The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Darkness stretched endlessly in every direction, thick like the depths of an ocean, yet weightless as if he were drifting through a dream. The feeling reminded Mikhailis of the times he had floated on his back in a quiet lake, staring up at the sky, except this was far stranger. There was no up or down. There was only this place, this endless, swirling expanse of dark mist that clung to him like a living thing. He could sense the tiny threads of it brushing against his arms, his legs, and even his hair, as though it wanted to be sure he was really there.

He let out a slow breath. The mist swirled with him, moved with the same gentle rise and fall of his chest. If he shifted his weight to one side, the mist responded, curling more tightly around that part of his body. It felt almost playful, like a curious animal discovering something new. Yet there was an underlying seriousness to it. Mikhailis could sense a weight behind every movement, behind every swirl and coil, as if the mist carried memories older than anything he could imagine.

Then came the whispers. At first, they were faint, like a soft breeze rustling through leaves. But they grew louder, layering over each other until they formed a swirling chorus of voices. Some whispered so low he could barely distinguish the words; others spoke clearly, with an eerie echo that seemed to come from everywhere at once. He strained to pick them apart, but they overlapped in a dozen languages, maybe more.

"Return."

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"The throne must be reclaimed."

"The Serewyn Guardian was never meant to serve alone."

Each phrase seemed to brush against his mind, leaving impressions that felt both alien and painfully familiar. Is that me they're calling to? Mikhailis wondered, his thoughts swimming. His heart pounded in his chest, and he noticed the mist reacting to the quickening rhythm. It pulsed in time with the blood pounding in his ears.

He tried to steady himself, but there was no ground. He glanced down and saw only swirling darkness that seemed to vanish into infinity. The strangest part was that he didn't feel fear of falling—there was nowhere to fall to. This place… he thought, it's as if gravity decided it had better things to do. The idea almost made him laugh. Then again, maybe he just wanted to break the tension he felt pressing in on him from every angle.

A sudden rush of images exploded across his vision. He saw the construction of Luthadel's mist network, large stones being cut and placed with incredible precision. Runes or glyphs glowed on each stone, each mark carefully etched and imbued with energy. He could practically hear the hum in the air, like distant thunder before a storm. Hooded figures stood around these stones, chanting words he didn't understand. Their voices were low, deep, resonating in the pit of his stomach.

Then the image shifted. He found himself staring at a figure bound in golden chains, standing at the center of a massive circular chamber. The figure's face was hidden by a heavy hood, but Mikhailis felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow and power radiating from them. It was as if they carried the weight of entire worlds on their shoulders. Surrounding this chained figure were others—scholars? Priests? They wore symbols that reminded him of the Crownless House's insignia, but these were older, more refined.

In the next heartbeat, the scene changed again. The Crownless House appeared in his vision, but not as rebels. They looked revered, respected—keepers of knowledge, guardians of secrets. He saw them studying the newly built runes and channels of the mist network. At first, they worked with care, with purpose. Then something changed. Their expressions hardened. He saw arguments, betrayal, a sense of righteous anger turning into obsession. They turned against each other, and eventually, the network they had vowed to protect.

Mikhailis tried to steady himself, to push the visions away, but they were relentless. Each new flash hammered his mind, leaving him gasping for air he wasn't even sure existed in this strange dimension. The mist only tightened around him, pressing as if encouraging him to accept these images, to learn from them. He felt his chest constrict. I didn't ask for this knowledge. I don't want it. But the torrent wouldn't stop.

He saw a tall spire, one that reminded him of the Technomancer headquarters, except in these visions it was newly built. It gleamed with fresh stone, bright runes that guided the flow of mist through channels carved into its very walls. He saw the city from above—Luthadel, yet not the Luthadel he knew. It was vibrant, brimming with an energy that sang in the air. People moved through the streets without fear, protected by the soft glow of the runes. They believed in the system, a voice whispered in his mind. They trusted it would keep them safe. But that trust was shattered by betrayal.

Mikhailis's stomach churned as the images came faster, no longer orderly and calm. Buildings burned, the sky darkened with swirling blackness. People cried out for help, only to be swallowed by the thickening mist. Stop, he wanted to shout. Stop showing me this. But the mist pressed harder, like an insistent teacher refusing to let a student quit.

Then, just as suddenly, the images dissolved, replaced by emptiness again. He was left breathing hard, as if he had run a marathon. He realized his fingers were clenching at nothing, his nails biting into his palms. So many lives, so many secrets… The realization washed over him: these were not just illusions. They were memories. Someone's memories, forced into his consciousness by this eerie dimension.

That was when he saw the figure—Eldris. Or something that looked like him. Mikhailis couldn't be completely sure. The man's shape was hazy, flickering, as though made from the same mist that surrounded them. But those golden eyes were unmistakable. They held the same intensity, the same quiet confidence Mikhailis had seen before. Yet here, in this bizarre space, they seemed deeper, more ancient.

Mikhailis tried to speak, but his throat felt tight. The figure approached, each step causing subtle ripples in the darkness, like footsteps across a still pond. "You were never meant to be an observer, Mikhailis," the figure said, his voice steady but echoing. There was something about it that cut through Mikhailis's confusion. The words felt final, like a judgment.

A flicker of annoyance shot through him. "I'm getting real tired of cryptic speeches," he snapped. "Just say what you mean."

Eldris tilted his head, as though considering how best to respond. "Very well," he said. "The mist flows through you because you are part of it. You are connected to the original mist sovereigns. The Serewyn system wasn't just a prison—it was a living will, a tether between worlds."

Mikhailis blinked, his mind spinning with confusion. "What are you saying?" he asked, his voice low and tense. I don't have time for riddles, he thought. Or illusions. Or bizarre dreamscapes.

Eldris's gaze didn't waver. "The entity waking in Luthadel is incomplete," he said, each word measured. "It is searching for its other half." Then his voice dropped, as though he were imparting a secret that had been locked away for centuries. "That missing half… is you."

Mikhailis's whole body went rigid. His first reaction was to laugh, but it came out broken, jagged, more like a cough of disbelief. "Oh, that's rich," he said, shaking his head. "Me, some ancient mist god reincarnation? Try again." He tried to force a grin, the kind of half-smirk he usually gave when someone said something ridiculous. But the grin felt hollow, forced.

Eldris—or the being pretending to be Eldris—didn't smile back. "You are not a god," he corrected quietly. "You are a key. The Sovereign Catalyst."

The mist responded to his words, forming swirling patterns around Mikhailis's arms and torso. It pressed in on him, as though trying to merge with him. He could sense it in the back of his mind, whispering words he couldn't fully comprehend. The whispering got louder, and louder still, until it was all he could hear.

No, Mikhailis thought, I am not some ancient being reborn. I am not part of some prophecy. He clenched his fists, trying to push the mist away with pure willpower, but it was like trying to hold back a tsunami with a bucket. I am just trying to survive. Yet the mist refused his rejection. It clung to him, pulling at him. He could feel it, like it was peeling away layers of who he thought he was, searching for something underneath. Something that had been buried for a very long time.

Eldris watched him calmly, as if this was the expected outcome. His golden eyes flickered with what might have been pity, or maybe acceptance. "You cannot deny what you are," he said. "The knowledge will come to you, whether you want it or not."

Mikhailis's teeth ground together. "Why me?" he spat. "I never asked for this. I never wanted to be part of some ancient war. I have my own life—my own problems."@@novelbin@@

The figure's gaze softened. "Sometimes, destiny is not about what you want. It is about what is needed." The words hung in the air, final, inescapable.

The mist roared in Mikhailis's ears, no longer a gentle whisper but a storm of voices that blurred into a single thunderous demand. He felt his heart racing, felt sweat that might not even be real trickling down his forehead. The edges of his vision flickered, as if the void was tearing open. He tried to breathe, to focus, but the pressure was too great. It was as if the entire world was twisting around him, stretching him in ways his mind couldn't handle.

Stop… Stop… Stop… His thoughts screamed, but the mist only pressed harder, tugging at his core, threatening to tear him apart in its eagerness to remake him into whatever it thought he was supposed to be. His head felt like it was splitting, and bright flashes of that chained figure burst through his mind again. He could almost hear the clink of those golden chains, see the molten light reflecting off them. And in the center, the hooded figure's eyes—empty, ancient, sorrowful.

"No... get away from me...!"

He lets out a raw, wrenching yell that tears through the darkness. Whether it's an actual scream or just a silent cry inside his head, he can't be certain. But somehow, the sheer force of that desperate sound fractures the suffocating hold clinging to him, if only for a split second—just long enough for him to feel something yank him backward.

In that heartbeat, the swirling void of shadows shatters, and the storm of a thousand voices falls silent in an instant.