The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

The streets of Luthadel stretched before them, veiled in shifting waves of mist that curled and slithered through the air like unseen specters. The city was a paradox—grand in its towering obsidian spires, yet suffocating in its atmosphere. The mist was ever-present, sometimes held at bay by flickering arcane wards, other times slipping through cracks in the barriers, seeping into alleyways and gathering in ghostly pools at the edges of the cobbled roads. It wasn't thick enough to blind them, but enough to make everything feel just a little too distant, a little too obscured.

Mikhailis walked at the center of the group, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his sharp gaze flicking from one passerby to the next. Every corner of Luthadel exuded an air of quiet wariness—citizens moved in careful steps, their eyes avoiding unnecessary contact. Conversations were hushed, words traded in murmurs, gestures carrying more weight than spoken language. This was a city where secrets were currency and silence was survival.

Vyrelda walked just ahead, her sharp, armored presence an unspoken warning to those who might be thinking of getting too close. Cerys, silent as always, strode beside her, her red ponytail swaying slightly with each step. Lira moved with unshaken poise, her elegant black ponytail gleaming even in the dim light, while Estella and Rhea trailed slightly behind, already eyeing the markets with barely concealed enthusiasm.

Mikhailis took in a slow breath, inhaling the damp, slightly metallic scent of the mist. Luthadel isn't just a city—it's a machine. Everything, from the way people moved to the way trade was conducted, had an almost mechanical efficiency. Even the streetlights—glowing orbs of enchanted light suspended from floating platforms—shifted their brightness depending on the density of the mist, ensuring that no place was ever completely obscured.

Rodion's voice hummed in his head.

<Observation: The mist behaves unnaturally. While its movement is partially dictated by weather patterns, there are deliberate flows in certain areas—signs of artificial regulation. The Technomancers are likely controlling it.>

Mikhailis smirked slightly. Figures. A city built on paranoia wouldn't leave something as unpredictable as mist to chance.

They passed by a noble district where the mist was thinner, held back by the glow of golden barriers etched into the stone walls. Within, aristocrats lounged on floating terraces, sipping mist-infused elixirs, their expressions unreadable behind intricately designed masks. Their laughter was soft, almost detached, as if they were spectators at a grand performance rather than citizens of a kingdom on the verge of suffocation.

The terraces themselves defied conventional architecture, suspended midair by unseen forces, shifting subtly with the mist's ebb and flow. Arcane lanterns lined the walkways, glowing with a warmth that never quite reached the cold, watchful gazes of their occupants. Servants moved with mechanical precision, their movements choreographed like a well-rehearsed play—silent, swift, and completely invisible in the eyes of their masters.

Below them, the streets were a stark contrast—darker, colder, lined with hungry eyes and whispering merchants. Beggars clung to the edges of shadows, wrapped in thick, mist-resistant cloaks that barely kept out the damp chill. The ground beneath their feet was uneven, the cobblestone streets cracked and patched in places where the kingdom's maintenance crews deemed it too insignificant to bother with repairs.

Mikhailis's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of a gaunt child clutching a wooden bowl, hovering near the entrance of an alley. The kid's pale, mist-touched skin was eerily luminous under the flickering light of an enchanted street lamp, their hollow gaze locked onto a passing merchant who carried a crate of freshly imported goods. They did not beg, nor did they reach out—the silent understanding of Luthadel's lower districts dictated that survival was a game of patience, not desperation.

Rodion's voice cut through Mikhailis's observations, ever analytical.

<Assessment: The socioeconomic divide is heavily enforced. The noble sectors are supplied with imported food, while lower districts rely on alchemically treated rations that prolong survival but weaken long-term health. Evidence suggests a systematic effort to maintain dependency.>

Mikhailis clicked his tongue. A controlled population is an obedient one. Clever bastards.

He continued walking, hands casually tucked in his coat pockets, his gaze sweeping the district with a careful ease. Every detail, every subtle movement of the people around him painted a clearer picture of the city's silent mechanisms. It wasn't just poverty that plagued the lower districts—it was engineered complacency. Keep the people just comfortable enough to prevent rebellion, but never strong enough to truly rise.

As they moved further, the golden barriers faded, and the noble district was left behind like an untouchable dream. The mist grew thicker again, rolling in soft waves, swirling in slow tendrils through the cracks between buildings. The warmth of arcane lanterns dimmed, replaced by the more practical glow of alchemical torches—less refined, more efficient.@@novelbin@@

They turned a corner, and the atmosphere changed almost instantly.

The market district was alive with quiet transactions, traders exchanging goods with sharp nods and whispered words. It lacked the boisterous calls of merchants from other cities, where haggling was a sport and every deal was a performance. Here, negotiations were subtle—gestures exchanged between fingertips, silent bartering that spoke of a culture built on secrecy.

Mikhailis watched as a merchant handed over a bundle of parchment-wrapped goods to a hooded figure. The trade was done in a second, no words exchanged, just a flick of the wrist and a passing glance before both disappeared into the shifting mist. He smirked. Now this is a city that knows how to keep its business private.

"Keep your coin purse close," Cerys muttered beside him, her sharp gaze scanning the crowd.

"I'd be more worried about a knife in the back than a missing pouch," Vyrelda added, folding her arms as she walked slightly ahead, her imposing frame naturally parting the thin streams of foot traffic.

Mikhailis grinned. "Come on now, where's your sense of adventure?"

"I'd rather not test my reflexes against a pickpocket," Lira said flatly, adjusting the glove on her right hand as her eyes flickered toward a nearby stall selling enchanted accessories. "Besides, half the people here look like they could rob you blind and you wouldn't even realize until tomorrow morning."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You're all so tense. Look at this place—it's thriving in its own way."

And it was. Despite the unspoken rules of caution, the market was still a pulse of life in an otherwise restrained city. Stalls displayed an array of exotic wares—gleaming vials of crystallized mist for alchemical use, shimmering fabrics infused with arcane resistance, and weapons forged from obsidiansteel, their edges humming with latent energy.

One stall caught his attention—intricate clockwork contraptions lined the wooden display, each one whirring with a faint mechanical hum. Miniature constructs, self-winding pocket watches, and even a small automaton that twitched and blinked at passersby.

Technomancer influence.

He didn't linger, moving along with the group as they passed by another vendor selling alchemically treated food—dried rations designed to neutralize mist toxins, albeit at the cost of nutrition. The vendor, a woman wrapped in heavy furs, handed a sample to a skeptical customer, who bit into the hard biscuit with a grimace.

"Doesn't taste like much," the man muttered.

"It's not about taste," the vendor replied coolly. "It keeps you moving."

Mikhailis shook his head, stepping past with a smirk. Survival food. Functional, but soul-crushingly dull.

That was when Estella suddenly clapped her hands together, breaking the quiet ambiance around them.

"Finally!" she declared, her eyes practically sparkling. "A real city with real food! We're trying everything."

Mikhailis barely had a second to react before Estella grabbed Rhea's hand and took off toward the food stalls, her enthusiasm completely at odds with the measured pace of the rest of the group.

Vyrelda groaned. "Not again."

"She's like a storm," Cerys muttered under her breath, rubbing her temple.

"She's a hungry storm," Lira corrected with a sigh.

Mikhailis laughed, shoving his hands in his pockets as he followed after them. "Well, no sense fighting the inevitable. Let's eat."

As he walked, he felt the ever-present mist swirl at his ankles, shifting like a living entity. The city of Luthadel was a puzzle wrapped in mystery, and while food was the priority for now, he had a feeling their stay here was going to be very interesting.

Vyrelda sighed, shaking her head as Estella eagerly pulled Rhea toward a cluster of food stalls. The excitement in Estella's steps was contagious, but Vyrelda maintained her usual composed demeanor, her eyes scanning their surroundings with a wary edge. Lira and Cerys hesitated for only a moment before following, though their approach was far more controlled. Lira's movements were fluid and poised, as if she were floating rather than walking, while Cerys walked with the purposeful, measured stride of a soldier.

Mikhailis, in contrast, took his time, his gaze drifting lazily over the stalls while his mind worked at a far more methodical pace. This marketplace was more than just food and trade—it was an ecosystem, a carefully woven network of necessity and survival. Every merchant had their niche, every transaction carried unspoken weight, and every passerby had a role to play.

Rodion's data overlayed across his vision in real-time, analyzing everything with precise efficiency.

<The stall two rows down specializes in weapons imbued with mist resonance. The obsidian blades emit faint energy signatures, suggesting their enchantments are self-sustaining.>

Mikhailis' gaze flickered toward the indicated section. True enough, a vendor with arms like tree trunks was showcasing an array of finely crafted Obsidiansteel weapons. The edges of the swords pulsed faintly, absorbing the mist in the air like sponges drinking in water. He wondered how much latent magic they stored before needing a recharge. Enjoy exclusive content from My Virtual Library Empire

Another highlight caught his attention.

<A noble's servant delivering a sealed letter. Posture suggests discretion. No insignia visible. High likelihood of sensitive information being exchanged.>

Mikhailis turned his head slightly, catching sight of a young man in modest yet finely made clothes slipping an envelope into the hands of a hooded figure. The movement was quick, the eye contact nonexistent. An amateur would have missed it entirely, but Mikhailis wasn't an amateur.

His grin widened. Everyone here is playing a game. The question is—who's playing it best?