The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 517: Sugar and Shadows (4)

Mikhailis dropped to his knees, palms flattening on cold gravel that bit through thin gloves. Dust puffed up, swirling in the lantern glow before settling on the black fabric like gray snow. Steady, breathe, he told himself, trying to tame the hammer in his chest. Each beat still boomed louder, echoing inside his skull.

Across the ragged courtyard the lead thug stroked the violet heart-stone with obscene pride, cradling it as though it were a pet worth more than every life gathered in the festival square. Sick light crept over the man's pitted cheeks, lingered in his cracked grin, and crawled across the rune-web etched in the dirt—runes that brightened with every pulse, hungry green tongues waiting to feast on mana and flesh alike. One flick, one spike of power, and laughter and song would turn to screams and ash.

<Mikhailis, options are limited. Should I deploy the Chimera Ant units?>

Rodion's even tone slid into his mind like cool water over a burn, but panic still clawed behind his ribs. The Ants—his Ants—were silent knives and shadow claws, born in darkness beneath the castle. Once people saw them, there would be no taking that sight back. If Serelith sees them, will it crack the sparkle in her eyes? If Cerys sees them, will she sheath her loyalty and draw judgement instead?

He risked a glance left. Serelith knelt, wrists chained by sigils that hissed against her skin. Violet hair clung to her cheek in damp strands, yet her eyes blazed, daring the world to try her patience. Just beyond, Cerys strained against her own fetters, shoulders bunching, red ponytail matted with dust. She looked ready to bite through iron. They believed in him—most of the time. Would they if they learned an army of necro-insects moved when he whispered? frёeωebɳovel.com

Rodion's voice softened, as if sensing the tremor in his heartbeat. <They will understand. Lives are at stake. Make your choice.>

Mikhailis closed his eyes. Memories flashed: Serelith laughing as caramel dripped off a stolen apple; Cerys rolling her eyes when he named a beetle after her; Elowen's calm nod when he first spoke of hidden ambitions. The faces orbited his conscience. Trust them— or watch innocents die while you protect pride?

Dust scratched his throat as he breathed in. He opened his eyes, letting fear twist once more before he pinned it under resolve. His whisper was barely louder than the wind. "Rodion… it's time. Deploy them. I'll explain everything."

The decision slammed through his chest like a war drum. Lantern light seemed sharper, the air colder.

Serelith's eyes widened when he lifted his head. He forced calm into his voice, iron over trembling water. "Serelith. Cerys—no more secrets." His throat wanted to close; he wrestled it open. "Rodion isn't a spirit or—gods forbid—a smart television. He's an Artificial Intelligence, my ally from… somewhere far beyond maps. And through him I command an army of Chimera Ants. Shadow-born, necromantic, fiercely loyal to me. They're already moving to save everyone."

Serelith's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "Chimera Ants? AI? You—summoning insects… with brains?" Wonder and mild horror fought on her face.

Cerys's glare shook, the mask of anger slipping. "A joke," she tried, voice rough. "Please be a joke."

He curved his lips in a crooked grin. "I rarely kid when explosions are involved. Spoils the punchline."

A sharp electronic chime answered him—Rodion. <Chimera Ant units deployed. Mapping rune network. Tracking remote detonator.>

The lead thug snarled, mistaking the faint sound for mockery. "Stop muttering, prince. One twitch and the square burns."

Mikhailis didn't spare him a look; his focus drilled into distance only he could see. "Rodion, status?"

<Primary signal source located. Hypnoveil Variant engaged. Controller subdued in fifteen seconds. Stand by.>

Shadows at the courtyard edge thickened, drawing a hush over clinking chains and distant music. The Riftborne Necrolord unfolded from pure gloom, a silhouette of bone-thin wings and violet furnace eyes. Layers of night peeled off walls and swallowed torchlight; sound dulled, like wool stuffed in ears. Beneath cracked stones, Scurabons scuttled—he could feel the tremor through the rune tattoo on his wrist, every claw-scratch translating into data: line here, array there, weak glyph at the northwest node.

Further out, beyond toppled pottery stands, a figure in gray robes clutched a smaller crystal. An ethereal ant with misty wings—Hypnoveil—floated behind him, delicate as moon smoke. Its antennae brushed the man's neck. A puff of silver motes bloomed. The controller's back stiffened, eyes clouding as psychic silk slid into his mind.

A small gasp escaped Serelith. Even chained, she sensed the psychic twist. Cerys paused mid-strain, confusion flickering.

"Speak," Rodion's voice echoed through the Hypnoveil, smooth as poured mercury. "Cease the detonation."

"Yes… cease…" The controller's voice was hollow, as though spoken from a long tunnel. His shoulders sagged; the secondary crystal's glow dwindled like a dying coal.

Rodion's words flowed like steady rain. <Primary controller neutralized. Evaluating secondary triggers. Awaiting your command.>

Mikhailis finally looked up at the trembling thug and let a slow, almost playful smirk curl one corner of his mouth. His voice, when it came, was soft enough that the man had to lean forward to catch it.

"Rodion… ignite."

Nothing.

A long, brittle second stretched. Wind rattled a broken sign; somewhere beyond the alley fireworks boomed like distant thunder. The thug's grin wavered. He jabbed the rune-ring again, thumb whitening on the copper band. Silence answered. The green web scribbled on the cobbles stayed dim, no retaliatory flare, no devastating surge.

"W-what—" Panic thinned his voice to a squeak.

Mikhailis rose with unhurried grace, dusting gravel from his knees as though brushing lint from a dinner coat. "Funny thing about desperation," he said, eyes flicking to the useless ring. "It makes you blind to everything happening right under your nose."

The man's jaw worked soundlessly. Behind him, faint scritch–scritch noises carried—Scurabons retreating into cracks, runic lines already gnawed apart. Above, the Riftborne Necrolord folded its shadowy wings and melted into the night like fog, mission complete.

Then a shape glided into the torchlight beside Mikhailis—a blur resolving into a rounded, snow-white body, panels gleaming like porcelain, limbs segmented and soft-edged. It hovered a handspan above the ground on an unseen cushion of mana, humming with quiet power. Two luminous blue eyes brightened as it came to a stop, facing the bewildered thug as though greeting a dinner guest.

"Greetings," it said, tone calm, warm, undeniably polite. "Rodion, at your service."

Serelith's jaw unhinged. "That's… Rodion?" Her voice cracked between disbelief and a giggle.

Cerys's eyes went wide as lantern plates. She tightened her grip on her chains, half expecting the construct to explode. "By all the gods and all their grandmothers…"

Rodion bobbed politely in mid-air, the motion smooth and almost courtly, as if he wore a phantom top-hat. "Apologies for the delay. Traffic on the sub-tunnel network was congested."

His broad palms—round disks glowing a calm, ice-blue—eased forward. Tiny filaments of light unraveled from his fingertips, so fine they looked spun from moonbeams. The strands kissed Serelith's shackles with a gentle hiss, and a crisp snick! cut through the night. Metal links sprang apart, scattering sparks that winked out against the cobbles.

A fresh pulse of mana rushed through Serelith's limbs. She inhaled sharply, feeling sensation surge back into fingers that had been numb and cold. Violet sparks leapt from one fingertip to another, racing like eager fireflies. Her spine straightened, and with it her smile grew dangerous, all teeth and promise. "Finally," she breathed, rolling her shoulders until vertebrae popped. "I've been waiting for this." Her words vibrated with a thrill that bordered on laughter—and vengeance.

Rodion glided to Cerys next. The light threads re-formed, slicing her shackles in silence. She caught the severed iron before it hit the ground, hefted the broken links as if weighing her own anger, then crushed them with a casual squeeze. The shards tinkled at her boots like glass chimes. A quick flick and her sword slid free, the steel whispering a cold note. She spun it once in greeting, letting torchlight chase along the edge. "Time to teach these bastards a lesson." Her feral grin flashed white against the lantern glow.

That promise jolted the nearest kidnapper from frozen shock into raw panic. Eyes wide, he swung his battered saber in nervous arcs, backing away so quickly his boots scraped patches of moss off the stones. Serelith lifted her right hand. Arcane sigils, bright as neon flowers, blossomed around her wrist—ring within ring, each symbol spinning at a different speed. A percussive whumf accompanied their ignition.

With a guttural hiss, ropes of violet flame burst outward, snaking across the square. The first vine snapped around the man's ankle like a living whip. He shrieked—high, ragged—just before the flame hauled him aloft. Boots kicked uselessly as he dangled head-down, smoke curling from charred leather.

"Dance for me!" Serelith cried, voice high with exhilaration, hair whipping in the sudden updraft. The thug twirled like a grotesque puppet, screams cutting the night.

On the opposite side of the courtyard, two other attackers bolted toward Cerys—one wielding a boar-spear, the other brandishing twin daggers. She stepped forward to meet them; cloak tails flared, and for an instant she was crimson lightning. The spear jabbed for her chest, but she slipped left, letting the wooden shaft shoulder past her ribs. Her blade snapped down. Wood parted—crrrk!—as if the spear were stale bread. She kept moving, shoulder slamming into the spearman's breastplate. The crunch of metal denting echoed. Air flew from his lungs in a shocked grunt.

The dagger-man tried to flank her, glimmering blades slashing at her side. She pivoted on the ball of her foot, parried the first swipe with her bracer, and stamped her heel into the spearman's shin. He collapsed with a pained bleat, tripping his partner. Both thugs toppled together like startled goats. Cerys followed through in a smooth crouch, driving her elbow into the fallen dagger-man's solar plexus. THUD! His daggers scattered, skittering across stone.

"Next?"