath to satisfy my cleverness.

She tilted her head half a degree so the scars at the base of her skull—old lines from old helmets—didn't press where pain lived. The change gave her a different slice of the slot. Enough to notice the tiny pulse where the Lux ember's light met the edge of his cheek. Dust clung to the stubble there in neat constellations. Ridiculous what the mind records in danger.

"Clear," she breathed, not to him, to the crack. The word was permission for joints to uncurl one notch.

They didn't open the space like a door. They allowed it to widen as far as safety would permit. Ears stayed on the shimmer. Shoulders stayed tucked. The marsh dried to a matte finish along their angles, making bone and leather look like parts of the wall. She flexed her fingers once to bring blood back to the grip places and saw three others do the same, each at a different interval to make the motion disappear into the background of their collective patience.

Night watch in a place without night is an agreement, not a clock. She made the agreement with her people the way she preferred: short, quiet, names in her hand. Two liches passed the veil-mouth in turns, crowns kept low, the worklight pulse set to Rodion's strip. A pair of beetles took the far anchors, their threads tuned so a single wrong vibration would thrum inside the slot like the memory of a plucked harp. The Lux ember ticked because she had told it to tick; that was good. It made minutes into a rope they could all hold.

The Brake Choir's new note hummed through bone and stone like a cat purring after a door has been closed properly for the first time in months. It wasn't louder. It was more honest. The honesty soothed something in her she didn't have language for.

Memory likes quiet. It arrived, as it always did, with too much confidence. She heard her first commander's voice—thin, winter, sharp, the kind of voice that could cut a cigar in half without crushing the wrapper. She let the sound take three steps into her head and then told it to sit outside till morning.

You are General first, the voice insisted.

I am, she agreed. Not now. She placed the sentence on the stone by her shoulder like a folded cloak. She would pick it up before dawn and wear it without complaint.

The slot was mean and narrow and honest. Pride had no place to stand here; if she offered it a corner, it would bang its shins and make a scene. Either they slept face-to-face or they did not sleep. She chose sleep and paid dignity out of a purse no one but she could see.

He lay across from her because the slot said so. The marsh propped her shoulder where stone would have bruised. The chair wedged her hip at the correct angle to keep numbness from owning her leg. One of his knees argued with her thigh through fabric the way a child argues with a blanket on a long carriage ride—pushing, withdrawing, settling at the same place again, apologizing by not making a sound.

Close changes what people smell like. Not the grand things—perfume, wine—but the small truths. Leather oil. Mint-paper dust baked into the collar of his shirt. The tired metal of buckles that had done their job. Under it, the faint, clean bitter of whatever tincture he took for aches. All of it made him more real in a way the field had tried to keep from her.

He turned his head an inch, careful not to brush the veil with his hair. Even that small movement was slow, like he rehearsed the path first. His voice came out so soft it was almost the shape of a thought rather than a sound.

"Comfortable?"

She could have lied to make the moment neat. Neatness is tempting when the world is messy. She chose accuracy.

"No."