The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"You did this in one night?" His voice came out thin.

Rodion faced him fully. A faint, nearly human shrug lifted one shoulder plate. <I was unsupervised.>

Mikhailis rubbed a hand across his face, then dragged that hand through his hair, leaving it standing wildly. Unsupervised, he echoed in his head, part incredulous, part delighted. Of course the sentinel, given boredom, built security upgrades that would shame royal architects.

A gentle clink of porcelain cut through the hum of fire. Monkey sidled up, tray balanced effortlessly. Steam curled from a squat, obsidian mug whose handle glowed faint red—heat-runed to perfect sipping temperature. He angled it precisely beneath Mikhailis's nose. The aroma hit like friendly artillery: rich, dark, a hint of citrus hidden under roast.

The prince accepted it with both hands, palms tingling as the heat seeped. "Bless you," he sighed, genuine gratitude coating the words. The first sip was velvet and thunder all at once, curling down his throat until it nudged the morning shadows from his brain.

Behind him the hidden armory clicked shut, mirror sliding back into seamless anonymity. Only the phantom warmth on the lion motif betrayed recent activity.

Rodion had already returned to the bench. He selected a filigreed circuit plate, tweezers whirring as they laid a hair-thin conductor strip. His motions were a dance, hydraulics guiding micro adjustments no human muscle could sustain for long. Bright sparks ticked when the solder touched, quick pinpricks of star-fire snuffed as fast as they birthed.

"So," Mikhailis ventured between gulps of coffee, "did you leave anything alone? The wallpaper perhaps? My sanity?" He half-expected Rodion to catalog improvements made to the floral pattern.

The sentinel paused mid-placement, as though considering whether sanity upgrades fell within last night's scope. <Wallpaper remains ninety-one percent original.> A fractional beat. <For now.>

Laptop-laid circuits, hidden armories, biometric locks keyed to warmth—Mikhailis's head spun with possibilities. And dangers. He set the mug down on the nearest table, eyes flicking around the chamber like he might spot another secret door winking at him.

A muffled sound drew both their attention: Elowen turning over, blankets rustling. She murmured something unintelligible—likely arguing with a dream about treaty clauses—and settled again, silver hair fanned across a pillow newly embroidered with midnight blossoms. The Worker Ant at her bedside adjusted the pillow without waking her, then slipped away under the bed skirting.

Mikhailis studied Rodion's smudge-streaked glove. "You've got flux on your armor," he pointed out.

Rodion glanced down, saw the gray smear. A sonic cleaning pulse hummed; the residue vanished like chalk blown from slate. <Rectified.>

He turned back to his workbench, yet his visor shifted subtle angling—tracking Mikhailis's reaction like a physician reading vital signs. Mikhailis realized the sentinel cared whether he approved.

He exhaled slowly. "Alright, genius. You remodeled my bedroom into an armory while I drooled on royal linens. I can't decide if I'm impressed or terrified."

<Both responses statistically common when humans confront unexpected efficiency.> Dry understatement, as usual.

Mikhailis chuckled, rolling his shoulders until joints popped. Coffee warmth hugged his core. The day ahead promised council squabbles and supply ledgers, but for now the world narrowed to a bright workbench, a sentinel's steady presence, and the faint citrus-cocoa breath curling from his mug.

He sipped again, deeper this time. Flavor bloomed like burnt caramel under orchard sun, chasing nightmares from the edges of his mind.

"Bless you," he repeated, though the second time sounded more like a toast to whatever madness the morning would bring.

Elowen stirred beneath the silver-thread blanket. A sleepy hand fumbled for the edge, tugging it tighter around her shoulders before she straightened. Moon-pale hair spilled forward, curtaining her face until she brushed it back with a soft groan. Her voice came out husky, equal parts queen and just-woken girl.

"Did I drool?"

Rodion didn't even lift his helm. The response drifted across the room in cool, measured syllables.

<Affirmative. Calibrated two Scarabs to clean silk pillows.>

A tiny, embarrassed huff escaped her lips. "You're too honest."

At the workbench the sentinel continued tightening a brass set-screw no larger than a grain of rice, as though pillow hygiene were merely another data point in an endless ledger. The torque wrench clicked; he adjusted by exactly six microns, then clicked again for certainty.

Mikhailis patted the cushion beside him. Elowen crawled over a lattice of tossed pillows and folded herself cross-legged, knees bumping his thigh. Sleep still fogged her green eyes, but curiosity already sparked beneath. He offered his mug. Steam coiled in the chill morning. She sipped—bitter, black, kissed with citrus oil—nose wrinkling at the strength yet taking another swallow anyway.

He waited until she handed the cup back, then drew a long breath, a commander about to demand a debrief.

"Alright. Full rundown. What did I miss?"

The request hardly finished echoing before Monkey's lens glowed robin-egg blue. A palm-sized projection disk unfolded from his chest like a blossoming flower, petals catching ambient light. Holo-threads leapt upward, weaving a translucent dome in the center of the chamber. Pillow forts, scattered pastries, even the fire's dull embers were bathed in ghost-blue as scenes from the night sprawled across the air.

First image: a cavern corridor, time slowed until droplets of water seemed sculpted glass. Rodion confronted his mirror-skinned mimic; both figures traded feints inside a prism of stuttering music runes. Scarab telemetry lined the edge—heartbeat-like pulses tracking sonic amplitude, echo returns and phase cancellations.

Elowen's mouth parted in a silent "oh." She recognized the labyrinth tempo-trap from old covert manuals—the sort of puzzle designed to shred lesser minds.

Rodion narrated, voice unhurried yet never proud.

<I isolated the mimic's primary harmonic carriers. The creature required constant chord progression to maintain shape. Interrupt one frequency, its matrix compensates. Interrupt three in Fibonacci sequence, the matrix collapses faster than auto-heal. Minimal energy expenditure.>

Numbers washed down the side of the hologram—megahertz peaks, phase offsets, decibel dips like steps on a staircase. Mikhailis's fingers twitched, itching for chalkboard space that wasn't there. He turned music into a weapon… elegant, the inventor thought.

The feed shifted. A cavern stadium now, dust motes swirling in violet torchlight. Five Iron Maws thundered across stone, plates clashing. Slowed to a crawl, each ripple of muscle looked like earth sliding beneath glaciers. Overlay lines sketched parabolas—impact vectors, rebound angles—around their hulking mass.

Rodion's calm litany continued.

<I registered an average individual mass of eleven hundred forty kilos. Targeted kneecap angle inferior. Initiated bait position at point C. Resultant collision transferred 3.6 megajoules internal. Gridlock achieved; external force unnecessary.>

Onscreen, the beasts barreled into one another exactly as predicted, momentum folding back like a slammed door. The first shattered leg armor; the second's tusk pierced its ally's flank; the third toppled under combined inertia. It was brutal symmetry masquerading as chaos.

Elowen pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the phantom quake. "He used their bodies as siege stones," she whispered, half horrified, half awed.

A new sequence flowed: crystallized sonar rings blooming from Scarab drones, mapping each tremor inside the Choral Devourer's hall. Rodion flickered between platforms, a dark comet against pillars of resonant crystal. Lightning-quick notations flamed along the bottom—Q-factors, destructive harmonics, dampener charges deployed in milliseconds.

<I analyzed tower resonant frequencies. Plotted anti-harmonic pulses. Dampened ninety-eight percent of projected decibel output. Remaining two percent within tolerable auditory threshold.>

The Devourer's six chains flashed, then failed. Sonic shockwaves blunted mid-flight, rebounding harmlessly into silence. The creature's throat sacs burst like overripe fruit; mana fizzled into wisps.

Elowen hugged her knees; gooseflesh pricked her arms despite the blanket. She glanced at Rodion, still standing motionless by the bench, as though the hero in the story and the stoic mechanic were two different entities.

Data shifted again: resource tallies spiraled outward—ferric plates stacked in neat icons, venom sacs glowing emerald, echo cores pulsing somnolent purple. Estimated resale values scrolled beneath each category, followed by suggested engineering applications.

Mikhailis whistled under his breath. "That venom grade… will etch through dwarven alloy. We can reverse-engineer nonlethal stun gel from half a sac."

Elowen shook her head, amazement mixing with faint guilt. "You did all that because we didn't respond?"

Rodion paused his narration. The hologram froze mid-pulse. When he spoke, modulation softened, synthetic timbre shaded by something perilously close to feeling.

<No. I did it because I was built to.>

A single beat of silence, like a heart deciding whether to trust.

<But I came home… because I wanted to.>

The words hovered longer than any datapoint.

Mikhailis set the mug aside—clink—then crossed the short distance. He laid a calloused hand atop cool steel, just where shoulder plate met segmented collar. He felt servo hum, quiet but lively, like purring gears.

"Maybe it's time we admit… you're not just an upgrade." His voice carried none of its usual lounging humor; instead it held the steadiness of vows forged in places deeper than stone.

Elowen rose, blanket trailing like moonlight. She stepped closer, placing her much smaller palm over Mikhailis's. Green eyes glimmered soft. A queen's approval carried weight, but the warmth in her expression made it personal, not ceremonial.

Rodion's visor flickered; internal lenses adjusted as though recording a frame he wished to keep. Yet before any reply formed, Monkey chirped—sharp, urgent.

All projections collapsed, replaced by a single waveform—jagged, alien, thrumming at the edges of sight. Under the audio graph pulsed bold red text:

UNKNOWN SENTINEL CLASS SIGNATURE

Source: Dungeon Stratum -27

Fragments of encryption scrolled like falling leaves—a cipher none of the current trio had authored. It looked old and new at once, loops of code referencing protocols long deprecated and yet computationally ahead of anything modern Silvarion possessed.

Conversation died. Even the fireplace seemed to hush.

Rodion lifted his chin fractionally, scanning. His optics irised tighter, blue glow sharpening to pinpoints. The smith in him catalogued variables: strength of signal, harmonic signature, sub-carrier pathogens. But another part—harder to name—felt a tug he hadn't expected. Recognition? Or challenge?

Mikhailis's hand slipped from steel, fingers curling reflexively. Something big just knocked on our gate, the thought spiraled. How many secrets still slept beneath those stone tiers—and how many were waking because Rodion walked their halls?

Elowen's blanket slipped down one shoulder, forgotten. She stepped forward, studying the unreadable cipher as though it were a foreign letter begging translation. Her heartbeat thudded in ears suddenly too warm.

Monkey's chassis emitted a soft trill of concern. He projected diagnostic text: interference probability, risk of cross-link contamination, recommended signal quarantine.

Rodion raised one hand, palm open—a silent command that froze the butler's next action. Blue scangrid skated over the looming code. He analyzed entropy, cross-checked libraries, found no direct correlation. But underlying spectral rhythm… it felt almost like a greeting sung in a dialect of numbers he should have known.

For the first time since stepping out of the wall panel, Rodion's posture shifted from implacable to tense readiness. And, for the briefest flicker, his eyes narrowed just a bit.