The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Morning came slow, slipping into the royal bedchamber like a shy servant afraid to wake its masters. First was the hush ― a hush so soft it felt woven from the velvet drapes themselves. Then a thread of dawn crept through the narrow gap where Monkey had left the curtains just ajar. That light kissed the edge of a gilded table, glinted off the discarded crown, and wandered across a rumpled sea of pillows until it climbed the slope of Mikhailis's tangled hair.

He surfaced from sleep by degrees. One eyelid fluttered, confused by the intrusion of pale gold. His other eye stayed buried in a cushion that smelled faintly of cocoa and cedar. A yawn threatened, but before it took him he froze, noticing warmth pressed against his ribs.

Elowen.

She lay an arm's breadth away, curled on her side, fingers limp against the blanket's embroidered stars. Silver hair spilled over her collarbone in unruly spirals. Without coronet, without brooches, she looked absurdly young, as if yesterday's burdens were stories she had merely read. Breath puffed from her lips, slow and even. The faint smile there seemed to say the world is safe right now.

Mikhailis swallowed a knot of tenderness. When did she last sleep so deeply? He catalogued tiny details: the fine line of her brow, the way early light painted rose across her nose, the single eyelash quivering each time her dream shifted. Every note lodged in his chest like a secret chord.

Careful not to wake her, he propped himself on an elbow. A pillow tumbled away with a soft whoof. His shirt collar was askew, but he made no move to fix it. Instead, he simply watched.

Minutes passed. Outside, a dove cooed. Elowen's index finger twitched, as if counting phantom scrolls. A sigh escaped her and she nuzzled deeper into the cloth.

"Still dreaming of war councils?" he whispered, voice hoarse but fond.

A small crease formed between her brows. "...Mikha… stop… that tickles…" She did not open her eyes.

Encouraged, he gently poked the puff of her cheek. Her lips curled. "Mikha…" she mumbled again, a laugh hiding in the syllables.

He felt his own smile pool warm and wide. A lock of hair had drifted across her eyelid; he brushed it back with a knuckle, letting his touch linger. She trusts me enough to fall apart here, he thought, a little awed. No armor, no speeches—just Elowen.

The moment stretched fragile and perfect.

He eased upright, vertebrae cracking softly. A blanket slid from his shoulders. Pillows slumped in surrender. The motion triggered the bedside projector; crystalline plates rotated with a faint click, waiting for a command.

Before he could decide whether to call for tea or let silence reign, a crisp voice cut across the chamber like a blade through silk:

<Good morning, Your Lazy Highness. Did you two enjoy the second half of my solo mission… in your dreams?>

Mikhailis groaned, tipping his head back until it thumped the headboard. "Wow. Passive-aggressive mode already? I knew giving you the sarcasm patch at two a.m. was a mistake."

The projector brightened to display Rodion's status glyphs: coolant 68 %, servo integrity 97 %, smugness apparently 110 %. Before Mikhailis could retort, a scrolling report materialized:

<Rodion: I fought a mimic trained in musical harmonics, dismantled five Iron Maws, hacked a memory-echo trap, and you two had a cuddle-coma.>

He snorted. "I would argue a successful cuddle is more dangerous than most dungeon beasts," he said, waggling a finger at the floating text. "You can't parry affection with a sword, my friend."

Elowen stirred beside him, nose scrunching. He glanced down just as she pressed closer, face nuzzling the warmth he'd left behind. Mikhailis's heart performed a clumsy somersault. He cleared his throat. "Also…" —he lowered his voice conspiratorially— "would you have preferred we let you share that blanket?"

A beat of digital silence.

<…No comment.>

Mikhailis grinned, victorious in tiny petty ways. He set a hand over Elowen's blanket-covered hip and gave it a reassuring pat. Then he noticed cocoa smears on the sheet and grimaced. "We really need to invent spill-proof mugs," he muttered to himself.

The projector's glyphs pulsed. "Wait. Where are you?" he asked, frowning at the empty status map.

<Here.>

The quiet syllable still hung in the air when the panel beside the hearth gave a subdued clunk. A hairline seam appeared in what everyone had assumed was solid masonry; then the slab glided inward on hidden rails. Warm cinder-glow washed over brushed-steel plating as Rodion emerged, tall and deliberate, like a statue deciding it had somewhere better to be. His cloak fluttered once, then settled with surgical precision along immaculate shoulder lines. Only a faint gray smudge of solder streaked the outer knuckle of his right glove—evidence he had been more than mere decoration while they slept.

Mikhailis's jaw slackened halfway through a stretch. "How long have you been walking around?" His voice cracked between a yawn and genuine alarm. Did he even reboot?

Rodion offered no verbal timestamp. Instead he strode past scattered pillows—each one mysteriously re-fluffed since the night before—and crossed the room to the cherry-wood workbench. Every bootfall landed without creak or thunk; anvils would envy such silence. He began unloading hardware from hidden slots—a hex-key cluster that folded like insect wings, filaments of etched crystal solder, two coil capacitors still warm enough to steam faintly in cooler air.

Mikhailis rose, sheet dragging around his legs, and sniffed. A tang of ozone prickled the back of his throat, undercut by sweet iron and melted flux. "You rebuilt something," he said, tone more accusation than question. "I can smell it."

Rodion didn't look up. A slim wrench—no longer than a finger but heavy as a promise—clicked against a chrome valve. He torqued the nut exactly one quarter-turn; green charge danced across the fitting, sealing it with ultrathin glass.

<I also discovered a hollow behind the mirror. It is now a hidden armory. Biometric locks keyed exclusively to you and Elowen.>

Mikhailis blinked twice, brain shifting gears. Hidden… where? Rodion gestured with the slightest lift of his chin toward the gilt mirror above a low console. Sunlight glimmered on its lion-head filigree.

"The wall reads skin temperature?" Mikhailis repeated, padding across plush carpet. "That's—alright, show me." He placed his palm on the leftmost lion motif. Metal felt cool at first, then warmed beneath his skin, tiny rune lines lighting amber under the surface. A soft ascending chime answered. He pressed his index fingertip into the lion's eye; an unseen lens grazed his print, scanning whorls and capillaries.

Slide—click.

The glass looked as though it melted, retreating into itself. An alcove blossomed where stone had been. Rows of velvet-lined slots hosted gleaming tools: compact pistols with half-moon mana cells, shock batons nested beside slender wands whose silver housings hugged cobalt capacitors. Each item sat in its own depression, labeled with neat rune-icons for quick retrieval. It reminded him of a surgeon's tray—only this surgery involved lightning charges and crystal-shard rounds.

"Well," he whispered, awe like vinegar in his chest. "You built my secret stash better than I ever would."

Rodion turned at last, visor glow dim but focused.

<The Workers provided macro-tunnel schematics and base material densities. My sensors render at twelve-nanometer resolution per sweep; differences in wall resonance, microvoids, and latent heat signatures reveal cavities that defy original blueprints.> A pause, as though translating metaphors. <It is akin to diagnosing internal bleeding by fingertip—feel the pressure change, open, repair, reinforce.>

Mikhailis felt a laugh crawl up but die before escaping. He's comparing the palace to a body, he realized. And himself to the scalpel.

He pushed the mirror panel farther aside. Under a top shelf a folded leather roll held screwdrivers tipped with diamond dust, picks of electrum for bypassing spell wards, even micro-arc welders powered by fingertip batteries. It all gleamed like a confession of nights spent tinkering when the world believed him idle. He inhaled, smelling oiled steel and faint jasmine where one of the Workers had apparently scented the leather to mask metallic tang. Attention to comfort was not lost on them.

"You did this in one night?