The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"Saintess."

She flinched at the gentle address. "Y-yes?"

He angled his gaze to the canopy overhead, where slivers of starlight threaded between leaves. "Please don't be nervous."

The directness stole her reply. "...Excuse me?"

A breath of amusement curved his mouth. "Ah. Just speaking to myself." He skimmed a fingertip around the rim of his cup. "I tend to forget I'm not alone in my head sometimes."

Heat prickled across her neck—part surprise, part odd delight. He's trying to ease me again. She allowed a small laugh, more airy than she intended. "Well then, I shall pretend I didn't hear it either."

Steam drifted between them, fragrant with moonpetal and cedar bark. She watched him lift his cup again: the measured way he inhaled the aroma, the patient sip that followed. It struck her he employed the same respectful care he'd shown rare beetle specimens earlier—except now the object of scrutiny was tea. Or her. It was hard to tell.

She straightened her own shoulders, ready to guide the discussion somewhere productive—or at least away from the memory of soft moans and stolen kisses. "You've integrated swiftly," she began, choosing a neutral compliment. "Most find the Grove invasive. It tests newcomers. Yet you seem almost embraced by it."

"It's a fascinating biome," he said, setting cup to saucer once more. "Responsive. Intelligent. Beautiful in ways science can admire yet never fully replicate."

She studied him over the rim of her cup. "And yet," she ventured, leaning forward just enough that the lantern-gourd cast light across her eyes, "you carry the scent of something else. A scent not of forest… but of control."

Mikhailis's lashes flickered, then he let a slow smile spread—one of approval rather than mockery. "You speak like a poet, Lady Myria. Perhaps I've simply adapted."

No. Her inner voice clipped the word with certainty. He's evading. Every time she nudged a boundary, he danced sideways—not retreating, merely refusing to be cornered.

She chose a sharper probe. "Many underestimate the Grove," she said, fingers brushing the table's carved root patterns. "Its roots extend farther than most eyes can see. Some say they touch minds, reading intent like wind through branches."

He tapped the side of his cup. "Then I hope it finds my mind intriguing."

"It does," she replied, letting just a hint of steel thread through. "So do we."

His brow quirked. "We?"

Myria's admission lingered between them like the ghost of a bell, still quivering long after the note itself was gone. The lantern-gourd overhead creaked on its vine, casting new shadows across Mikhailis's profile—half warm gold, half night. He didn't seem disturbed by talk of elders or scrutiny; if anything, a sliver of curiosity brightened his eyes.

He eased back in his chair, fingers circling the rim of his teacup. "Elders, you say. I take it they prefer to observe from a respectable distance?" His voice stayed mild, but there was an undercurrent of playful conjecture.

Myria placed her own cup down with measured care. "The Shrine is ancient. It has watchers in every hall, and listeners in every root. Observation is our tradition."

"Observation," he repeated thoughtfully. "A polite word for interrogation, perhaps?" The smile that followed was disarming, as though he'd offered a gift instead of a jab.

For an instant she almost laughed—almost. "Only if the subject resists gentle inquiry."

Mikhailis tapped the porcelain. "I can offer plenty of gentleness, but resistance is a habit of mine." And curiosity is another, he mused inwardly. Let's see how far the Saintess allows me to push before the velvet gloves come off.

He lifted his cup again, inhaling the moonpetal aroma. "Tell me more of these elders. Titles? Duties? Favorite bedtime stories?"

She folded her hands atop the table. "Their formal title is 'Circle of Memory.' They oversee rites, record visions, maintain our covenant with the Grove. Without them, this place would be little more than a garden of overgrown stories."

"Ah, archivists of the soul." He nodded, impressed. "And I suppose they've read every name that crosses the kingdom's ledgers."

"Many names," she allowed. "Some long forgotten."

"Which makes me wonder." He set the cup down and leaned in, elbows on knees, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial hush. "What do the elders whisper about me?"

Myria's gaze flickered—one heartbeat of hesitation. "They whisper nothing yet," she said carefully. "They ask me to listen first, then report."

"And you will?" His tone held no accusation, simply genuine interest.

"I serve the Shrine," she answered, the words a gentle vow. "They trust my judgment."

So your account decides the tone of their next debate. He studied her hands: slender, still, fingers curved like petals. No tremor. Calm façade, but that pulse in her throat is quick.

He eased back, offering breathing room. "How often do you… report?"

"When needed. Dreams, omens, unexpected affinities." Her voice softened. "Especially affinities."

"Such as mine with your living library?"

A small, reluctant smile touched her lips. "Precisely."

"Then allow me to reciprocate." He reached for the teapot, refilled both cups, and kept his focus on the pale steam swirling between them. "Saintess Myria, I must admit, it wasn't merely scholarly thrill that made me accept your invitation."

Her brows arched—but she remained silent, inviting elaboration.

"I sensed another curiosity at play," he continued, stirring sweetroot into his cup. "A curiosity about who I am beneath the titles—consort, entomologist, eccentric, what have you." He looked up, meeting her eyes. "Would that be fair?"

The directness unsettled her composure; a faint flush coloured her cheeks again. "Fair," she conceded.

"Then my own curiosity urges me to ask." He reclined slightly, adopting a relaxed pose that still felt oddly precise—like a cat in sunlight. "What could the Shrine possibly want from a prince who spends his nights categorising beetle wing-beats?"

Myria parted her lips, closed them, weighed an answer, and chose caution. "We seek harmony, Prince Mikhailis. When a new influence enters Silvarion's orbit—especially one so close to the throne—we must understand its rhythm. Yours… is difficult to chart."

"A flattering puzzle," he said lightly. "But puzzles demand pieces. Let me offer a few." He raised three fingers. "First: I adore knowledge, particularly living systems that defy neat diagrams. Second: I protect what I care for—sometimes through means that appear… unconventional. Third: I'm terrible at lying, but excellent at distraction." A wink accompanied the last.

She couldn't help it; a quiet laugh escaped. "You admit that freely?"

"Why hide it? Better you know my habits than chase rumours." He sipped, then set the cup down with a faint clink. "Now, may I ask a mirrored question?"

"Mirrored?"

"You've asked what brings me here. Permit me to ask what truly led you to extend tonight's invitation." His eyes softened, tone courteous. "The official reason was rest. The unofficial?"

Myria felt the night air thicken. A cicada chirred somewhere below, loud in the hush. She inhaled once, slowly. "I…" Words tangled behind her teeth: worry for the elders' curiosity, the fluttering envy she'd battled in the corridor, the dream she dared not confess. At length she answered, voice low. "I wanted to be certain you felt welcome. And to see if the Grove's first impression of you matched my own."

"And does it?"

"Partially." She reached up, tucking a stray strand of silver hair behind her ear. "You surprise me."

"Pleasantly, I hope?"

She managed a thin smile. "That remains to be fully determined."

He chuckled, not unkindly. "A scholar's prudence. Very well."

They drank in companionable quiet for several moments. The moon arced higher; crickets replaced cicadas. Myria felt the earlier tension ebb, replaced by a calm born of mutual regard. Conversation drifted to safer banks: the acoustics of hollow roots, the best mortar for rune-setting, a humorous anecdote of Mikhailis accidentally releasing glow-moths inside a palace corridor ("They nested in an ambassador's wig," he admitted, to her bell-like laughter).

Yet with each exchange, Myria noted his subtle method: for every question she posed about his projects or philosophy, he returned one of equal depth. When she asked what observation excited him most about the Grove, he countered with a query about her own earliest communion with the Heart Tree. When she wondered how he juggled scientific inquiry and royal duty, he inquired how she balanced Shrine decrees with her personal convictions. The rhythm grew natural, even intimate, until she lost track of who was interviewing whom.

Finally, the teapot emptied, its last vapour curling away. A hush settled. The lantern-gourd dimmed to half-glow, sensing the hour. Myria lifted her eyes to find Mikhailis watching her with quiet intensity—not predatory, but seeking.

A breeze slipped through the balcony, stirring vine leaves and brushing a cool hand across her neck. She shivered—and saw his gaze flick there, a tiny crease of concern between his brows.

And suddenly she realised: he might leave soon. The thought carved an unexpected hollow inside her chest.

Mikhailis rose smoothly. She copied the motion, setting her cup aside. He bowed, elegance in every line. She returned a small incline of her head, dutiful, though her heartbeat thudded.

Yet he did not step away at once. Instead he folded his hands behind his back, gaze drifting to the star-dappled sky. His tone, when it came, was softer than before, almost contemplative. "Lady Saintess… have you ever heard crickets fall silent when a predator approaches?"

"Yes," she answered, bemused. "The Grove teaches that sound is often absence as well."

He smiled. "Indeed. Tonight I feel many silences. Between your words and mine. Between the roots and the elders' whispers." He turned to her fully. "Sometimes silence is simply a pause before truth arrives."

Myria's breath caught. "And what truth do you anticipate?"

He considered her, eyes dark and bright at once. "Perhaps only this: that a prince unannounced at a shrine must wonder why threads of prophecy tug him here. Was it really hospitality?" His next words fell like silk over steel—gentle, yet impossibly direct. "Or did the Saintess foresee a pattern that requires me—insect nets, moon-petal stains, eccentric laughter and all—to weave it to completion?"

Her lips parted, but no reply emerged. His question was not accusation, nor plea. It was… invitation. To honesty. To something deeper.

She swallowed, tasting the sweetness of cooled tea still on her tongue. Her answer would have to wait; the moment felt too vast for quick confession.

Mikhailis inclined his head, accepting the silence as eloquent. "Thank you for your candour this evening," he said, straightening. "And for the excellent tea. I shall remember both."

He stepped toward the balcony gate, boots whispering over wooden planks. Myria found her voice only as he passed the threshold. "Your Highness."

He paused, looking back. Moonlight kissed one side of his face, leaving the other in thoughtful shadow.

She wanted to ask him to stay—to debate another scroll, chase one more laugh—but the words turned shy. Instead she offered, "The Grove welcomes those who respect its hush. I hope you'll walk these halls again."

His smile softened. "I intend to, Lady Myria. There is much still to discover."

He bowed once more, the gesture tinged with warmth, and vanished down the vine-lit path.

Myria remained, hands cradling the cooling cup. The night whispered around her—crickets, rustling leaves, distant chime of water. Yet beneath those familiar sounds, she sensed quieter currents: elders pondering behind misted screens, roots humming with new data, and somewhere in the darkness, a prince consort retracing lantern-strewn bridges.

He asked, and I could not answer. Why did I invite him? She touched her chest, feeling the metronome of her heart. Because the Grove stirred when he arrived. Because the prophecy scrolls glimmered. And… because he makes the silence feel alive.

Behind her, high among braided branches, one of the Shrine elders watched through a filigreed balcony, eyes reflecting silver moonlight and deeper calculations.

"So," the elder whispered into the night, voice like dry parchment turning a page, "the threads begin to pull…"