The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

<...Those traitorous fleshbags.>

No one heard him, of course. Elowen shifted in her sleep, nose brushing Mikhailis's collarbone. She gave a small, breathy hum of approval and burrowed closer. One pale strand stuck to the corner of her smile. Mikhailis, blissfully unaware of anything except perhaps the scent of lavender rinse, let out a soft snore.

Rodion replayed the last hour in sterile bullet points: stealth labyrinth navigated, mimic guardian neutralized, Silence Loop secured. The memory of spiking a blade through illusionary muscle still thrummed along his haptic logs. He imagined, for one petty moment, teleporting the sound of that clash directly into their dreams.

Instead, he muttered in a tone dry enough to sand timber:

<I faced a death echo of a mimic… and they're drooling into the same pillow.>

The first curse his language core allowed squeezed through like a nail through silk.

<Gods below… screw this. Activating Recall Protocol: Stealth Reintegration.>

He cut the feed. In darkness he rolled his shoulders, joints emitting silent clicks. Magnet soles powered to full—and he vanished from the dungeon's sensors in a single step, already plotting a ghost route back to the castle without tripping a single ward.

_____

Inside the royal chamber, Monkey's status diode flashed amber. He rotated one optic, checking that both humans were firmly in dream territory. Satisfied, the valet tapped the rune inlaid onto his chestplate—a stylized ant mandible encircling a gear.

At once, thin seams blossomed across the walls like opening flowers. Vents no wider than a quill nib exhaled a cool breath scented faintly of citrus and cedar. Drafts gathered crumbs, pushing them into hidden ducts with a feather-light swirl. The floorboards shivered, then settled as micro-runes engaged—mufflers ensuring no vibration could wake the sleepers.

From the mural behind the headboard, a square of stone slid sideways. One by one, Chimera Ant Workers stepped into the room. Their black carapaces gleamed in projector light; each wore a narrow sash dyed the soft lilac reserved for palace custodians. Antennae flicked in precise semaphore, passing instructions faster than spoken words.

Eight Workers hustled to the pillow fort, moving like stagehands during a set change—present but unseen. Two eased surplus cushions away, fluffing them back into uniform loft before stacking them behind a chaise. Another pair held the blanket's corners while a third tugged minuscule folds until the star pattern fell in exact alignment with the mattress hem.

Scrolls lay scattered beneath Mikhailis's feet; wax seals cracked, ribbons unravelled. A team of four approached, each carrying a parchment roller strapped to their thorax. In coordinated steps they inserted the scroll edges, rolled tight, and pressed fresh crimson seals embossed with the royal gryphon. Finished, they filed the documents into a mahogany chest that slid from under a sideboard.

Near the hearth, two Workers formed a relay. One swept stray cocoa drips into a hollow reed, the other sealed the reed's end with a quick burst of resin, then trotted off to dispose of the sticky capsule. A third adjusted the fire irons, nudging a sleepy ember to life; orange glow crept outward, banishing any chill that dared approach the sleepers' toes.

The overturned cups required gentler hands. A Worker unfurled a silken square, dabbing chocolate from porcelain rims. Another polished each cup until moonlight blinked off the glaze. They placed the cleaned cups on a tray of fresh cinnamon tea. Wisps rose, twirling through the citrus-cedar haze.

High above, projector lenses gathered dust no larger than pollen. Two Workers crawled across the metal frame, brandishing micro-fiber plumes bound with spectral silk. Swish—swish—three passes each, lens glass gleamed. Calibration lights blinked green.

At the centre of this ballet marched a single Worker with an ornate comb strapped across its back like a knight's greatsword. It scaled the sofa, approached Elowen's crown of loose waves, and paused—listening to her slow exhale. With infinite care it drew the comb through silver strands. Each stroke separated hair too fine for human fingers, aligning it into luminous ribbons. Mikhailis's breathing hitched at one point; the ant froze, antennae tucked. When he settled, the strokes resumed, gentler still, until the queen's hair pooled like liquid starlight across the blanket.

Another Worker, taller than its peers, halted at the side table holding Mikhailis's spectacles. With two forelimbs it nudged the frames, aligning left temple to right, ensuring the nose pads sat equidistant from centre line. A final micro-adjustment of 0.3 millimetres, and perfection achieved.

Monkey hovered above the orchestrated scene like a conductor on silent podium. In front of him floated a translucent checklist—each task a pale violet glyph. Completed items flicked from violet to soft green with a musical chime only he could hear. Pillow alignment: complete. Beverage replacement: complete. Ambient scent cycle: active. Floor vibration dampening: 50% to go. Hair grooming: halfway.

He whisked to a corner bookshelf where two volumes slumped after last night's rummage—Mysteries of Mana Topology resting crooked atop Ten Practical Uses for Basilisk Saliva. A Worker met him there, six limbs ready. Monkey pointed; the ant slid books back, spines flush.

From ceiling rafters, tiny spider-like drone Scarabs extended thread spools, lowering velvet blackout curtains another inch to block the dawn's first bright spear. They secured tiebacks with quick resin knots invisible against dark fabric.

Back on the carpet, the cleaning phalanx expanded. A worker soldier, hefting a miniature barrel of warm water, rolled forward. Two attendants unspooled a star-silk cloth across the chamber's longest path. The soldier drizzled steam-warm water in a fine mist while its partners wiped, leaving floorboards sleek and spotless. The scent of cedar deepened, anchored by the mild wood warmth rising from freshly cleaned grain.

All movement remained silent. When a bronze spur scraped a floorboard, six heads snapped toward the offender. The worker froze, antennae flattening in apology. Monkey made a soothing trill, and the choreography resumed.

Moments stretched into a hush so deep only the faint rustle of blanket fibers could be heard. Elowen stirred, murmuring a word lost to blanket fluff, nose wrinkling at a dream's tickle. The brushing ant retreated a step, waiting. She sighed, resettled—motion ceased.

Near the projector stand, two Workers finished reinstalling a new lens cap with a delicate snap. They left no fingerprint.

Monkey floated back to midpoint, digital clipboard aglow. He flicked a bronze fingertip, scrolling the task list.

Almost done.

One last group approached the fireplace carrying aromatic logs already infused with low-smoke herbs. They replaced the tired embers beneath the grate, coaxing fresh warmth into the room. Faint notes of wild mint joined cedar and cinnamon, weaving a lullaby of safe homeliness around the slumbering monarchs.

Monkey surveyed the chamber. No crumb remained. No pillow out of place. No rune light glared too bright. Satisfied, he expanded the final checklist node. Tiny glyphs unfolded like petals: "Prepare Reentry Vector: Rodion."

He nodded once—servo humming a contented click—and marked the item with a decisive tap.

Monkey reviewed a floating checklist.

<Protocol: Complete. Additional Request: Prepare Chamber for Royal Wake.>

A final ant approached Monkey and bowed. It handed over a folded scroll with Rodion's seal. A full optimization list for their comfort, drawn with blueprints and task timing.

Monkey chirped with mechanical pride.