The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 432: The Royal Slip Out (1)

"You're thinking it too, aren't you?"

Elowen didn't look over at him right away, but Mikhailis could see the subtle way her shoulders relaxed, as if she'd been waiting for him to voice exactly that thought. "That this is our only night in Serewyn without guards or protocols?" she said quietly, her gaze fixed on a point just beyond the softly flickering lantern near the chamber's entrance.

He inclined his head. "Exactly," he replied, his tone warmer than the single word might suggest. There was a sort of palpable relief in acknowledging it. All day, they'd been weighted by formality, by the demands of banquets and alliances, by wearing the mantle of queen and consort under everyone's scrutiny. Now, in the hush of late evening, they both felt a longing for something simpler—just a moment to breathe unguarded in this realm they had helped save.

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She stood, brushing her hair back, fingers drifting through the loose strands in a way that signaled her mind was already working on the next step. "Get your coat."

A wry, synthetic note came from the air, and Mikhailis shook his head at Rodion's soft, sarcastic chime. He rarely questioned Elowen's intentions anymore; her instincts had a knack for leading them to small wonders in stolen moments like this. He rose from the bed, rummaging briefly through the trunk near the corner of the suite. After some searching, he pulled out a faded vest, the edges worn and faintly smeared with old soot from his workshop. It bore none of the regal embroidery of his formal attire. He slipped it on, added a pair of scuffed gloves, then slung a battered satchel over his shoulder. Part of him reveled in the stark contrast: moments ago, he'd been a man of the court—honored, scrutinized. Now, he was stepping into the persona that once defined him more intimately, that of a wandering alchemist and half-mad inventor.

"Not the first time someone's called me poor," he muttered under his breath, a small grin lifting the corners of his mouth. The memory of all the times he'd been dismissed as a nobody for fiddling with half-baked enchantments flitted through his mind. Back then, it stung; now, it felt like a distant dream.

Elowen, too, had abandoned her queenly regalia for a traveler's cloak lined with soft fur, its hood pulled up to obscure the distinctive gleam of her silver hair. In the dim lamplight, her face became a suggestion of features—lips, cheekbones, the faint glimmer of her eyes. She nodded in approval at his makeshift disguise, then glanced toward the door. They didn't need words to agree on what came next.

They slipped through side halls quietly, the hush punctuated by Rodion's clipped instructions echoing inside Mikhailis's mind.

<Left. Then two corridors straight. Now feign dizziness for plausible distraction.>

Mikhailis nearly laughed aloud. Feign dizziness? He pivoted in the corridor, twirling on one heel like a tavern bard entertaining a rowdy night crowd. He half-expected a swirl of confetti to erupt from nowhere.

<Not that dramatic, you fool,> Rodion's voice scolded, sounding both exasperated and amused.

Elowen snorted, then smacked him lightly on the arm. "You're ridiculous."

He grinned at her, unrepentant. "You married me anyway." The playful glint in his eyes was answered by the softening of hers, though she only shook her head in mock disapproval.

They reached a side gate—the place where a single guard, half asleep, kept watch. He jerked upright at the sight of them, blinking blearily. Mikhailis extracted a small bottle from his satchel, holding it up so the guard could see the label illuminated by the wall-mounted sconce. "Moonlight Brew?" he offered, voice pitched low.

The guard stared at the offered container, then, with only a moment of hesitation, accepted it. There was something about the hush of Mikhailis's tone and the queen's hooded figure that discouraged further questions. Perhaps the guard sensed they wanted an unobtrusive exit. If so, he was not about to obstruct them.

Once through, the city's night air embraced them with a surprising gentleness. Serewyn at night felt softer than Mikhailis had anticipated: the scents of warm bread and charred spices drifted in from street vendors who still lingered in the quieter hours, hoping to catch late wanderers. He looked upward, noticing how the lanterns here were strung across the rooftops on thin wires, each glowing orb trailing faint petals of shimmering illusions that floated downward like slow-falling confetti.

A gentle lute melody played from somewhere near the corner, the notes weaving a tender lullaby across the cobblestones. Mikhailis spotted an old man cross-legged on a worn cushion, strumming the instrument with wrinkled fingers. Couples ambled hand in hand, speaking in hushed voices as they admired a city that had once been wrapped in lethal mists. Vendors still sold steaming broth or sweet confections from wooden stalls. Their small fires flickered, painting welcoming pools of light on the stone walkway.

Elowen stopped at a stall where an elderly woman offered warm, fragrant bread. The dough's aroma teased Mikhailis's senses, reminding him he'd barely eaten since the banquet's official close. The woman's eyes sparkled with an indefinable wisdom.

"Newlyweds?" she asked softly, the corners of her mouth curling in a half-smile. Her tone was gentle, but Mikhailis got the sense she was more observant than she let on.

Elowen paused, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face, before she nodded shyly. A little lie, but a harmless one. Mikhailis felt his cheeks warm, uncertain how to play along. He murmured something incomprehensible and looked away, feigning interest in the stall's arrangement of bread loaves.

Rodion's sardonic whisper cut in:

<She's lying. She's 93. Former spy. She knows exactly who you are.>

He nearly coughed to suppress laughter. The image of the old woman expertly reading them like an open book, despite their disguises, was too amusing. Elowen offered a more genuine smile this time, as though relaxing under the woman's gaze. "Then we'll take two, grandmother," she said, gently bridging the gap between formality and affectionate camaraderie.

They accepted the bread, biting into its comforting warmth. A sense of calm settled around them, like a lull in a once-stormy sea. Mikhailis could barely recall the last time they wandered side by side, free from titles. Usually, if they strolled at all, it was in a swirl of courtiers and guards. So this small act of anonymity felt deeply liberating.

They moved on, guided by the faint echoes of lutes and whispering lovers until they reached a small pond ringed by lanterns. Tiny wooden boats floated on its surface, each bearing a single, flickering candle. Mikhailis recognized the tradition—individuals would write their wishes on a slip of paper, place it on the boat, and let it drift until the candle burned out. A sign of releasing hope into the universe, or so the tales said. The water shimmered with reflected starlight and the faint glow of the surrounding lanterns, creating a mosaic of color across its still surface.

Couples gathered around the pond's edge, leaning close to share hushed words. One pair giggled as they lit their candle, then quickly scribbled something on their little boat. Another pair simply held hands in silence, gazing at the water like it contained the answer to all their unspoken questions. Mikhailis watched them for a moment, feeling that intangible sense of warmth that arises from witnessing love in its simplest forms.

Elowen approached the pond's edge, rummaging in her cloak pocket. She produced a small, folded piece of paper. No one else seemed to notice them; everyone was too engrossed in their own private hopes. She knelt by the pond, carefully placing her piece of paper on a flat sliver of wood. Taking a candle from a side basket that presumably was left for such nightly rituals, she fixed it onto the makeshift boat. She paused before lighting it, as though clarifying the wish in her mind.

Mikhailis joined her, crouching at her side. He said nothing, only watched the subtle changes in her expression. Despite the hood, he could see the serious concentration in her eyes. This was more than a casual gesture for her—he knew the queen in her was always thinking of the realm, always hoping for a future unshadowed by war, pestilence, or betrayal.

Elowen lit one. The flame caught quickly, wavering in the slight breeze that skated across the water's surface.

"For peace to last,"