The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 431: The Formal Serewyn Reception (End)

"It is. And it's enough, for now."

With that, they returned their attention to the crowd, the hush around them deepening as the last of the candlelight slipped into shadows. Soon, the banquet hall would be nothing but an echo of footsteps and the memory of bright possibility.

The candlelight dimmed slowly, like the final breath of a tired fire. The banquet hall, once bright with laughter and golden light, now shimmered in a more delicate tone. Plates of dream-honey pheasant sat half-finished beside mist-sugar pastries melting into empty crystal goblets. The musicians shifted from festive reels to something gentler—notes that floated, slow and soft, as though even sound itself had begun to wind down.

Mikhailis clinked his goblet one last time with Elowen's. The toast had been to prosperity, but also to courage. He wasn't sure who added that word, but it lingered in the air more honestly than all the others.

Estella stood near a long cosmetic demonstration table, half-surrounded by noblewomen leaning close, enchanted by her every explanation. A pair of scribes scribbled down orders, parchment piling up in hasty stacks. Lira stood just behind Estella, effortlessly elegant as she refilled glass testers or redirected any too-bold noblemen with a silent flick of her wrist.

"Even men want it now," Elowen murmured under her breath, watching a Serewyn general sheepishly approach. "He just asked for one to help his wife. And for 'better complexion under sun drills.'"

Mikhailis chuckled. "Ah yes, the ancient rite of applying blush for sword-wielding brilliance."

One duchess leaned forward and proclaimed in a dramatic, wine-tinged voice, "A woman who wears the Consort Alchemist's dust is a woman who does not need to speak to command attention." The ripple of laughter that followed was too self-aware to be mocking. It was reverent.

Queen Melisara and King Haradon stepped forward next, regal but genuine. Melisara spoke first. "Let it be known that Serewyn hereby endorses an official merchant guild collaboration. A new guild branch shall be formed—The Silver Veil Atelier."

Gasps, excited murmurs. Heads turned.

Elowen stepped forward. Her voice was clear, steady. "Estella of Silvarion Thalor will serve as Director. Mikhailis shall be its Honorary Artisan and Patron of Arcane Craft."

Mikhailis leaned close to Elowen, whispering behind his wine cup. "That's a fancy way to say I'm the face, huh?"

Elowen didn't hide her smile. "And the brain. Don't forget that part."

Estella stood frozen for half a beat. Then she bowed—tried to. Her breath caught halfway. Tears brimmed but didn't fall.

"Your Majesties," she managed, her voice shaking. "I... I will serve well."

She was still bowing when Mikhailis stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"You already do," he said gently.

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The nobles clapped. Some genuinely. Some politely. All acknowledged it.

Later, the great hall began to empty, its once-glittering splendor fading into a hush of clinking glassware and whisper-soft footsteps. Servants in muted livery moved with quiet determination, their tasks well-practiced. Mikhailis caught glimpses of them in the corner of his vision—two dismantling an ornate crystal arch, another carefully stacking plates. A pair of maids swept scattered flower petals into neat piles, only for the translucent mist that lingered near the floor to swirl them into gentle spirals again. It was like watching the tail end of a grand performance, each movement a reminder that all celebrations, no matter how vibrant, must eventually wind down.

At the far edges of the hall, echoes of the evening's music still hovered, now just faint traces of harp and flute chords. He noticed how the final notes lingered at the threshold, as though reluctant to fade entirely. A few courtiers remained, gathered in small clusters and conversing in low voices. Some looked weary, eyes drooping after so much festivity; others brimmed with after-dinner excitement, likely plotting the next steps of their social or political aspirations. But the festive air had dissolved into something more subdued, a twilight state between the triumphs of earlier and the quiet that would soon envelop the castle.

Outside, the courtyard echoed with a different kind of energy altogether—the sharp clang of training drills under the moonlight. Mikhailis's ears caught the rhythmic shunk of steel striking padded shields, punctuated by Vyrelda's firm commands. "Advance! Brace! Strike!" Her voice was clear and unyielding, slicing the night air with authority. Curiosity tugged at Mikhailis, and he paused momentarily by a tall arched window to glimpse the scene. In the silvery glow of the moon, Serewyn knights attempted to keep in step with Vyrelda's disciplined instructions. Their footwork looked awkward next to the fluid precision of Cerys, who wove among them like a phantom. Her blade traced elegant arcs, each movement controlled yet graceful, as if she were dancing with the moon's reflection rather than wielding a weapon. The knights appeared torn between awe and determination, their gazes flicking from her sword's tip to Vyrelda's measured glare.

In a distant wing of the castle, Mikhailis glimpsed a flicker of colored light—likely the spellcasting hall. The swirl of arcane glimmers told him they were no doubt continuing the day's experiments into the late hours. Wandering that way, he peered around a column and found Serelith at the center of a circle of young mages. She had one hand extended in a dramatic pose, a half-dazed grin on her face. "Behold," she announced, turning slightly to catch the torchlight on her wild eyes, "I have bound a floating chair to my waist. It will now follow me wherever I go!" Indeed, just behind her hovered a simple wooden chair that bobbed clumsily at about knee level. When she spun to address another mage, it drifted sideways and bumped into a column, nearly toppling a candle sconce. The collision earned a wave of giggles, including Serelith's own, a curious blend of triumph and mania.

A younger mage nearby gave an enthusiastic clap, eyes lit with admiration. Another, emboldened by the success, tried to replicate the enchantment but got the incantation slightly wrong. The result? Their shoes suddenly clacked open like clam shells, and the hapless magician stumbled, letting out a yelp that turned into nervous laughter. Serelith clapped her hands with delight. "Brilliant error!" she exclaimed. "A pity about the footwear, but your flair is delightful. Keep at it!" The scene struck Mikhailis as strangely endearing—an image of unbridled creativity, tempered by the knowledge that even the simplest slip could unleash comedic chaos.

Meanwhile, in the noblemaid hall, Lira was conducting a far more orderly demonstration. A neat row of young maids stood at attention, each appearing both eager and anxious to please. Lira, clad in a midnight-blue uniform that seemed to flow with her every step, glided among them. "Back straight," she instructed, demonstrating the posture with impeccable form. "Chin just above modesty—no need to jut it out like a challenge. Flex the calf while bowing. Yes, precisely. We do not wobble. Grace is a choice." Her tone was poised and calm, but there was a certain softness in her eyes that told Mikhailis she remembered her own humble start not so long ago.

One of the maids, barely older than a child, glanced up timidly. "Is it true you love the Consort?" she whispered, curiosity shining in her gaze. The question seemed to catch Lira off guard; she paused in the middle of adjusting another girl's posture. For a fraction of a second, her composure wavered. Then she offered the faintest smile—too small to be called a grin, but undeniably kind. "Serve well, dear," she advised gently. "Your own love might bloom too." Whatever else Lira felt, she kept it locked beneath that calm veneer, returning to correct the next maid's stance as though the question had never been asked.

Eventually, Mikhailis made his way toward the guest suite where he and Elowen were lodged. High overhead, arched windows revealed a tapestry of stars, countless in number and shimmering with a brilliance that city lights in Silvarion Thalor often obscured. A mild hush blanketed these corridors, the busy bustle of the banquet reduced to faint echoes in the distance. He found that hush oddly soothing, a moment to breathe after all the political toasts and well-meaning flattery. Just as he reached the door, he heard the soft jingle of jewelry from within.

Pushing inside, he spotted Elowen by a polished dresser, removing her earrings one at a time. They made a light clink against a velvet cloth. She exhaled a long breath, as if shedding not just the earrings but the role of monarch with each piece. The faint lines of tension on her brow smoothed somewhat, replaced by the more intimate expression she wore when it was just them. Mikhailis stepped closer, but quietly, not wanting to break the subdued calm too abruptly.

Behind her, he saw the reflection of his own silhouette in the mirror. He'd flung off his formal jacket hours ago, content now in a linen shirt slightly wrinkled from the day's bustle. Deciding to give her a moment, he wandered over to a lounge seat, arms folded behind his head as he laid down. He stared at the ceiling, noting the subtle swirling designs carved there—likely wards or decorative illusions that had long since faded. The day's events paraded through his mind: the grand toast, the new guild announcement, Estella's tearful acceptance, and the swirl of training, spells, and whispered confessions. Tonight felt like the cusp of transformation, a shift in normalcy that neither Serewyn nor Silvarion Thalor could ignore.

The silence in the suite stretched out gently, not awkward but companionable. Outside, faint footsteps passed by once or twice, possibly guards on their rounds. A low murmur of wind wove through the castle's stone corridors, or maybe it was the last vestige of the enchanted mist swirling beyond the windows. Every now and then, Mikhailis thought he heard Lira's voice giving instructions, or the distant clang of steel from Cerys's drills. The castle hadn't fully slept yet, but it teetered on the brink, ready to dive into slumber once the final tasks were done.

At length, Mikhailis broke the silence with a crooked smile on his lips. He tilted his head so he could see Elowen's form in the mirror. "You're thinking it too, aren't you?"