The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

The following morning, the mist had not relented. The golden wards flickered intermittently, straining against the unnatural density pressing in from all sides. Mikhailis and his companions moved through the streets as easily as ghosts, slipping between wary-eyed merchants and silent traders.

Rhea and Estella once again took the lead in their usual fashion—Estella drawn toward anything remotely interesting, Rhea resigned to damage control. Vyrelda walked beside Cerys, both of them keeping a close watch on their surroundings, while Lira, as always, remained composed, her gaze assessing everything with quiet precision.

Mikhailis moved at his own pace, effortlessly weaving through the market streets with the casual grace of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere at once. His gait was relaxed, his hands tucked loosely in his coat pockets, but his eyes—sharp, golden, and ever-watchful—never ceased their calculations. He was a spectator in a grand performance, watching actors play their roles, listening to the rhythm of the city's breath.

Luthadel was not a place where one could move without being noticed. That alone made it a challenge Mikhailis relished. The key was to be noticed just enough—not as an outsider, not as a threat, but as another piece in the puzzle, an element that blended seamlessly into the grand machinery of the city. He had honed this skill over years of careful observation, of understanding how to shape himself into the expectations of whatever world he stepped into.

The people here walked with purpose, even in the slums. Every step was calculated. Every conversation was hushed, not out of secrecy, but habit. It was a city where survival depended on knowing when to speak and when to listen. Mikhailis adjusted his movements accordingly—casual yet deliberate, never too hurried, never too still. Just another traveler, another merchant, another man looking for a place to spend his coin.

His coat, dark with a subtle silver lining along the cuffs, was unassuming yet well-fitted, tailored in a way that suggested wealth without ostentation. It was the kind of clothing that made people second-guess him—was he a noble slumming in the lower districts? A merchant with unknown connections? A scholar studying the city's mist-veiled secrets? The ambiguity was intentional. Let them wonder. Let them assume.

The mist clung to him, swirling at his feet as he stepped past a row of food stalls, tendrils curling around his boots before dispersing. Even the mist had its own rhythm, its own way of revealing who belonged and who didn't. It crept into clothes, lingered on skin, marking those who spent too long in the lower districts. The noble districts were nearly untouched, their streets clear and pristine. Here, in the lower rings of Luthadel, the mist was thick enough to settle into lungs, to weigh down thoughts.

Rodion's voice hummed in his mind, cutting through his musings with precise efficiency.

<Notice: Increased security presence at the northern entrance of the city. Technomancer insignias identified among the patrol units.>

Mikhailis smirked to himself.

Looks like they noticed their missing toy.

His fingers idly brushed the inside of his coat pocket, where the stolen Technomancer badge rested—a small but significant piece of leverage. He had no intention of using it just yet, but the knowledge that he could? That was power. The mere option of slipping past a Technomancer checkpoint unnoticed, of flashing the insignia at the right moment, was worth more than any immediate use. It wasn't just a tool; it was a test. If the badge held real authority, then he had already slipped one step deeper into their world without them even realizing it.

His eyes flicked upward, scanning the towering spires of Luthadel's mist-shrouded skyline. The city breathed in controlled chaos—an intricate machine where every piece played its role. But when one piece went missing, the entire machine stuttered.

Mikhailis could already feel the ripple effect. Somewhere, a Technomancer officer was combing through reports, searching for a missing insignia. Somewhere, a messenger was delivering news of a stolen device, setting off another chain reaction of internal questions.

They won't react immediately, Mikhailis mused. They'll observe first. See who flinches. See who asks the wrong questions. See who starts moving differently.

He had been playing this game far too long to make the first move.

The group stopped at a stall selling preserved rations—various meats and dried goods wrapped in wax-sealed bundles. It was a practical purchase. If they needed to move quickly, travel rations were invaluable.

Cerys, ever the soldier, inspected the selections with a meticulous eye, her expression unreadable as she weighed their nutritional value against the possible duration of their stay. She had always been practical, efficient, never wasting time on things that didn't matter.

But Lira…

Mikhailis caught the slight shift in Lira's demeanor before he even saw what had caught her attention. She was mid-selection, fingers hovering over a bundle of preserved venison, when her posture changed—just the slightest tensing of her shoulders, the faintest narrowing of her eyes.

It was enough.

Mikhailis followed her line of sight without turning his head. Years of careful observation had taught him how to look without looking, how to register details without drawing attention to his own interest.

And there he was.

A man at the edge of the market, blending just a little too well with the crowd.

Mikhailis didn't react outwardly, but his mind clicked into motion.

Too nondescript. That was the first warning sign.

The best spies weren't the ones who stood out—they were the ones who disappeared into the background. This man wasn't loitering like a common thief. He wasn't browsing like a casual customer. He was existing in the space without calling attention to himself, an observer in the purest sense of the word.

His clothes were simple but tailored. Not rags, not noblewear—practical, something worn for functionality rather than fashion. A heavy cloak, dark gray, lined just enough to keep the mist out but without the decorative trims of the wealthier districts. His boots were worn but well-maintained, the kind that suggested someone who traveled frequently but took care of his gear. His hands, partially hidden by his sleeves, bore the faint calluses of someone used to handling tools—not a laborer's hands, but those of someone accustomed to delicate work.

Most telling of all? His eyes.@@novelbin@@

Sharp. Calculating. Moving too quickly from person to person, never settling for too long.

Rodion processed the image instantly.

<Facial recognition in progress… Match found. Subject identified as Renar Jex, suspected Technomancer informant.>

Mikhailis exhaled softly, barely moving.

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Mikhailis's smirk widened. Well, well. The second victim spotted.

Mikhailis knew the value of subtlety. His every movement, every breath, was calibrated with the precision of a man who had spent his life dancing between shadows and slipping through cracks in the world's perception. He didn't just exist in a space—he controlled how he was seen within it.

Now, as he walked toward his unsuspecting mark, he let himself blend seamlessly into the natural rhythm of the marketplace. The key to any deception was misdirection, and misdirection was simply another form of art. He moved like a man without urgency, without intention beyond the idle curiosity of a traveler examining foreign wares. His hands stayed relaxed at his sides, his shoulders held with just enough slack to appear disinterested. Even his footsteps were deliberate, following the cadence of those around him—never too fast, never too slow.

He made sure his gaze wandered, pausing momentarily on a selection of mist-infused trinkets at a nearby stall, his fingers brushing over a polished obsidian ring. A brief moment of meaningless interaction, one designed to anchor his presence into the mundane. No one paid attention to a man browsing jewelry.

His target, Renar, moved with the careful efficiency of a trained operative—his posture too straight, his steps too measured. A civilian had the luxury of aimless wandering, of occasional hesitation when navigating a crowded space. Renar had none of that. Every step he took had purpose, every turn of his head accounted for. He didn't just observe his surroundings—he assessed them. That alone set him apart.

Mikhailis didn't need Rodion's confirmation to know Renar wasn't just another Technomancer-affiliated agent running errands. This was someone used to slipping through the cracks, someone who had been trained not just in combat but in the far more intricate skill of being unseen.

But no one was invisible forever.

Mikhailis adjusted his coat slightly, shifting his center of balance. Timing was everything.

He waited for the moment Renar moved toward the next stall, his attention briefly occupied by an exchange of words with a vendor. Then, with the grace of a seasoned performer, Mikhailis took a single step too far to the right—just enough to feign a misstep.

His shoulder clipped against Renar's, a seemingly accidental collision softened by the way Mikhailis immediately reached out, catching the man's shoulder in a firm but casual grip.

"My bad," he said smoothly, his tone laced with just the right amount of absentminded charm. The kind that belonged to a man too caught up in his own thoughts to notice where he was walking.

Renar's reaction was immediate but controlled—too controlled. A civilian would have stumbled, muttered an instinctive apology, perhaps even chuckled awkwardly. Renar merely offered a polite nod, his expression impassive as he stepped back. No tension, no hesitation. Just precise, professional disengagement.

Too smooth. Too calculated.

Mikhailis let his lips twitch into the faintest ghost of a smile.

A normal man would have let it go. A normal man would have apologized and moved on, never giving the encounter a second thought.

Mikhailis was not a normal man.

His fingers curled slightly as Renar turned away, brushing against the palm of his own hand in a subtle motion.

Metal.

Something small, cool to the touch, resting against his skin.

Rodion's voice crackled to life in his mind, a familiar blend of exasperation and begrudging admiration.

<Another stolen Technomancer device. You're making a habit of this.>

Mikhailis grinned, slipping the new trinket into his pocket with practiced ease. A good sleight of hand never got old.

He let his gaze drift after Renar's retreating figure, watching as the man disappeared into the shifting mist without so much as a backward glance.

This had been too easy.

Not the theft itself—Mikhailis was well aware of his own skill—but the fact that Renar had let him get that close. If the man was truly as sharp as he seemed, he would have noticed the slight shift in weight, the ghost of a touch that was too brief to be accidental.

Unless…

Mikhailis hummed under his breath, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against his coat.

Unless Renar wanted him to take it.

That possibility made things far more interesting.

The Technomancers weren't fools. They didn't let sensitive information or experimental devices slip out of their grasp without reason. If this was bait, then the question wasn't whether or not Mikhailis had taken it—it was what they expected him to do with it.

But that was a problem for later.

Right now, he had something far more pressing to focus on.

His grin widened, sharp and knowing, as he turned away from the marketplace, the hum of activity fading into the background.

The Technomancers thought they controlled the board.

But they hadn't accounted for him.

And he had every intention of turning their game upside down.