The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

The noble district was quieter than usual. Not the peaceful kind of quiet—the tense, watchful kind. The type that made the air feel heavier, the mist more suffocating. It wasn't just the usual mist-choked streets of Luthadel. There was a shift in the atmosphere, an awareness lingering just beneath the surface. Something was different today.

Mikhailis strode forward, his coat billowing slightly as he moved with a leisurely pace, a stark contrast to the nobles around him who walked with their heads down, steps quick and precise. They were avoiding attention, but that avoidance itself drew his interest.

Vyrelda matched his pace beside him, her sharp, predatory gaze scanning every face they passed. Her presence alone was enough to deter unwanted attention, her reputation as a seasoned warrior well-known even beyond Silvarion Thalor. Still, it didn't escape Mikhailis that some of the nobles weren't reacting as they should.

He nudged Vyrelda lightly with his elbow. "See that? Some of them aren't bothered by the mist at all."

Vyrelda followed his line of sight, her hand instinctively shifting toward the hilt of her blade. "They know something we don't."

Mikhailis smirked. "Now that's interesting."

For all the complaints and suffering about the mist, for all the ways it crippled the common folk, here were nobles walking through it as if it were nothing more than a light morning fog. No hesitation, no unease. Just a steady, confident stride. It wasn't just arrogance—it was knowledge.

They passed a trio of noblewomen draped in shimmering cloaks, their faces partially obscured by enchanted veils. They were speaking in hushed tones, but Mikhailis caught the flick of a finger, the shift of a wrist—small, subtle gestures exchanged between them.

"Underground signals," he murmured under his breath, just loud enough for Vyrelda to hear.

Her expression darkened. "Are you sure?"

"I've spent enough time in information markets to know the signs," Mikhailis replied, his golden eyes gleaming. "This isn't just politics. This is coordination."

Vyrelda exhaled slowly, clearly not liking the implications. "Whatever they're planning, it's happening soon."

Mikhailis let his gaze drift upward, scanning the rooftops and mist-wreathed spires above. The city wasn't just breathing unease—it was hiding something.

"Well," he said lightly, "I do love a good conspiracy."

Vyrelda rolled her eyes but didn't argue.

They continued through the noble district, winding through the mist-veiled paths toward their destination. The decrypted data had marked an old estate—one that, on the surface, seemed like any other abandoned noble property, but beneath it lay something far more interesting.

As they arrived, the structure loomed before them, its grandeur faded with time but its presence still undeniable. The once-pristine stone walls were cracked and weathered, ivy crawling along its edges, but Mikhailis could still see the faint traces of old Serewynian engravings carved into the entrance pillars.

Vyrelda crossed her arms, eyeing the estate warily. "This place looks like it's been forgotten for decades."

Mikhailis smirked. "Not forgotten. Just erased."

His fingers traced the carvings, feeling the magic woven into the stone. The Serewynian sigils were faint but still pulsing with residual energy. Someone had once used this place for something important.

According to the decrypted data, this was once a secondary mist-control facility, predating the Technomancer rule. Before the kingdom had been forced into dependency, there had been a different system—one built on its own power, not borrowed control.

He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the stolen Technomancer badge. It was a gamble, but if the system here still held traces of old Serewynian influence, there was a chance the modern technology had been integrated into it.

Vyrelda raised a brow. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Mikhailis flashed a grin. "Absolutely not."

With a casual flick of his wrist, he pressed the badge against the central engraving on the estate's entrance.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a slow, pulsing hum, the runes embedded in the doorway flickered—first hesitantly, then steadily, until the light stabilized.

A low vibration rippled through the stone, and with a heavy, grinding noise, the entrance unlocked, the door shifting inward just enough for them to push through.

Vyrelda exhaled. "I hate that you're good at this."

"I'm a man of many talents," Mikhailis replied, stepping forward without hesitation.

Inside, the air was thick—not just with dust and age, but with something deeper. A lingering weight of magic, of history.

The facility beneath the estate wasn't large, but it was far from abandoned. Machines hummed softly in the dark, their structures ancient yet still functional. Unlike the stark, modernized designs of the Technomancer relay stations, these machines had a different kind of presence. They weren't cold and efficient. They were integrated into the environment, their forms shaped with the same fluid, natural elegance that marked old Serewynian architecture.

Mikhailis ran a hand along the nearest console. "This place isn't dead."

Vyrelda frowned. "Then why hasn't anyone used it?"

Mikhailis had a feeling he already knew the answer. If this facility was once a part of Serewyn's original mist-control system, then it was a threat to the current order.

Because if the kingdom once had its own way of managing the mist—if it had a system that didn't rely on the Technomancers—then someone had buried that knowledge for a reason.

Rodion's voice cut in, his tone crisp as ever.

<The facility's core systems are intact. However, alterations suggest external interference. Someone has been here recently.>

Mikhailis's golden eyes gleamed in the dim light.

"Now that," he murmured, "is very, very interesting."

Mikhailis moved toward the main console, brushing away the thick layer of dust that had settled over the ancient inscriptions. The chamber was dimly lit, illuminated only by the faint glow of dormant arcane circuits running along the walls. The air carried a strange stillness, as if the underground structure itself had been waiting for someone to uncover its secrets. His golden eyes flicked over the faded markings, recognizing symbols that had not been seen in centuries.

"This system isn't Technomancer-made," he murmured, tracing a worn engraving with his fingers. The grooves were deep, precise, designed for an entirely different energy flow than what modern constructs used. "This is Serewyn's original infrastructure."

Vyrelda stood a few feet away, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword. Her sharp crimson eyes scanned the chamber, taking in the ancient mechanisms built into the walls. Unlike the cold, calculated designs of the Technomancers, these structures had a natural elegance, as if they had once harmonized with the environment rather than forced it into submission.

"They didn't build this," she said, voice low but certain. "They stole it."

Mikhailis's lips curled into a smirk, the kind that often preceded trouble. "And now we're stealing it back."

Before Vyrelda could respond, a shadow flickered at the edge of the room. Instinctively, her sword was drawn in a heartbeat, its polished steel glinting in the dim light. Mikhailis, however, remained leaning against the console, his stance relaxed but his gaze sharp.

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A figure stepped forward, emerging from the darkness. They were clad in noble attire, though time and hardship had left it worn and frayed at the edges. Their deep, hooded cloak bore the emblem of the Crownless House—a forgotten insignia, erased from official records but now standing before them in defiance of history.

"You shouldn't be here," the stranger said, voice measured but firm.

Mikhailis tilted his head, offering a lopsided grin. "Funny, I was about to say the same thing."

The stranger took another step forward, their gaze fixed on him with something akin to recognition. "You've seen the truth, haven't you?" they continued. "The mist doesn't belong to the Technomancers. It was always ours."

Vyrelda's grip tightened on her sword, her stance shifting into one of readiness. "And you're trying to take it back?"

The stranger didn't flinch. "Not just take it back. Restore it."

Mikhailis arched a brow. Restore it? That was an interesting choice of words. This wasn't about simple power grabs. This was about something deeper—something older. The Crownless House had remained hidden for decades, and yet here they were, standing in the very ruins of an ancient mist-regulating facility.

Before he could press for answers, the sound of footsteps echoed through the chamber—distant but drawing closer. The stranger tensed, their eyes flicking toward the entrance. "They're here. You need to leave."

Vyrelda, ever the warrior, did not move. Her expression hardened, her stance firm. "No. We finish this fight."

Mikhailis let out a slow, dramatic sigh. "I had a feeling you'd say that."

The heavy doors burst open, and armed Technomancer enforcers poured into the chamber, their weapons crackling with energy. The sudden surge of mist reacted to their arrival, thickening unnaturally, swirling in controlled patterns that suggested an active regulation system was at play.

Vyrelda wasted no time. She moved first, a blur of steel and precision, her blade carving through the mist with deadly efficiency. She met the first enforcer head-on, her sword clashing against a reinforced gauntlet before she twisted, slamming the pommel into his helmet. He staggered, giving her just enough space to drive her blade into the gap between his armor plates.

Mikhailis, meanwhile, relied on his agility. He ducked beneath a wild swing, his movements fluid as he weaved through the chaos. He wasn't a frontline fighter, but that didn't mean he was defenseless. He moved with purpose, striking at weak points—disabling weapons, disrupting stances, making sure the enemy never had a clean hit on him.

As he sidestepped another strike, his gaze flicked toward the control panels lining the far wall. If he could disable the regulation nodes, the mist would become unstable—something even the Technomancers couldn't predict.

"Cover me," he called out.

Vyrelda, still mid-battle, shot him a sharp look. "You better make it quick, Your Highness."

Mikhailis smirked. Ah, right. The title. He still wasn't entirely used to people addressing him with such formalities in an adventure, but Vyrelda wielded it with a certain sharpness—half respect, half warning.

He reached the console, fingers dancing over the controls. Rodion hummed in his mind.

<Access granted. Disrupting mist regulation protocols. Stand by.>

The moment the system flickered, the mist reacted violently. It surged and recoiled, twisting unnaturally, throwing both friend and foe into momentary disarray.

In the chaos, the Crownless House operative was gone.

Mikhailis barely had time to curse before another enforcer lunged toward him. Vyrelda intercepted, her blade cleaving through the air, forcing the enemy back.@@novelbin@@

"That's enough," she snapped, grabbing his arm. "We're leaving."

Mikhailis hesitated—just for a fraction of a second. His golden eyes flicked to the unstable control system, to the forgotten history hidden beneath the city. But Vyrelda's grip was unyielding, and in that moment, he knew she was right.

They ran, slipping into an emergency tunnel just as the mist outside surged unnaturally. Someone—either the Technomancers or the Crownless House—was making their move.

The streets of Luthadel were eerily quiet when they emerged, the mist curling thick and heavy, swallowing the city in an unnatural embrace. Mikhailis exhaled, catching his breath, a slow grin tugging at his lips.

"Well," he said, stretching his arms, "I think we just became part of something very interesting."

Vyrelda shot him a deadpan look, her crimson eyes still sharp, still wary. "That's one way to put it."

They needed to regroup. Because whatever was happening in Serewyn, it was just getting started.