The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 427: The Formal Serewyn Reception (2)
"It's no wonder they take so much pride in their wards and illusions. This entire place is a living testament to the legacy of alchemy."
Servers in attire that blended ceremonial robes with practical aprons glided through the hall, carrying silver trays laden with delicacies. Each dish seemed touched by enchantment: pearls of wine floated gently above fine glass goblets, as if defying gravity; slender pheasant slices were drizzled with a shining "dream-honey" glaze rumored to spark pleasant visions; small pastries described as "mistsugar puffs" hovered lightly on plates, dissolving into a swirl of fruity, magical sweetness the moment one bit into them.
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Mikhailis was acutely aware of how every eye in the hall drifted toward him and Elowen at intervals. From high-ranking nobles dressed in elaborate robes of shimmering brocade, to foreign dignitaries wearing intricately embroidered cloaks, to the wide-eyed stewards who looked too young to recall a crisis as devastating as the toxic mists, all appeared united in their fascination. Some glances held admiration, others carried a quiet sort of hope. Mikhailis wasn't used to such unwavering attention—only in the last year had he been thrust from behind-the-scenes inventor to public figure, since his brilliant solution to the soil poisoning had bridged a seemingly insurmountable gap between kingdoms.
Standing at the center of this swirl of color and sound, Elowen rested her palm lightly on Mikhailis's forearm. He felt the comforting warmth of her touch through his sleeve, a grounding force amid the heady ambiance. She inclined her head toward a raised dais at the far end of the hall, where an elaborately decorated table gleamed. On it stood a single, gleaming chalice—silver filigree wrought into patterns reminiscent of swirling mist.
"The Chalice of Atonement," she whispered, her tone suddenly more serious. "I read about it in the briefing documents. It's offered only in moments of great national penance—when a kingdom must acknowledge its shortcomings and ask forgiveness." She paused, eyes solemn. "It's seldom performed."
Mikhailis nodded, following her gaze. A hush seemed to ripple through the assembly as more guests became aware of the chalice. The muted rustle of cloth and footsteps quieted further, replaced by a reverent stillness that made the hall's enchantments shimmer all the more vividly. The overhead illusions of celestial bodies slowed their orbit, almost as if acknowledging this sacred moment.
He watched with keen interest as a robed officiant stepped forward—a tall figure with silver hair pinned meticulously back, wearing layered robes that combined the colors of the gates outside. In a measured gesture, the officiant lifted the chalice from its stand. Its contents, a softly glowing liquid tinted with swirling turquoise and lavender, seemed to radiate a gentle luminescence that made Mikhailis wonder which alchemical elements had gone into its creation.
When the officiant turned to Elowen, the queen stood poised, expression composed but not cold. She took a measured step forward, and Mikhailis could almost sense the entire hall holding its collective breath. With regal grace, Elowen accepted the chalice, raising it a fraction, then sipping lightly from its rim. It was a small gesture but one loaded with immense symbolic weight. Serewyn, by offering this ritual, was conceding that it had relied on Silvarion Thalor's—and specifically Mikhailis's—expertise to overcome a crisis it could not solve alone. In partaking of the chalice, Elowen acknowledged their gratitude and in turn offered forgiveness if Serewyn had once doubted their alliance.
After that single sip, she turned to Mikhailis, her gaze warm with encouragement. He stepped forward, every sense heightened. The hush pressed in on him like a soft, weighty cloak, urging caution, respect. With careful hands, he accepted the chalice, grateful that his sleeved gloves provided a steady grip. The luminous liquid gave off a faint, floral scent he couldn't quite name—something akin to lavender with an undercurrent of herbs. Lifting the chalice to his lips, he took a small, deliberate sip. The liquid tingled on his tongue, reminiscent of the mild potions he sometimes brewed for health or clarity.
The crowd's silence was as palpable as the enchanted air. Mikhailis lowered the chalice and handed it back to the officiant, aware that every movement signified a binding gesture between Silvarion Thalor and Serewyn. His mind buzzed with the enormity of it: This was more than a tribute or a courtesy; it was the forging of a deeper treaty, a testament that the two kingdoms had entwined their fates.
He swallowed, the warmth of the potion lingering in his throat, its taste like liquid starlight thrumming against his senses. Elowen, only a few paces away, caught his eye and offered a faintly amused quirk of her lips, her own curiosity softened by gratitude for the symbolic gesture they'd just completed. Indeed, the Chalice of Atonement had left a hush across the grand hall—a collective recognition that an ancient ritual had been fulfilled, bridging trust between Silvarion Thalor and Serewyn. They, in turn, had acknowledged each other's strengths and failings in a single, ritualized act.
"I still prefer your tea," Mikhailis murmured under his breath, leaning close so only she could hear. The dryness of his voice contrasted with the solemn expressions of those around them, but a flicker of shared humor passed between him and Elowen. The edges of her eyes crinkled; a subdued delight in this unexpected levity.
A hush settled over the hall once more as, with a soft tolling of alchemical bells, the grand golden doors glided open. Silken drapes, thin as mist yet glowing faintly like living silver, parted to reveal a short corridor beyond. Light poured through that gap, a blend of lanterns and arcane-luminescence exuding from tall sconces carved into the stone. At first, the corridor seemed unoccupied, but then footsteps—measured and purposeful—echoed across the polished marble.
Mikhailis glanced briefly at Elowen. She gave a small nod, adjusting the folds of her gown. The subtle reflection of his own enchantments gleamed on her face: a gentle highlight along her cheekbones from Moonveil, the slight starry glint in her eyes courtesy of the Starcatcher Dust, and the warm sheen on her lips from Wispkiss Gloss. He felt an odd surge of pride, recalling the long nights in his workshop refining these cosmetics not just for fashion, but as a statement—showing that creativity, compassion, and a bit of arcane brilliance could surpass old rivalries.
They took a step forward, side by side, and emerged into the corridor. The hush in the hall behind them held for one, two, three beats; then an almost audible exhale from the crowd signaled everyone's rapt anticipation. Musicians—stationed somewhere just out of sight—struck up a quiet, dignified melody. The notes drifted around them, buoyant yet composed, weaving a scene fit for a grand unveiling.
Under the corridor's vaulted ceiling, swirling patterns of etched runes glowed with pastel radiance, guiding Elowen and Mikhailis forward. Everywhere he looked, Mikhailis saw evidence of Serewyn's unmatched skill at weaving artistry and enchantment: a mosaic made entirely of living crystal set into the floor, shimmering illusions dancing in carved alcoves. Even the scent in the air—a subtle mixture of rare, aromatic herbs—spoke to the kingdom's deep alchemical heritage.
At last, they stepped through the parted doors and into the hall once more, but at a higher level this time, poised at the top of a series of broad, curving steps. It was as though they had circled around the outer edges of the structure to make a grand entrance. Now, as they descended, all eyes shifted onto them in an almost theatrical moment of collective silence. Elowen's gown shimmered with each step, the luminous powders accentuating her regal presence, and Mikhailis wore a quiet confidence in his posture—his shoulders relaxed yet dignified, every inch the prince consort who had come into his own.
From the corner of his vision, Mikhailis spotted familiar faces. A small grouping of Silvarion Thalor entourage members stood together, clearly awestruck by the spectacle. Vyrelda, the stoic knight who had once privately called Mikhailis "the dreamer with no sense," now blinked as though seeing him for the first time. Beside her, Estella, the sharp-witted merchant and developer of various arcane goods, looked positively radiant with satisfaction—he guessed she was admiring how the cosmetics she'd helped refine were capturing the hall's attention. Rhea, known for her unwavering practicality, watched on with a faint, proud smile, while Lira, usually coy and reserved, looked wide-eyed at the display of alchemical splendor.
Standing near them was Cerys, the court soldier lone wolf whose passion for knowledge sometimes overshadowed her social manners. Tonight, though, even she appeared subdued by the grandeur. As Elowen and Mikhailis passed, each one in that group offered a small sign of approval—be it a curt nod, a respectful incline of the head, or in Estella's case, a quick grin of triumph. This was more than just a ceremony: it was the public confirmation that Silvarion Thalor's monarchy, once overlooked or underestimated, was now recognized and lauded by the proud land of Serewyn.
