The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 589: The Secret Sneak-in (1)

Mikhailis adjusted the focus on the mana-rune crystal, his brow furrowed in that adorable way Serelith liked to tease him about. The glow from the containment field painted soft green rings beneath his lashes, and for a heartbeat she forgot to breathe. Every time he leans in, he looks like he’s about to kiss the machine, she mused, biting back a grin.

The emerald leaf floated steadily inside its levitation cradle, veins pulsing faintly as though it could sense their attention. Tiny sparks crackled between the crystal prongs and the leaf’s surface, each flash a whispered syllable in a language neither fully spoke—yet.

"Try lowering the etheric pressure," Serelith murmured, pivoting a slim silver wand between her fingers. As she spoke, threads of mana unspooled from her knuckles like spider silk, drifting until they wrapped the reader array in a shimmering cocoon. Her violet eye glimmered; the monocle’s rim caught the light like a wink.

Mikhailis’s fingers moved to the regulator dial. "Lowering by point-three," he announced, but his tone held a playful lilt, like he was announcing tonight’s dessert options. The dial turned with a soft click. At once, the wild static dancing around the containment field smoothed, each pulse finding rhythm with the next.

"There’s a sweet spot—if you force it, the leaf gets shy," Serelith explained, eyes flicking from the stabilizing glyphs to his face, gauging his reaction.

"Sweet spot, huh? Sounds familiar." He let the words roll lazily off his tongue, attempting an innocent expression. It failed; he looked entirely pleased with himself.

She arched a brow, the corner of her mouth curling. "Everything has its sweet spot, my prince. You just have to touch it right."

"Noted," he coughed, cheeks coloring. "We’re working."

Serelith hummed, leaning to peer closer at the array. The faint vanilla-rose scent of her perfume slipped around him, and Mikhailis’s pulse tripped in his ears. He tracked the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders, the way a stray curl of pink hair brushed her jaw with every breath.

Mana ripples shimmered across the lattice and, like river water finding its course, finally synced with the leaf’s heartbeat-slow glow. The leaf brightened, veins lighting up in perfect harmony. Mikhailis released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"Perfect. You’re brilliant, Serelith." His knuckles rapped a cheerful staccato on the oak bench.

"Of course I am." She bobbed a curtsy too slight to wrinkle her skirts, then flicked the errant curl behind her ear. "There aren’t many who can match me on this continent, you know. Elowen is one, but aside from her? Maybe three others, if they’re lucky." The smug note in her voice didn’t diminish the fact—she spoke simple truth.

He straightened, curiosity beating down his usual levity. "That few?"

"Power like mine isn’t just talent." She tilted the reader crystal, recalibrating light along the glyph channels. The silver corset plates shifted with a faint creak as she bent forward. "It’s patience, obsession... and maybe a little madness."

The copper coils warmed beneath her hands. She traced a glowing glyph, and the characters rearranged under her touch. "Elowen and I... we’re rare, Mikhailis. I’m not bragging. I’m just telling you—you’ve got good taste."

Elowen... and Serelith. The notion settled in his ribs, heavy and humbling. Two titans of magic, both orbiting his absurd little life. Maybe I really do like living with lightning storms.

He flicked a speck of dust off Serelith’s satin sleeve. "So, I’m surrounded by world-class magicians, huh? Is this what they call living dangerously?"

"You’re just lucky I’m the playful one." A slow grin unfurled across her face. The lamplight caught the tiny scar by her lip—an old duel, he remembered—and made it gleam.

"Oh, I’m very lucky," he agreed, warmth seeping into his voice.

They moved together from one device to the next, their elbows brushing, laughter punctuating the soft clicks of machinery. Serelith’s nimble magic patched the temperamental compressor that used to sputter sparks. She drew a swirling sigil in mid-air, then snapped her fingers; the sigil collapsed into a translucent film that wrapped the compressor in a cooling shimmer. The hiss died instantly.

"See? Calm as a kitten," she said, wiping imaginary dust from her fingertips.

Mikhailis whistled low. "When I tried that rune last month, the coil spat acid at my face."

"Because your stroke order was wrong." She pressed two fingertips to his forehead—light, teasing. "Left curve first, then diagonal. Try again and you’ll keep your eyebrows."

He grabbed a stylus, sketching the rune on scrap parchment. She hovered close, correcting the tilt of his wrist, the angle of his elbow. Every time her hand guided his, a tiny spark flared on his skin, nothing magical—just the simple awareness of her nearness.

When the compressor hummed at a perfect pitch, even the chimera ant workers paused, mandibles clacking in polite applause.

The hours melted. Serelith taught Mikhailis to weave illusion-based shielding: pale, leaf-green veils that hovered over the chimera ants, letting them vanish against stone or moss. She fine-tuned the frequency so it wouldn’t interfere with their pheromone trails. Each test success made her smile widen; each failure made her mutter in arcane shorthand before trying again. He loved watching that intensity, the flint-bright focus that turned the playful mage into a stormfront of intellect.

Meanwhile, Mikhailis’s engineering balanced the magical load: he fitted twisted brass dampers, rewired sapphire conduits, ensured nothing overloaded. Together they built a miracle—science laced with sorcery, breathing in unison.

Finally, with a gentle hum, the containment field opened a palm-sized rift around the leaf. Ghostly threads flowed outward—memories in liquid light. Scenes flickered: soaring green canopies, moon-drenched valleys, ancient singing by thousands of unseen voices.

Mikhailis’s breath caught. "This could change everything. If the Canopy has stored memories... if it’s sentient..."

"Then you," Serelith breathed, so close her lips nearly brushed his ear, "are holding its diary. And it’s a very old diary."

He swallowed, exhilaration tumbling into awe. "Think it wrote about me?"

She tapped her chin, lips pursed in dramatic thought. "Probably something like ’met a terribly handsome prince today, excellent with his hands, could use improvement in patience.’"

He barked a laugh. "Terribly handsome, huh? Finally, some honesty."

Their laughter rippled around glass tubes, waking the shadows with warmth—until Rodion chimed in.

<Current task efficiency: 92 percent. Emotional distraction within acceptable limits.>

Mikhailis rolled his eyes. "Rodion’s getting bolder."

<Correction: I have simply accepted that your distractions are inevitable.>

Serelith giggled behind her hand, shoulders shaking. "Your AI is savage."

"Don’t encourage him," Mikhailis grumbled, wrenching a valve a quarter-turn. He’s going to start charging me sarcasm tax.

<Already achieved.>

Serelith caught his elbow. Her palm was warm despite the lab’s chill. "Ignore him. Look." She tilted his chin toward the projection that hovered over the containment field—tiny glyphs arranging themselves into neat spirals. "It’s mapping its own neural branches. That’s self-referential data. Living memory, just like we suspected."

He stared, mesmerized, as the glyphs folded into fractal patterns. "This isn’t just an archive," he murmured. "It’s... it’s thinking."

"Or dreaming." Serelith’s voice dropped to a hush. "Either way, we’ll need a gentler approach. No forced extraction."

He nodded slowly, eyes locked on the swirling script. Whoever wrote this never intended us to rip it open. He reached to dial down the power even further.

Serelith stepped behind him and guided his hand, her chest brushing his shoulder blades. "Here. Let me."

The gentle scent of her perfume curled around him. For a moment, he closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her body, the confidence of her touch. He tried not to shiver.

When he opened his eyes again, the glyph spirals glowed steadier than before, slow and even. He exhaled, relief softening his shoulders.

"You’re incredible," he whispered.

Her smile turned shy—almost. "I know."

The chimera ants resumed their careful march, their new illusion-shields rippling like water droplets on glass. Mikhailis watched, chest swelling with quiet pride.

Serelith leaned her hip against the bench. "When this is published—if it ever is—the Academy will weep with envy."

He snorted. "We’ll slip them a footnote. Maybe."

She laughed, tossing her curls. The monocle swung on its chain, catching light. Then her mood shifted; her eyes softened, lashes lowering. "Seriously, Mik—this is bigger than us. Bigger than court games. Promise me you won’t rush it."

He met her gaze, sober now. "I know how to be patient. Sometimes."

"Sometimes," she echoed, faint amusement lingering. But she saw the resolve beneath it. It made her heart stutter. freewebnøvel_com

They returned to work, their conversation dipping into theory—how to safely interface with a living archive, whether tree-song renderings could translate into spoken language, how to keep the ants from hoarding memory-sap like it was dessert. The gleam in Serelith’s eye lit sparks in Mikhailis’s mind, each idea building on the last until they were speaking in half-sentences, finishing each other’s thoughts.

Time blurred. Lamps burnt low. Chimera workers scuttled in and out with fresh parchment, tiny ink pots balanced on their backs.

Mikhailis glanced at the clock-flower near the door—a blue bloom whose petals folded with each passing hour. Three petals left. Dawn was not far.

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