The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"Trees accept apologies?"

"Apparently," Cerys muttered.

Serelith exhaled a soft laugh with no humor. "Do you recall the Syndicate envoy three winters ago? He thought he could infiltrate the Grove in a glamour disguise." She tapped a manicured nail on her saucer. "He crawled back blindfolded, muttering about vines that whisper every sin he'd ever committed. Took the healers a month to steady his mind."

Mikhailis swallowed the last of his scone—suddenly dry. "Lovely. And here I imagined an afternoon of gentle prophecy over chamomile." Note to self: pack anxiety tea, maybe two bags.

Vyrelda's gaze swept him like a commander checking a recruit's stance. "Speak with respect," she advised. "And keep your hands visible. They interpret posture with religious precision."

"As do I," Serelith chimed, tone teasing again though her eyes stayed serious. She slid a slender hand into a pocket sewn inside her robe and produced a small charm: moon-silver wire twisted into a knot around a shard of green tourmaline. "Take this. Protection charms help." She pressed it into his palm, fingers brushing his skin an instant longer than necessary. A tiny spark of mana tingled against his lifeline.

Across the table, Cerys set her saucer down hard enough to clink. She stood, boots scraping stone, then stepped behind Mikhailis. Without invitation she adjusted the fold of his collar, tugged the lapels into perfect symmetry, and smoothed imaginary lint from his shoulders. Her scarred hands were surprisingly gentle. When she finished, she leaned to speak close to his ear, voice low as distant thunder. "If she touches you wrong," she said, eyes glinting beneath red lashes, "I'll burn that whole forest down."

Mikhailis managed a chuckle, though the warmth in his chest nearly choked him. "I'll remember that."

_____

Within the sacred wardrobe chamber—a vast, circular hall nested just below the palace's east tower—mirrors of polished moon-glass lined every wall. Crystal sconces bathed the space in a gentle glow that shifted between silver and pale lilac, imitating dawn beyond the stone. The quiet hum of preservation wards buzzed softly, almost like bees hidden in the rafters, keeping every garment free of dust and time. In the center, standing on a low dais of white oak, Mikhailis waited.

He tried not to fidget.

Lira arrived first, gliding across the marble like a shadow stitched from midnight silk. Her long ponytail swung behind her in a graceful arc, and she carried a lacquered box cradled carefully in both hands. The subtle scent of cedar spilled from the opened lid—inside rested the folded moonleaf robe, pale as frost, each panel glowing with the faintest silver shimmer.

"Hold out your arms, my lord," she murmured. Her voice retained its usual calm, yet a pinched tension showed at the corners of her eyes. In the mirrored walls he saw her expression: focused, but with a soft warmth reserved only for him.

He obeyed, arms extended. As the robe unfolded, it felt weightless, like liquid moonlight sliding across his shoulders. Yet the fabric whispered with hidden strength—threads drawn from leaves gathered at midsummer, soaked in the Blessed Spring, then woven by novice monks who weren't permitted to speak for a month after the loomwork. The garment carried stories inside each thread; Mikhailis swore he could almost hear them rustle when he inhaled.

"Too tight?" Lira asked, fingertips brushing the nape of his neck while she fastened a slim clasp shaped like a crescent petal.

"It's fine," he answered, voice lowered so it wouldn't echo. And softer than last solstice, he noted with relief.

Two royal attendants joined them with armfuls of sashes and tassels—impossibly long strands of silver-edged ribbon that were to be draped in precise layers. They moved with practiced grace, circling him in synchronized steps. A third attendant carried a shallow bowl of Blessed-Spring dew, its surface glittering with suspended motes of light. Using thin brushes, she traced narrow lines of that dew along the seams: one down each sleeve, one straight over his heart, and a final one across the back of his hands like a cool kiss. The dew evaporated quickly, leaving a pleasant tingling beneath the cloth.

Mikhailis glanced down, watching the pale shimmer vanish. "If this stains," he whispered out of the side of his mouth, "I'm sending the laundry bill to the Grove."

Lira's lips twitched in faint amusement. "The dew doesn't stain, my lord. It remembers."

"Remembering water—what a reassuring thought."

Before she could reply, Rodion's voice resonated from the small crystalline stud hidden at Mikhailis's collar.

<Seven customs, five postures of reverence, and a vow of silence upon entry. Violating these rules is not just rude—it is spiritually destabilizing to their entire order.>

"Rodion," Mikhailis muttered, "do try not to start a theological incident before lunch."

<Statistically, the incident window peaks at 11:47 a.m.>

Mikhailis rolled his eyes— enough to earn a soft hiss from Lira, who tugged gently at his sleeve to keep him still. "My apologies," he murmured to her, but the grin never quite left his lips.

The double doors opened again, admitting two shrine maidens from the Grove. They wore ankle-length veils woven from silver thread; every step sent a ripple of starlight across the fabric. Tiny chimes at their wrists rang in gentle harmonies, each note hanging in the air like dew. They approached without a word, their presence ushering in a hush so complete that even the ward-buzz faded.

One maiden raised a slender hand, palm glowing faintly. She traced a line of light across Mikhailis's forehead. The radiance felt both warm and cool— an odd contradiction he'd come to associate with Grove magic. She repeated the motion on his wrists, then pressed her fingertips together in silent completion. The second maiden produced a tiny quartz chime the size of a robin's egg. She struck it once with a silver twig; the note that bloomed was clear, pure, and lingering. The air trembled, as though acknowledging the sound.

"No weapons may pass this threshold," she spoke at last, voice soft yet resonant. "No beasts nor constructs unless recognized by the Holy Tree."

Mikhailis inclined his head. Rodion might count as both, he mused, but kept the thought to himself.

"All speech within the inner sanctum follows the tone-gong," the maiden continued. "One chime before you speak. One chime when you finish." She placed the tiny quartz bell in his gloved hand; it weighed almost nothing yet seemed to carry the gravity of an oath.

"I understand," he replied, then winced at his own impulse. Speaking now felt somehow too loud. He settled for a respectful nod.

Lira stepped back, folding her arms against her chest, a tiny crease of worry between her brows. When Mikhailis glanced her way, she offered a small, reassuring smile. It looked forced. He wanted to squeeze her hand—tell her he'd be fine— but the maidens were already turning toward the exit, veils swirling like moonlit waterfalls.

"Be well, my lord," Lira breathed. Her voice was so soft he felt it more than heard it. Then she slipped away through a side door, her silhouette disappearing like ink fading in water.

_____

Minutes later he found himself seated inside the Grove's appointed carriage, a polished vessel fashioned from pale elderwood and inlaid with patterns that resembled spreading roots. The interior smelled of pine resin and cool river stone. Cushioned benches lined with cloud-velvet soothed the senses, and slender windows allowed a panoramic view as they rolled beneath the palace gates.

Above, skywillow moths— enormous nocturnal creatures charmed to gleam in daylight— fluttered like drifting lanterns, their translucent wings humming with ward-energy. Rune-wing hawks circled higher, feathers traced with protective sigils that shone whenever sunlight struck at certain angles.

Mikhailis leaned nearer the glass, watching the city's marble spires retreat behind them. "They've upgraded the escort," he remarked.

<Revision to security protocol: thirty-percent increase in aerial coverage.> Rodion sounded pleased, or as pleased as a disembodied AI could manage.

The road curved into Silvarion's outer woodland. Tall silverbark trunks flanked the path, their bark etched by centuries of wind. Light filtered through budding leaves, dappling the carriage roof with moving patches of gold.

"Last time I traveled this road," Mikhailis murmured, "it ended in a Technomancer net and three cracked ribs." The memory flickered: heat of an ambush, Lira's panicked cry, copper taste of blood when a stun-dart clipped his jaw. He rubbed his shoulder unconsciously.

<Don't worry,> Rodion replied, voice lowering as if confiding. <I've hacked three layers of surveillance this time. No more uninvited Technomancer parties.>

Mikhailis smirked. "You can't brag and sound ominous simultaneously."

<I can multitask.>

He chuckled, settling back. Cloud-white curtains stirred with each bump of the road. Outside, the forest vibrated with birdcall and distant insect hum— a music that always reminded him of winding springs and copper gears back in his workshop. He almost missed those predictable clicks and whirs.

The carriage hit an incline; wheels creaked. In the window's reflection, he caught sight of himself: moonleaf robe glowing faintly, silver bell resting in his lap like a quiet heartbeat. He straightened, smoothing the front of the garment, then traced the charm Serelith had given him still hidden under the first fold. Protection, he thought, or a comfort blanket disguised as jewelry.