The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Morning sunlight filtered through the intricate stained-glass skylight, scattering soft rainbows across Queen Elowen's royal solar. Specks of color slid over polished bookshelves, skimmed the gold filigree on a harp in the corner, and finally came to rest on Elowen herself. She stood near the open balcony, hands folded behind the small of her back, gazing at dew-steeped ivy that clung to the moonstone railings outside. Each leaf glistened like a tiny mirror, and she found a strange calm in watching them sway with the breeze.

Inside, the air smelled of stewed apricots, parchment, and the faint spice of sandalwood logs smoldering in the hearth. A round table by the window still held two untouched cups of fragrant pear tea—steam curling in lazy ribbons that vanished before reaching the ceiling. Mikhailis lounged on the fainting couch to the side, one leg dangling, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on his knee. His open collar revealed a hint of collarbone; sunlight picked out streaks of gold in his silver-blond hair. He looked utterly relaxed, and yet his silver-blue eyes tracked every shift of Elowen's posture with quiet interest.

Rodion's voice thrummed from a crystal communication orb perched on a tall stand.

<Your Highness, a courier from the Sacred Grove has delivered a sealed missive. Transmitting now.>

A thin bolt of blue light zipped from the orb to Elowen's outstretched hand, coalescing into real parchment. She broke the wax seal with her thumb, eyes flicking across the elegant script. A tiny crease formed between her brows. Then, in a calm, clear tone, she read:

"To Her Radiant Majesty, Queen Elowen of Silvarion Thalor… I, Myria Elthea, Saintess of the Grove, request a private audience with your consort, Prince Mikhailis. This is in accordance with divine revelations witnessed beneath the Holy Tree, and of importance to Silvarion's future…"

The rest of the missive listed ceremonial passages and sigils, but Mikhailis hardly heard them; he was busy watching Elowen's fingers. She held the parchment like someone weighing a blade: poised and respectful, yet fully aware of its edge. A faint silver glow danced over her nails—evidence of the warding spell she always activated whenever sensitive news arrived.

Elowen's grip tightened a fraction. The sunlight on her cheek made her irises flash like molten topaz. "The Saintess is not our enemy," she murmured, voice low but steady. "But she is someone we should never underestimate."

Mikhailis raised an eyebrow. "Did I accidentally offend a demigoddess without realizing it?" His tone was light, yet a note of curiosity slid beneath the joke. Divine revelations? That sounds like a fancy way to say "We need to talk."

He swung his legs off the couch, boots thudding softly on the rug. The fainting couch squeaked in protest.

Elowen turned. Her robe—a pale lavender trimmed with celestial patterns—shifted like liquid moonlight around her ankles. She stepped forward, parchment held at her side. "Myria Elthea is no ordinary woman," she began, stopping a pace from him. Her voice had that quiet clarity she used in council meetings—a tone that meant every word mattered. "She speaks softly yet strikes like lightning. The High Arbiter once tried to pass a heretic decree. She leaned close, whispered a single sentence, and he renounced his own words in the middle of the trial. No one knows exactly what she told him."

Mikhailis whistled, impressed. "Mental pressure? Illusion? Or just very good rhetorical timing?"

"Perhaps all three." Elowen's eyes softened with affection, but the worry remained. "Another time, an uprising gathered near the western marches. She walked onto the battlefield, uttered one prayer, and five hundred rebels laid down their weapons before noon."

Mikhailis lifted both hands in surrender. "She sounds charming."

"She banished a cursed storm spirit simply by sitting beneath the Holy Tree for an hour." Elowen's words fell gentle, but every tale tightened the invisible thread of tension in the room. A breeze drifted in, fluttering a few stray strands of her silver-white hair. "The Grove adores her, and unlike us, it is ancient. It remembers everything."

He rose, crossing the floor with easy strides until they were only a breath apart. He caught her wrist, turning her hand so their palms met. The warmth of her skin bled through cool calluses along his fingers—calluses from tinkering with insect automata late into the night. "Do you trust her?" he asked quietly.

"Trust is complicated," she admitted softly. "But caution is wise."

Elowen exhaled and drew her fingers away, smoothing her robe as if collecting scattered thoughts. "I will dispatch a formal reply," she continued, voice more business-like now. "We must respect her request, yet arrange protocols. The Grove has rules—rituals of approach, garments blessed by springwater, chimes before speech. I'll consult the royal archivist, prepare the proper documents, and send word to Vyrelda to coordinate security routes."

She paced three steps to the writing desk beneath the window, sunlight spilling across polished wood. "Rodion, prepare a vellum sheet bearing the royal seal and a second sheet for travel arrangements," she ordered.

<Ready. Dictation mode activated.>

Elowen dipped a quill in silver-flecked ink, then paused. "Actually, I shall draft this by hand first." She set the quill aside, pressing her fingers to her temples. "I need clear language—respectful, but firm about the timing. Also, I must send tailors to fit you in a moonleaf robe. Only those woven on solstice mornings are accepted."

"That itchy mesh? Wonderful," Mikhailis joked, rubbing the back of his neck. "I still have scratches from last time's solstice ceremony."

Elowen's lips curved despite herself. "I'll request the softer weave."

She lifted her gaze to him, seriousness returning. "Mikhailis, I will go and prepare everything on my end—security, garments, official escort. Before you leave the palace gates, you will know the entire procedure. No improvising."

He placed a hand over his heart, bowing in exaggerated fashion. "My queen, I promise to improvise as little as humanly possible."

<Statistically unlikely,> Rodion noted, his tone bearing a trace of dry humor.

Elowen breathed out a laugh, tension easing a notch. Turning back to the balcony, she watched a sparrow hop along the rail, shaking droplets from its wings. Her voice floated back to him, softer. "The Grove can be beautiful, Mikhailis, but it demands humility. Remember that."

Mikhailis stepped beside her, resting his elbows on the cold stone. Beyond the rail, early-morning clouds clung to distant peaks like wisps of cotton. He followed her gaze, but his thoughts lingered on the Saintess—on stories of whispered power and ancient trees that remembered every footstep. Humility, he mused, isn't always my strongest suit—but I can fake it for a day.

The sparrow chirped once, then darted away into the brightening sky. A quiet resolve settled between them.

_____

A late-morning hush hung over the east courtyard— the kind of hush woven from birdsong, distant fountain splash, and the crinkle of sunlight through spring leaves. Roses clambered up marble arches, their petals still beaded with dew that glittered like sugar. A round table of pale cedar occupied the center of a small pergola, its surface already crowded with teapots of varying shapes, tiered trays of buttered brioche, and bowls of sliced summer fruit glistening under a glaze of honey.

Mikhailis slouched in a wicker armchair that had clearly been built for someone less inclined to lounge. One boot propped on a spare seat, he balanced a pear-jam scone on his knee and used the other hand to wave away a honeybee that took an unhealthy interest in his hair. Across from him sat Serelith, draped in a lilac morning robe that showed just enough collarbone to hint at mischief. Amethyst eyes danced above the rim of her cup each time she sipped. To Serelith's left, Vyrelda perched stiff-backed, silver pauldrons set aside but leather training tunic still in place, as though armor were more comfortable than silk. Cerys occupied the shadowed spot near a pillar, red ponytail swishing every time she shifted; she looked as if she'd rather spar than sample pastry, yet she dutifully held a china saucer.

Lira flitted around the table like a shadow made polite— black ponytail swaying, stack of warm plates balanced perfectly on one palm. She set a dish before Mikhailis, then straightened, eyes flicking over the small group to ensure no cup sat empty.

"Thank you, Lira," Mikhailis said, quirking a grin as he accepted the plate. The maid allowed a bare nod—professional, but a faint pink dusted her cheeks before she retreated two steps, hands folded behind her back.

Light conversation drifted: Serelith commenting on the flavor of the new jasmine blend, Vyrelda recounting dawn drills with rookies who couldn't tell shield line from laundry line, Cerys answering only when spoken to, her voice a restrained rasp. Mikhailis chewed his scone, enjoying the easy rhythm— until he cleared his throat with theatrical volume.

"Incidentally," he began, brushing crumbs from his vest, "the Saintess of the Grove would like a private chat."

Silence snapped the air taut like a drawn bow.

Serelith's porcelain teacup halted midway to her mouth, amber liquid trembling at the rim. "You're meeting her? Alone?" A single dark eyebrow lifted; the playful curve of her lips flattened into genuine concern.

"She doesn't spill blood," Vyrelda remarked, setting her own cup down with deliberate care. Her gray eyes narrowed, assessing. "But that doesn't mean she's harmless."

Cerys leaned forward, forearms crossing atop the table. Her gauntlet-scarred knuckles whitened. "That woman once forced a decorated general to walk barefoot through bramble fields to apologize to the trees," she said, each word clipped. "He did it—crying."

Mikhailis blinked. "Trees accept apologies?"

"Apparently," Cerys muttered.