The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 590: The Secret Sneak-in (2)

He rubbed the back of his neck. Fatigue tugged at his eyelids but couldn’t dull his grin. "Serelith, if you’re tired we can pick this up tomorrow."

She rolled her shoulders, a wince betraying the ache in her spine. "I’m fine. Just... stretch break?"

He nodded. "Deal."

She stepped away from the bench, arms raised in a lazy arc. The corset plates caught the light, shimmering. Mikhailis’s gaze drifted despite his best intentions. She noticed and smirked, deliberately arching a bit farther. He pretended to study a graph, cheeks warming.

Outside the containment field, the leaf glowed faintly—almost approvingly, as if it enjoyed the banter.

<Observation: Subject leaf reacts positively to humorous stimuli,> Rodion noted.

Serelith shot the AI a playful scowl. "You keep notes on our jokes now?"

<All variables are relevant until proven otherwise.>

Mikhailis snickered. "We’ve created a comedic scientist."

<Incorrect. I was forced into this role by recurring data irregularities... namely you two.>

Serelith’s laugh rang like chimes, bright in the quiet room.

They resumed testing, refining glyph loops, logging results. At one point a pressure valve squealed; Mikhailis lunged to tighten it, only to knock over an inkwell. Blue ink splattered Serelith’s sleeve. She gasped, half amused, half scandalized.

"Oh, no no—this is silk!"

"Hold on." He rummaged for a cloth, but she had already muttered a quick incantation. The stain lifted in a cloud of blue motes, then vanished.

"I forgot you could do that," he said, relief and admiration mixing.

"Lucky for you." She swatted his shoulder, leaving a faint smear of ink on his cheek. "But you owe me a new dessert."

"It’s a deal." He grinned, wiping his face. Anything to keep her coming back.

His grin faltered. No, not anything. A flicker of guilt sparked—he liked skirting the edge of secrecy, but each risk tugged at him. One misstep might expose the lab, the leaf, everything.

Yet he didn’t stop inviting Serelith. He couldn’t. They were too close to answers, and besides, the lab felt unbearably empty without her laugh echoing between copper pipes.

He’d grown... fond. More than fond.

He watched her now as she bent over the reader lattice, mouth pursed in concentration. The lamplight gilded her lashes, her cheek, the delicate line of her neck. Irreplaceable, he thought again, heart aching with the truth of it.

The clock-flower folded another petal. Dawn drew closer.

But as Serelith’s visits became more frequent, she became less careful.

_____

Late nights. Secret entrances. Whisper-thin good-byes that dissolved the instant a latch slid shut in the royal chamber.

Serelith had always counted on the hush of after-curfew corridors and the gullibility of sleepy sentries. When one could bend light, veil footfalls, and sweeten the air with forget-me scents, slipping past mortals felt almost trivial. She trusted her illusions the way swordsmen trusted steel.

But a good illusion worked only as long as everyone was willing to be fooled.

Moonlight spilled through the high windows like paneled silver, throwing pale ladders across the marble. Lira moved along the edge of each beam, her long black ponytail swaying in silent counterbalance. She was dressed for duty—immaculate maid uniform, pressed apron, spotless gloves—yet her quiet gaze flicked over every niche and molding as though searching for cobwebs in the dark.

A faint scratch, no louder than a pencil on parchment, drew her attention downward. A chimera ant worker—one of the small bronze-backed scouts—emerged from beneath a wall tapestry. The creature bustled with its usual purpose, but something snagged around its mandibles. Strands—soft, pastel, unmistakable—dangled like stolen ribbons.

Lira’s mouth flattened.

Pink hair.

She knelt, smooth as water pouring into a cup, and the ant froze. Its little antennae quivered. "Easy now," she whispered, voice cool but not unkind. With thumb and forefinger she plucked the strands free. In the lamplight they gleamed rose-gold, still holding the faintest spiral from Serelith’s stylus-curls.

"Really, Serelith?" A sigh threaded through the words, half weary, half resignedly fond. She turned the hair in her gloved fingers; the vanilla-rose perfume clung to it, light but unmistakable. Even this tiny hint smelled like mischief.

She rose, tucking the evidence into her apron pocket. This will not go unnoticed.

The scout ant gave a soft clack—almost an apology—before scuttling on. Lira’s eyes narrowed, tracking its path. Usually these workers dispersed across five separate service shafts. Tonight a notable number converged near the corner adjacent to Prince Mikhailis’s suite. They slipped in and out through a skirting board gap nearly invisible to human sight, each carrying something glinting—crystal slivers, screws, droplets of sap sealed in thimble-vials.

She folded her arms, listening. On the polished walls subtle mana eddies shimmered—a signature pattern of Serelith’s illusion curtains. To a casual guard it looked like a ripple of torchlight. To Lira, schooled by Elowen herself, it was as blatant as ink on lace.

Serelith hides her tracks well, she thought, easing into the wash of scent and auras left behind. But you can’t erase everything.

Her investigation became a graceful drift down the hallway. The marble’s chill seeped through her soles, but she kept her pace measured, ears tuned for patrol boots or squeaky cart wheels. Every few steps she bent as though to adjust a table runner, secretly pressing gloved fingertips to the wall. Residual mana left a mild sting on skin; hers hummed like nettles—fresh, maybe an hour old.

She rounded a turn—too sharply—and almost walked straight into a living brick wall of plated muscle and red hair.

Cerys stood half in shadow, half in moonbeam. She wore a fitted training jerkin, her sword absent but her posture as sharp as ever. One auburn brow ticked upward. Lira’s own brow twitched in mirror reply.

Neither spoke.

In the stillness Lira registered details: the crisp scent of oiled leather, the barest outline of calluses where Cerys’s arms crossed, the flicker of calculation behind those frost-green eyes. So, Lira surmised, I am not the only one chasing ghost perfume tonight.

She adjusted her posture, smoothing the apron front even though no crease marred it. Cerys’s gaze lowered to the pink strands just visible in Lira’s pocket, then flicked back up. A silent question.

Lira tapped the pocket, lips curving in a prim half-smile that said You already know the answer. She waited for the knight to scoff or issue a curt demand. Instead, Cerys only inhaled, shoulders setting like a door bar.

Down the corridor, the chimera ants scurried with fresh urgency, six of them in tight convoy, each bearing a strip of gauze soaked in—yes—the same cloying vanilla-rose.

Cerys’s nostrils flared; she clearly caught the scent now. Lira read the moment her suspicion crystallised: the redhead’s chin dipped, eyes narrowing on the ants, then on the faint shimmering ward sprawled across the wainscot.

Their shared target had stepped from rumor into proof.

Lira gave the subtlest tilt of her chin toward the royal suite. Cerys’s mouth pressed thin, but her eyes agreed. Together, that sealed look said, or not at all.

They nodded, slow and synchronized.

_____

Trailing Serelith should have been simple—one sorceress, one narrow set of corridors—but the woman moved like mist caught on a sudden breeze. She never seemed to hurry, yet somehow she was always turning the corner a heartbeat before her pursuers, skirts swishing just out of sight. Wherever wall sconces flickered, Serelith’s silhouette slipped through the weak light and dissolved again, leaving nothing behind but a faint whiff of vanilla-rose and the soft scuff of satin on stone.

Lira kept her breathing even, matching shoes to shadows, counting her steps so they landed on the silent mortar line rather than the echoing marble inlay. Outwardly she remained composed—chin up, posture straight—but inside her mind raced. Memorized patrol charts, blind spots I never mapped, secret routes... how long has she rehearsed this?

The bigger surprise was Cerys. The Lone Wolf padded a half-pace behind, armor replaced by dark travel leathers that hugged every muscle. For someone who usually clanked through training yards, the knight moved with unnerving stealth—heel first, then the outside edge of the foot, distributing weight the way forest rangers taught their recruits. She didn’t merely avoid loose tiles; she seemed to glide over them, as if stone trusted her not to squeal.

A pair of sentries rounded the far corner, halberds bobbing. Lira’s gloved hand snapped out, catching Cerys’s sleeve. They slipped through a side door in perfect sync, closing it without even a click. Inside: a cramped records closet packed with brittle scroll tubes. Dust puffed up, tickling their noses.

Cerys shot Lira a sidelong look that needed no translation—You’re slower than I expected.

Lira arched a single eyebrow, smoothing her black ponytail. Her answering smile was knife-thin. With a flick of her wrist she gestured, After you, lone wolf.

The guards’ footsteps faded. They eased the door open, timing the hinges to the next drifting torch crackle so any squeal blended with the background. In seconds they were shadows again, slipping along panel-lined passages that most nobles never even glanced at during daylight.

Up ahead, Serelith paused outside an archway, head tilted as though listening for distant bells. She traced lazy sigils over the lintel; pale motes of mana crackled then fizzled, wiping any residual detection wards. With a satisfied hum, she continued. Lira’s pulse skipped. Even her counter-spells are playful.

They descended a servant stair, spiraling tight and steep. Serelith’s hand never touched the rail; she balanced on the outer edge, letting skirts lift just enough to avoid dust. Lira followed two landings above, every sense stretched to catch even the tiniest shift in air. The faint smell of warmed copper drifted upward—evidence of rune circuitry humming behind plaster.

Halfway down, Cerys tapped Lira’s shoulder and pointed to faint scratches on the wall: thin grooves shaped like tiny chevrons. Lira touched one, nodding. Way markers. Someone—likely ants—had carved a navigation code. The discovery unsettled her as much as it fascinated. Those creatures weren’t just pets; they were an organized workforce.

At the foot of the stair, Serelith glided into Prince Mikhailis’s royal ante-chamber—lavish, high-ceilinged, deserted at this hour. She moved straight toward a towering bookcase packed with natural-history folios. Lira pressed herself against a carved pillar, watching. Serelith’s fingertips danced over spines until she found an unremarkable volume labeled On the Life Cycle of Bark Beetles. She tilted it, then pushed.

With a faint whirr-click, the entire shelf lurched and slid sideways, revealing a doorway no wider than a wardrobe back. A ribbon of cool air spilled out, carrying scents that didn’t belong in a royal suite: resin, polished brass, distant ozone.

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