The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"Then let us forge a new path through the mists," Laethor said softly, voice subdued but resolute. A trace of conviction began to warm his tone. For all his initial reluctance, he seemed to grasp that this was not merely another policy or alliance—it was a genuine chance to undo the damage that plagued Serewyn. His acceptance wasn't just for Mikhailis or Elowen's benefit; it was for every farmer whose fields lay barren, every merchant whose trade routes had dried up, and every villager who wondered if their homeland was cursed.

Elowen gave the faintest of smiles. She had faced countless diplomatic negotiations in her life—struggles over border disputes, resource scarcity, contested magical artifacts. But the look on her face in that quiet moment was unlike any typical regal decorum. It was a subtle expression of relief, gratitude, and the slight, cautious joy of someone who sees the possibility of genuine progress. Mikhailis only nodded, acknowledging Laethor's words with a calmness that belied the restless excitement whirring inside him.

He could practically feel Rodion's silent hum of approval in the back of his mind, as if the AI-like entity were seconding this vital step forward. In truth, Mikhailis felt a swell of relief that threatened to flood his own composure. They had gambled a great deal—personal reputations, treasured resources, and the precarious trust that barely held these fractured alliances together. Now, Laethor's acceptance signaled that the gates were opening, that the possibility of large-scale soil restoration was no longer just a dream locked in Mikhailis's studies and midnight experiments.

A new path, indeed, Mikhailis thought. One that would demand relentless effort, careful coordination, and perhaps the forging of further alliances with other unsuspecting kingdoms who might benefit from—or fear—the power of a fungus that could reshape their lands. For better or worse, the seeds had been planted. And in the grand hall, under the watchful eyes of guards and courtiers, the future began to unfurl like a winding vine, bright and tenuous.

Elowen gave the faintest of smiles. Mikhailis only nodded.

_____

Later, as they walked side by side down the corridor of the safehouse, Mikhailis adjusted his glasses with a fatigued yet triumphant sigh. The hallway's torches flickered against the damp stone walls, creating dancing shadows that played across Elowen's elegant features. The faint glow of Rodion still shimmered quietly in the corner of Mikhailis's vision, a perpetual reminder that he was never entirely alone in his own head—even though, in this moment, he craved a rare sliver of solitude.

"They bought it," he muttered under his breath, the hum of muted conversation from the room behind them lingering like an echo. The negotiations had ended, at least for now, but the repercussions were only beginning to spool out.

<They bought the cure to their own stupidity. Congratulations, you're now a savior.>

Mikhailis almost snorted at Rodion's blunt assessment. The AI-like entity possessed a cutting wit that skirted the line between playful and scathing. Normally, Mikhailis would brush aside such comments, yet at this moment, their exasperation felt mutual. He wasn't blind to the ironies: so many people in positions of power had ignored warnings and let the land deteriorate, forcing him into this sudden role of a reluctant hero.

Elowen chuckled softly at his side, the corners of her eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. She had spent many nights orchestrating this plan with Mikhailis—pouring over musty tomes, liaising with clandestine sources, and calling in markers from allies scattered across distant territories. "You were brilliant," she murmured, tilting her head in his direction. Her voice resonated in the corridor, echoing off the worn stone, lending an almost regal cadence to her praise. Though she tried to maintain a balanced composure, a gleam of pride shone in her dark eyes.

Mikhailis sighed, rubbing his temples in small circles. He could feel the thrum of energy dissipating from his body, as though the tension that had fueled him was now rapidly draining away. "I just hope they don't ask how we grow the fungi," he said, a note of caution creeping into his voice. Secrets still lingered behind their success—especially the hidden processes that made those fungi so effective. If any part of those truths got out, it might raise more suspicions than solutions.

<They won't. And if they do, lie.>

Rodion's brusque suggestion hovered in Mikhailis's awareness. He couldn't help but let out a quiet huff, somewhere between annoyance and amusement. "Noted," he murmured, just loud enough for Elowen to pick up on the half of the conversation she was permitted to know about. The queen shot him a curious glance, she know that he's talking with Rodion, and not all of their conversation was heard by her as the AI don't show everything to her.

But it's fine.

As long as she knows that they are in her side.

They continued along the winding corridor, their footsteps echoing. Here, under the layers of stone, the air carried a persistent chill that pricked at their skin. A few torch brackets offered intermittent pools of light, casting shifting silhouettes that seemed to follow them with every step. The building was neither large nor luxurious—more of a hidden stronghold than a proper palace. Throughout the halls, faint murmurs from distant rooms and the scuff of boots on stone reminded them that others, too, were navigating this labyrinth: informants, scribes, and quiet guardians ensuring the secrecy of these late-night dealings.

Elowen slowed her pace, glancing at him sideways. Her expression was thoughtful, and for a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. The hush of the corridor seemed to press in. "You knew what this would mean, didn't you?" she finally asked, her voice just above a whisper. The question was more than a casual inquiry; it carried a certain weight, a subtle suggestion that everything was about to change.

Mikhailis offered a small, quiet smile, his eyes thoughtful and faraway. "A transnational biotech monopoly?" he said, only half-joking. He had no illusions about how power worked in these lands. The healing fungi might be born out of altruism, but the very nature of alliances—trade routes, pacts, and resource funnels—could transform a well-intentioned gift into a political sledgehammer. Serewyn would be beholden to Silvarion Thalor for the means to heal its soil, and that gave Elowen—and, by extension, Mikhailis—more leverage than many rulers could ever dream of.

<We've just launched it.>

Rodion's sardonic quip made Mikhailis's lip quiver in a ghost of a smirk. "Let's just call it a recovery mission... for now," he mused in a low tone. Though he tried not to dwell on it, he couldn't deny the surge of satisfaction that sparked within him at the prospect of being the architect of renewal. He was no conqueror wielding a sword. He was an inventor, a researcher, a man who believed that knowledge could reshape the world for the better. Still, the notion of inadvertently creating a monopoly made him uneasy.

They paused at the end of the hall, where a sturdily built wooden door stood, emblazoned with the faint crest of Silvarion—a tree entwined by a serpent, the symbol of life harnessed by knowledge. Elowen turned fully toward him, stopping just short of the threshold. Her gaze was gentle but sharp, and the flickering torchlight emphasized the delicate arcs of her cheekbones.

"You really meant everything you said back there," she observed quietly, recalling the staunch determination in his voice during the negotiations with Laethor.

He nodded slowly. "They need this," he said, a certain conviction threading through his words. "Even if they don't understand it."

He remembered the moment he had first laid eyes on those necro-fungi cultures in the lab, the creeping veins of growth that signaled both disaster and potential. The trials that followed were fraught with tension—some days the samples showed promise, others they nearly collapsed under the weight of their own mutations. Each misstep was a reminder that working with living organisms, especially those influenced by arcane energies, came with inherent risk. But the data had never lied. The soil samples they treated with specialized fungal strains nearly always rebounded, healing from the inside out. What remained was to prove the concept on a grand scale.

She studied him for a lingering moment, her eyes carefully searching his face. For all her regal composure, the queen possessed a gift for reading people: a clarity of insight that had guided her through diplomatic storms and civil unrest. Mikhailis sometimes wondered if she ever found it burdensome to see so much, to sense the hidden corners of everyone's intentions. Then, with a subtle tilt of her chin, she reached forward and gently touched the sleeve of his coat. The contact was delicate, yet there was a current of grateful energy in it.

"Thank you," she said softly, sincerity brightening her features. The corridor's torchlight gilded her hair, lending her an almost ethereal sheen. To Mikhailis, she looked every inch the monarch who had risked everything to bring her kingdom back from the brink, but she also looked like a friend who was truly appreciative of his willingness to stand by her side.

Mikhailis offered a soft smile in response, a warmth spreading through him that outmatched the chill in the air. He knew that their alliance—once a purely strategic arrangement—had evolved into a deeper bond. He recalled sleepless nights spent in conversation, exploring the merging lines between biology and sorcery, the potential of forging something entirely new for Serewyn and beyond. They had both shed illusions of simplicity. This was no mere farmland fix; it was a plunge into the uncharted realm where politics, trade, and survival converged.

For now, let's save the land, he told himself. We can deal with the crown-shaped headaches later. The swirl of fleeting responsibilities threatened to weigh him down: approvals for further experiments, official decrees to sign, the delicate matter of distributing fungal batches equitably so as not to destabilize local markets. All the bureaucratic tangles of governance that would sap his energy as surely as any arcane contamination.

Rodion pulsed once more at the edge of Mikhailis's awareness, bright and insistent. The AI's presence had once felt intrusive, but now Mikhailis found it oddly comforting—like a persistent friend who refused to let him fall into complacency.

<Rest now. Or at least pretend. You'll need the energy.>

Mikhailis blinked, momentarily returned to the present. "Why?" he asked under his breath, half-suspecting the answer. The corridor felt impossibly long now, a line of worn stones and guttering torches that seemed to stretch into the quiet unknown.

<Because tomorrow, you start feeding the empire.>