The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"It's only a dream," she repeated, yet the room still shimmered with ghost-heat. Her own voice sounded small, almost childlike, as though it were a stranger's attempt at comfort. The words bounced against crystal walls, came back thinner, offering little reassurance.

Outside the chamber a lone wind-chime tinkled—three delicate notes that faded too quickly. In their wake the silence pressed in, thick with the scent of crushed orchids from the garden below. She tasted sweetness on the air and realized it was the same subtle spice that had clung to him in the vision. Her stomach tightened.

The Saintess drew another breath, hoping the familiar chill of the crystal would leach the flush from her cheeks. Instead the stone thrummed beneath her palm, tingling in time with her pulse as though the grove itself were amused by her turmoil.

Compose yourself. A high priestess of Silvarion should not tremble like an untested novice. She straightened, shoulders back, but the motion dragged silk across hypersensitive skin. Fabric that had always felt cool and modest now caressed her like a bold hand, grazing the tips of her breasts, brushing her inner thighs with every shift of weight. Heat crawled up her neck.

Her fingers lifted again, almost without will, to trace the outline of her mouth. The tingling there was stronger, as if invisible embers clung to her lips. Flashbacks struck in jagged shards: his teeth teasing her lower lip; the velvet slide of his tongue coaxing hers; the low growl of appreciation that had made her knees buckle. Every fragment landed like a spark on tinder, flaring, threatening to reignite desire she had never known possible.

"Who… who are you?" she whispered, barely more than breath. Saying it aloud made her feel foolish—asking an empty room for answers—but fear of silence felt worse. The crystal panels gave no reply save for a faint shimmer of reflected light. Beyond them the Holy Tree's great branches stirred, scattering motes that drifted like falling stars past the window.

She watched the slow glitter, heartbeat syncing to each silent burst of silver. A strange certainty grew that the tree understood her confusion and simply waited, patient as stone, for her to embrace whatever destiny it had shown. That thought steadied her enough to move.

She crossed to a writing stand carved from living root. Its surface was smooth and warm, veins of soft luminescence pulsing just under the grain. Normally she found peace here, penning blessings or transcribing visions, but today her hand hovered uselessly above blank parchment. What would she write? Dearest Queen, I have dreamed of your consort ravishing me beneath holy light; please send him at once? A weak laugh escaped her—a shaky flutter that surprised her with its rawness.

Ink shimmered in the well, mirroring the gold of her eyes. She caught her reflection again, cheeks still flushed apple-red, pupils wide with lingering passion. Embarrassment flickered, but alongside it bloomed a quiet awe. She had spent years guiding pilgrims, mending souls and bodies with gentle hands, yet never once had she considered her own body might yearn. Never once had desire been hers to taste. The tree had shown her a horizon beyond duty, and now duty alone felt…narrow.

That realization shook her more deeply than the dream. She straightened, spine protesting, and forced her gaze from the ink. If this longing carried divine purpose, she must follow its thread. Guidance must follow. The mantra echoed through training halls and childhood lessons: visions bore tasks. A Saintess did not ignore tasks.

Determination gathered like a cloak about her shoulders. She crossed the chamber to the summoning bell—a slender length of moon-steel with a tassel of silken threads. Tugging it sent a clear chime into hidden corridors. While she waited, she paced, each step measured yet charged, skirts whispering over polished stone. She rehearsed what she might say to Alaric, rejected half the words, started again.

The door opened sooner than expected; Alaric never dallied when she called. His tall frame filled the doorway, helm tucked beneath one arm, breastplate catching stray light. Even his seasoned composure faltered a fraction when he took in her flushed face and the restless way she wrung her hands.

"Lady Saintess, how may I serve?" His voice, deep and even, grounded her like cool water on fevered skin.

She exhaled, grateful for his steadiness. "I require a courier to the capital," she began, surprised by how steady her words sounded despite the tremor in her chest. Shoulders lifted, settling into the familiar mantle of command. "A sealed message for Her Majesty, Queen Elowen. I… must request audience with her prince consort."

Alaric's blue-steel eyes flicked once—quiet alertness of a man trained to see threat in nuance. "The Prince Consort? Has danger arisen?" His tone stayed measured, but his shield-hand twitched, as if itching to prepare.

She hesitated, lips parting, and for an instant considered confessing everything: the blazing heat of that kiss, the way his voice still wrapped around her like velvet chains. Shame and wonder tangled on her tongue. At last she chose a half-truth she could bear in daylight. "It concerns… a matter of divine importance," she said, letting a hint of urgency color her syllables. "Please send it without delay."

Alaric studied her a beat longer. Whatever he saw—fever-bright eyes, trembling resolve—he accepted. He bowed, metal gauntlet tapping breastplate. "Your will, my Lady." Turning, he strode away, silver armor catching the sun in glints that danced across crystal walls.

When the door whispered shut, quiet surged back, but not the earlier oppressive hush. She had acted; momentum stirred like wind in sails. Still buzzing, she crossed to the desk once more and lowered herself to the cushioned stool. Quill in hand, she forced fingers to stillness until the tremor faded. Then, on the parchment's unmarred white, she began:

To Her Radiant Majesty, Queen Elowen of Silvarion Thalor,

With reverence and humility I, Myria Elthea of the Sacred Grove, seek a private audience at the soonest hour deemed fit. A vision of singular gravity has been granted me by the Holy Tree—one entwined with the presence of your esteemed consort, Mikhailis. My spirit testifies that this revelation bears consequence not only for my own path but for the well-being of the realm. I beg your leave to share the details in person, beneath the sanctity of royal confidence.

She paused, nib of the quill hovering. Admitting such desire openly felt impossible, yet omitting the weight of it felt dishonest. At last she added a single line in smaller script:

May the Moon-bark bear witness: the tree's whispers burn hotter than fire, and I must heed them lest I be consumed.

She signed her name with practiced flourish, pressed the seal of the Grove—a blooming silverwood branch—into warm wax, and set the envelope aside for Alaric's courier.

Finished, she allowed herself a slow breath. The act of writing steadied her; words anchored the wildfire of feeling into structured lines. Yet as she sealed the letter, the memory of his laugh flickered again, and warmth spread low in her belly. Composure, she reminded herself, but even the silence sounded amused.

She rose and drifted toward the arched window that overlooked the vast canopy. From this vantage the Holy Tree appeared less a plant and more a living constellation: every leaf a shard of mirrored moonlight, every branch a white river of magic coursing upward. Usually the sight filled her with quiet certainty. Today it felt like the knowing glance of an elder who had just shared a mischievous secret.

She placed her hand on the cool crystal. Energy pulsed gently beneath, a heartbeat older than any mortal line. She closed her eyes, letting that rhythm bleed into her bones, until the flush in her cheeks eased. "Your servant listens," she whispered, hoping the ancient spirit heard. "Guide me."

A breeze curled through the open lattice, carrying the faint perfume of star-violets. The scent threaded through her hair and across her skin, lifting strands to tickle her cheeks, and in that light touch she heard an echo of his voice: Let me hear you.

Her thighs pressed together unbidden; a shiver ran through her. She exhaled shakily and pressed her forehead to the pane. Cool glass soothed, but fire still licked beneath the surface, desire coiling like a serpent newly awakened. I will see him, she promised herself and perhaps the tree. And when I do, I will learn whether this is destiny or temptation.

Outside, the silver mist thickened, eddying around branches in fluid spirals. Light bent through it, scattering tiny rainbows that danced over her robe. She watched them until colors blurred, eyes stinging not with tears but with bright, expectant wonder.

"Why does it feel as if fate itself guides me to him?" she murmured softly, anticipation and uncertainty swirling within her, leaving her trembling yet strangely hopeful.