The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Air rushed into his lungs like a sudden tide, harsh and biting, shocking him fully awake. A sharp gasp escaped him, dry and cold, scraping the inside of his throat like sandpaper. Mikhailis's eyelids fluttered heavily, protesting the sudden intrusion of consciousness. He forced them open, blinking groggily, the blurry outlines of the world slowly crystallizing into sharper focus.

A ceiling stretched out above him, made from polished, dark timber. It was rough-hewn but sturdy, aged wood beams neatly aligned, bearing quiet evidence of masterful craftsmanship. The warm glow of lanterns danced gently against the wooden texture, casting faint shadows that shifted lazily, as if alive. He took another slow, cautious breath, deeper this time, tasting the faint herbal aroma hanging in the air—medicinal, soothing, mixed subtly with the scent of old wood and warm linen. A healing room, he thought dimly, or at least somewhere intended to be comforting enough to pass for one.

His body was a heavy weight, as if carved entirely from granite. Every muscle, every tendon protested even the slightest shift of movement, screaming at him in quiet agony. But there was relief beneath the pain—a dull ache that signified the worst of his injuries had begun to fade. The sharp, cruel pain from the brand on his chest had settled into a throbbing ache, bearable compared to before. Even in this battered state, he had to admit, Rodion's biting lectures about self-preservation were probably justified.

His fingers twitched reflexively, and he felt a comforting warmth immediately respond—a soft, gentle pressure. Curious, Mikhailis turned his head slowly, each small shift pulling at aching muscles, sending ripples of muted pain through his neck and shoulders. Yet even that discomfort faded swiftly as he recognized the figure sitting quietly beside him, utterly still in gentle repose.

Long, sleek black hair cascaded neatly down her back, tied perfectly into the familiar high ponytail that was almost as distinctively hers as her calm, composed voice. Her head was slightly bowed, eyes closed in gentle sleep, but even unconscious, her posture retained the poised elegance that never seemed to abandon her. She looked peaceful yet prepared—just like always. And entwined loosely around his own fingers was her slender, soft hand, a subtle warmth passing between them, anchoring him to reality.

Lira.

He felt a quiet warmth spread inside his chest. Seeing her here was oddly comforting, a reminder of something familiar and reassuring amid all the recent chaos. His throat shifted painfully as he swallowed, feeling cracked and dry from disuse. He opened his lips slightly, intending to call her name, but a different voice intervened—clinical, sharp, and dryly sarcastic as ever.

<You're not in Silvarion Thalor yet.>

Rodion.

Of course. Even unconsciousness couldn't give him a moment free from the AI's relentless corrections.

<We're in a safehouse. Somewhere remote. Inside Serewyn. Queen Elowen coordinated an emergency extraction.>

Mikhailis paused, absorbing Rodion's words carefully, feeling relief mix with faint curiosity. His voice was a rasping whisper as he replied softly, "I see."

His words stirred something beside him. He watched carefully as Lira's lashes fluttered gently, betraying the first slow signs of waking. It fascinated him briefly, the subtlety with which she awoke—no panic, no sudden tension, just a calm and graceful opening of eyes. Clear, dark eyes met his own gaze softly, immediately alert yet somehow infinitely gentle.

Her lips curled delicately upward, forming a small, gentle smile that eased away the last remnants of anxiety he had been carrying. "You're awake," she whispered softly, the simple statement of fact carrying hidden layers of relief and quiet joy.

He blinked slowly, feigning mild confusion as humor seeped into his dry voice. "Either that or this is a very realistic hallucination."

She chuckled softly, the sound warm and musical, just barely teasing. Her eyes glittered subtly, catching the low lantern light beautifully. "Do your hallucinations usually involve someone holding your hand?"

His gaze dropped deliberately toward their entwined fingers, studying the delicate interplay of warmth and pressure, then lifted slowly back up to meet her eyes. "Only the good ones," he murmured, his voice playfully wistful despite the fatigue in his expression.

Lira rolled her eyes, though the faint twitch of her lips betrayed amusement more than annoyance. Yet, tellingly, her grip on his hand never loosened; instead, her thumb brushed softly against the back of his hand, a quiet gesture rich with subtle intimacy and unspoken affection.

He took that moment to truly study her features. She looked utterly healthy, utterly restored, as if none of the earlier wounds had ever existed. The cuts, bruises, the exhaustion he remembered vividly—all vanished, leaving only flawless skin and elegant composure behind.

Curiosity sparked in his gaze. "You're not hurt anymore," he observed quietly, voice gentle and filled with mild confusion. "Did Elowen bring a healer with her?"

Lira tilted her head slightly, a thoughtful glint appearing briefly in her eyes. "Something like that," she replied softly, her voice carefully neutral yet layered with hidden warmth. "Or maybe she just knew I needed to be there when you woke up."

He laughed faintly, the sound strained but genuine. "That's dangerously close to sounding romantic."

A single, graceful eyebrow arched elegantly upward, silently challenging his words even as amusement warmed her expression. "Coming from the man who nearly died again, that's rich."

He feigned mild hurt, lips curving wryly. "I prefer to think of my hobbies as extreme. Near-death experiences, poking at technomancers, flirting with elegant maids. You know, typical princely endeavors."

Her voice dipped slightly, silkier and softer as she murmured, "Your Highness, I heard you took a great risk. As usual."

He gave her a lopsided, tired smirk, eyes gleaming softly. "Well, if you phrase it like that... maybe my last name really is Trouble."

They shared a quiet laugh, soft and careful, barely audible above the gentle creaking of timber around them. But soon, the soft laughter faded gently into a warm, quiet silence, deeper and richer than words could ever convey. Their hands remained gently entwined, fingers loosely intertwined, warmth passing quietly between them, grounding and reassuring in equal measure.

He watched her silently, noting the small details he had overlooked earlier—the faint shadows beneath her eyes, betraying quiet worry and sleepless hours spent watching over him; the tiny, unconscious flutter of her eyelashes, delicate and subtle. There was warmth in her eyes, something unspoken yet tender, a depth he recognized clearly. It drew him in, comforting and quietly magnetic.

Her thumb continued its slow, gentle rhythm against his skin, each small motion sending pleasant shivers along his nerves. Their eyes held contact, wordless yet deeply expressive. Neither spoke, unwilling to break the soft intimacy of the moment.

In that quiet pause, he suddenly became acutely aware of how close they were. Her breath ghosted softly across his skin, warm and gentle. She leaned subtly toward him, almost without conscious decision—a gentle sway forward, guided by the silent pull between them.

His heart quickened, pulse humming faintly beneath his skin. He found himself leaning instinctively toward her as well, drawn closer by the gentle warmth radiating from her presence, comforted by her steady and familiar energy. Time seemed to slow, stretching gently around them, the moment extending infinitely. Each heartbeat became distinct, each quiet breath amplified in the stillness.

In the gentle warmth of her gaze, he saw a quiet promise—safety, comfort, affection—all of it reflected clearly in those beautiful, composed eyes. The quiet, dignified elegance she always carried softened subtly now, allowing a glimpse of vulnerability, a hint of something deeper and more tender that she usually concealed beneath layers of practiced composure.

He realized dimly, with faint amusement, how little he truly understood about this mysterious woman who had become such an essential part of his life. He knew her poise, her dignity, her gentle sarcasm, but in moments like this, he caught fleeting glimpses of something softer, something quietly profound.

He wanted to know her better, to understand what lay beneath the polished exterior—to unravel the secrets hidden in her soft, quiet moments like this one. The desire felt oddly urgent, quietly compelling. But now wasn't the time for questions—only for quiet intimacy, a shared moment beyond words.

Slowly, cautiously, her eyes fluttered downward to their intertwined fingers, then back up, meeting his gaze again. In that instant, he understood clearly how she felt, without a single word needed. The warmth in her eyes told him everything he needed to know, more eloquently than speech ever could.

Her body shifted ever so slightly, the gap between them quietly narrowing. The subtle movement sent another gentle thrill through him, his heartbeat accelerating quietly beneath his ribs. He felt her breath again, soft against his skin, mingling faintly with his own. Her closeness was dizzying, comforting, real.

His own breathing slowed, deepened, syncing quietly with hers, their gentle rhythm echoing softly in the quiet room. He knew, clearly and without hesitation, that whatever lay beyond this moment—danger, chaos, responsibility—he could face it as long as he had moments like these, quiet and tender, anchoring him firmly in the present.

She leaned forward another fraction, the space between them diminishing further, until only inches separated their faces. Her gaze softened, dark eyes deepening with quiet affection.

So did he.

Then—

A cough.