The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 435: Going Back to Silvarion Thalor (1)

The fire had died down to a soft glow overnight, leaving only the faintest warmth in the hearth. Mikhailis became aware of this gentle chill just as the first rays of morning light slipped past the thick silk drapes, illuminating scattered shadows across the stone floor. He realized he wasn't alone—Elowen slept curled against his chest, her silver hair a tangled curtain that brushed his chin. Their legs were still entwined beneath a single blanket, the shared heat of their bodies warding off the lingering coolness of the room. For once, there was no pressing sense of urgency pushing him to untangle himself. He exhaled slowly, allowing himself a rare moment of calm.

His momentary peace was short-lived.

<It is already late for the travel window. I warned you romance costs punctuality.>

Rodion's disembodied voice chimed in with subtle condescension, as it often did at inconvenient times.

Mikhailis let out a long, theatrical groan. "Rodion, I swear one day I'll alchemically transmute your code into a washing sponge." He spoke in a hushed tone so as not to wake Elowen fully, though he suspected she was on the edge of awareness.

<"I am not waterproof. That would be inefficient. Also, your shirt is currently draped over the east windowsill.">

The AI's flat, efficient voice betrayed no hint of apology.

Before Mikhailis could manage a retort, a soft knock echoed against the door. The latch clicked, and the door inched open just far enough for a woman's calm voice to carry through. "Your Majesty, your shirt is on the windowsill." There was a brief pause, then a second, slightly exasperated line: "Also, you're late."

Mikhailis groaned again, cradling Elowen's hair against his cheek. "Did everyone conspire to become morning people overnight?" he mumbled. The idea of leaving the warm nest they had made on the couch felt almost traitorous.

Elowen let out a gentle laugh against his chest, the whisper of her breath tickling his collar. She was obviously not as asleep as he had believed. "Only the responsible ones," she teased, her voice still holding that husky softness that came with half-forgotten dreams.

He turned his head to meet her gaze, pouting for effect. "Ouch."

Her expression, though, didn't convey genuine remorse. "True," she added, propping herself on one elbow. A soft pink flush crept over her cheeks, betraying the warmth beneath her carefully honed composure. "Now go get your shirt, chimney sweep."

He gave a small, mock-suffering sigh. "I'm going to make a new powder just for you—glittery, impossible to remove, and with the delightful aroma of pickled onions."

She brushed a strand of tangled silver from her face and gave him a sweet smile, the kind that could've disarmed entire armies. "I'll wear it like perfume," she replied. Then, as though she recalled her own regal status, she tried to straighten her posture, though the pink hadn't fully left her cheeks.

They parted slowly. Mikhailis had to fight the urge to linger, but Lira's reminder about being late still hovered at the edge of his awareness. He rose, crossing the room in bare feet to retrieve his shirt—a once-pristine garment now sloppily draped over the windowsill. He half expected it to have fallen into the courtyard below. Fortunately, it remained where it had been tossed, though it looked as if it had been through a brawl. One cuff was nearly undone, the fabric wrinkled beyond all sense of dignity.

Lira stood at the open door, arms folded, ponytail immaculate as always. She was a picture of calm efficiency, and the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth revealed her mixture of amusement and disapproval. "I have pressed your formal vest," she said evenly, "but I assume you'll wear the experimental version with the half-melted button?"

Mikhailis slid past her into the hallway, offering a lopsided grin. "I like my buttons charred. Adds personality. Shows history."

She raised a single brow. "Shows chaos. Also, it might be considered a fire code violation."

He laughed under his breath. "Historically accurate chaos, then."

By the time Elowen emerged from the suite, she had donned a polished travel cloak bearing the Silvarion crest. The swirl of fabric around her shoulders lent her an air of quiet, practiced regality. Mikhailis noticed, with a pang of admiration, how she managed to balance the remains of last night's softness with the poise expected of a queen. The suite, meanwhile, had been magically transformed by the staff's silent competence. Every dish from the previous night's meal had vanished, the couch's rumpled blankets folded neatly, and a faint aroma of lavender hung in the air where before it had been the dying embers.

Waiting at the doorway were Vyrelda and Cerys. Both wore their armor, fastened with the brisk confidence of seasoned warriors. Their boots gleamed, and their expressions exuded a sense of readiness that made Mikhailis feel like a shambling, half-dressed stowaway by comparison.

"You're late," Vyrelda announced in a flat monotone, crossing her arms. The plates of her cuirass caught the morning light as if to underscore her point.

"Good morning to you too," Mikhailis replied brightly, unashamed to be cheerful in the face of her sternness.

Cerys studied them with the same emotionless gaze she often employed. "Romantic delay?" she asked, her tone as colorless as the steel at her waist.

Elowen opened her mouth hastily. "No, of course not—"

"Yes," Mikhailis cut in. It was impulsive, but he felt no guilt. The corners of his lips twitched in a faint smile.

Two pairs of eyes locked onto him, both women wearing expressions that demanded explanation. He shrugged lightly, making an open-palmed gesture. "She asked, and I value honesty."

Vyrelda exhaled and turned on her heel. "Serewyn's entire royal family is waiting at the courtyard."

Mikhailis fell into step behind her, adjusting his slightly wrinkled shirt with a conspiratorial little grin. "I'm sure they love a bit of suspense," he muttered, following.

This content is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

The Castle of Tenfold Veils practically shimmered under the early sunlight. Tall spires, once wrapped in colorful nighttime illusions, now stood revealed in all their polished glory. Streams of luminescent wards still circled the highest towers, faintly visible as wavering lines of pale lavender and gold. In the courtyard below, lines of Serewyn's royal retinue formed a striking tableau—nobles, advisors, and guards all gathered in neat rows. Overhead, banners fluttered at the edges of tall flagpoles, each bearing intricate patterns that represented various branches of alchemical mastery. Even from a distance, Mikhailis could feel the hum of many eyes fixed upon them. That hum carried a mixture of pride and relief, as though the entire castle exhaled with the knowledge that peaceable alliances now bound their lands more securely than ever.

Elowen held herself with quiet composure as they stepped into the Courtyard of Alchemic Flame. Subtle lines of etched symbols glowed faintly along the stone floor—a testament to Serewyn's love of weaving spells into its architecture. King Haradon, still every bit the regal figure, looked more at ease than Mikhailis had ever seen him. An almost imperceptible nod from him served as a silent greeting. At Haradon's side, Queen Melisara radiated a gentle warmth, her usually reserved features softened. Her gaze found Elowen's, and a small lift of her lips suggested a fondness that transcended mere politeness.

At the base of the wide steps leading down from the castle doors, Estella and Rhea waited. Estella wore a formal robe adorned with newly embroidered sigils—an ode to her role as Director of the newly formed Silver Veil Atelier. Despite her poised stance, Mikhailis noticed the way her fingers fidgeted at the edges of her sleeves, a sign of her nerves peeking through. Rhea, on the other hand, had that calm, composed demeanor she always carried—a slight tilt of her chin, a watchfulness in her gaze.

Mikhailis opened his arms wide in an invitation. "Come here, Director," he called, voice warm with encouragement. Estella released a shaky breath, moving forward in a half-run. She was never one for public displays, so her hug landed a bit awkwardly. Still, Mikhailis returned it with genuine warmth, ruffling her hair in a brotherly gesture.

"You've got this," he whispered so only she could hear. "Director suits you more than you realize."

She flushed, cheeks warming to a rose hue, and a soft laugh escaped her. He could see a flicker of confidence spark behind her eyes. Already, she looked more certain of the path that lay ahead.

Elowen took a single step closer, producing a small scroll sealed with the distinctive insignia of Silvarion Thalor. With her usual brisk tone, she addressed Rhea. "Report directly to me, not the council. They'll muddy the matter if they get too many details. Trust me."

Rhea accepted the scroll, lifting her chin in acknowledgment. "Understood," she replied, her voice steady. There was a mutual respect between them that had deepened since their collaborations in saving Serewyn from the toxic mists.

Now, Estella and Rhea has been officially under the wings of Elowen and Silvarion Thalor.

The subsequent farewell with Haradon and Melisara carried a solemn hush. No horns or grand proclamations this time—only quiet steps and lowered gazes from the onlookers. Elowen approached first, her cloak shifting softly around her ankles. Melisara reached out, gently resting her hand on Elowen's. For a moment, neither spoke. The queen's eyes glistened with an emotion that was part relief, part bittersweet memory.

"Your father would have been proud," Melisara said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Elowen inclined her head, unable to form words. Instead, she bowed deeply—an act that conveyed her gratitude and the weight of that legacy. Nearby, Haradon shifted his posture and turned to Mikhailis with a faint, but genuine smile.

"Take care of her," the king said simply.

Mikhailis gave a short, confident nod. "Always," he promised.

Outside the courtyard walls, rows of Silvarion knights awaited. Each wore a gleaming silver cloak pinned at the shoulder, their armor polished to reflect the morning's light. Dozens of mounts stood in perfect formation—horses with braided manes, bridles etched in filigree patterns that resonated with subtle enchantments. The mist-filtered sun gave everything a dreamlike glow, as if the realm itself wished to commend them for the alliances nurtured here. Cheers rose along the city's edge, weaving a tapestry of sound. From balconies above, people tossed petals that drifted lazily on the breeze, and somewhere in the alleyways, gentle music played as if to serenade their departure.

Mikhailis moved to adjust the saddle on his peculiar mount, which had garnered quite a bit of attention. The beast was an improbable mix of glider-lizard and jungle elk, with elongated limbs and ridged plating running down its spine. Folded wings rested at its sides, looking like sheer curtains pinned back for convenience. Its large, curious eyes blinked at him, as though questioning why this human was once again messing with its harness.

"All right, Bob," he murmured, tugging a strap into place. "Let's not have any tantrums this time."

Glancing over, Mikhailis spotted Elowen mounting a newly gifted mare named Aralis. The horse had a sleek coat of pale cream and a mane that trailed in silken strands. Every step it took was measured, regal, as though it understood precisely who it carried. Aralis's tail swished softly, the gentle ring of her bridle blending with the hum of chatter around them.

From her saddle, Elowen regarded Mikhailis and his peculiar creature with mild skepticism. "I still think your naming sense is questionable,"