The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

The weight of the fever was an unwelcome guest pressing down on Mikhailis' body. His head felt like it was being crushed, and his breaths came shallow and labored. He lay on the thin mattress, sweat dampening the edges of his disheveled hair. His sharpness—his usual ability to crack a joke or find humor in even the direst of situations—was dulled by the relentless pounding in his skull.

Is this how I'm going out? Fevered and useless? What a way to make a dramatic exit. He grinned weakly to himself, but it quickly faded into a wince.

<Your sarcasm, though appreciated, is not entirely helpful, Mikhailis. The fever is manageable but may have additional complications tied to your recent rank ascension.>

Rank ascension? What do you mean, Rodion? His thoughts churned sluggishly, his body too drained to muster much resistance.

<Your progression to [Viscount] rank aligns with patterns observed in the Chimera Ant Queen's system of adaptive evolution. This suggests that your abilities are no longer tied exclusively to traditional magical training but instead operate under a similar principle of battle-based and level-based advancement.>

Mikhailis let out a faint chuckle, though it felt more like a wheeze.

So you're saying I'm turning into a battle-crazed maniac? That's comforting.

<It is a hypothesis, not a conclusion. Your progress with Serelith's magical training has been minimal, and mana exercises derived from local texts have shown negligible improvement. This anomaly strongly suggests that the bond with the Chimera Ant Queen is the primary source of your strength.>

Great, so I'm a Chimera Ant in a prince's skin. That's… less than ideal. He shifted slightly, the effort making him groan.

Okay, Rodion, focus. What do I do about this fever before I start sprouting antennae?

<Immediate priority: manage your temperature and regulate your breathing. Here is a more detailed breakdown: Begin by inhaling deeply through your nose, allowing your diaphragm to expand fully. Hold this breath for a count of four, allowing oxygen to saturate your bloodstream. Then exhale slowly through your mouth for a count of six, focusing on maintaining a consistent flow. This technique will help regulate your heart rate and reduce stress on your system. Concurrently, cooling your forehead is essential to manage the fever. Use a damp cloth, preferably soaked in lukewarm water initially, as rapid cooling from cold water can cause shivering, which generates additional heat. Replace the cloth every five minutes to maintain effectiveness. Ensure hydration by taking small, frequent sips of water to counteract fluid loss from sweating. Further, maintaining a slightly elevated head position will improve airflow and ease breathing.>

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze falling on Cerys, who sat nearby with a bowl of water and a damp cloth. Her green eyes were fixed on him, her usual stoic demeanor softened by a quiet worry she didn't bother to mask.

"Cerys," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

"Can you cool this fever? Just follow my… instructions."

Her brow furrowed, and she moved closer, dipping the cloth into the water again.

"Tell me what to do."

"Dampen the cloth. Place it on my… forehead. Then… switch it every few minutes." He tried to inject his usual teasing tone but failed miserably.

Cerys complied, her movements precise but careful, as if afraid to hurt him further. She pressed the cloth against his burning skin, her fingers lingering for a moment as if to reassure herself.

"Anything else?" she asked softly.

"I need to… breathe…" he muttered.

"Deep breaths. Count to four. Then out."

Cerys nodded, sitting by his side to ensure he followed through. Her steady presence was oddly comforting, even if she didn't speak much. The weight of her concern was palpable in the small tent, a contrast to her usual detached demeanor.

"Water," he croaked, and Cerys quickly reached for a flask, helping him take a few sips.

"Don't overdo it," she said, her tone firm but gentle.

"We'll get you through this."

We, he thought, a flicker of amusement breaking through his haze.

She's really all in, huh?

The hours stretched on, with Cerys dutifully adhering to every instruction Mikhailis relayed from Rodion's meticulous guidance. Her actions were methodical yet imbued with an unspoken urgency, each damp cloth she placed on his burning forehead and every steady hand that lifted water to his lips revealing her silent determination. The rhythmic pattern of cooling his skin and monitoring his breathing filled the tent with a strangely calming focus. Rodion's instructions, though clinical, began to reveal results as Mikhailis' erratic breathing steadied, and the relentless pounding in his head ebbed slightly.

By the time the sun climbed higher, its weak rays filtering through the oppressive mist, a noticeable shift had occurred. The oppressive heat radiating from Mikhailis' body diminished, replaced by a clammy coolness that hinted at his fever's retreat. The tent's interior, once stifling with tension, felt lighter, though the scent of sweat and damp cloth still lingered. Cerys didn't let up, her vigilance unwavering as she swapped out the cloth again, her fingers brushing lightly against his brow to confirm the fever's progress.

Mikhailis stirred, his lips cracking into a faint, weary smile. The grip of the fever, though not entirely gone, had loosened its hold on him. The first real flicker of relief passed through Cerys' green eyes as she sat back on her heels, observing him with quiet satisfaction. For a moment, the world outside the tent and its misty perils faded into insignificance as the realization of his recovery began to set in.

<It is now 1:00 PM. Fever has subsided significantly. Recovery appears to be on track.>

Mikhailis opened his eyes fully, blinking up at Cerys.

"You… did it," he said, his voice still hoarse but carrying a faint note of humor.

"Turns out you're not just a swordswoman… You're a nurse, too."

Cerys gave him a rare smile, small but genuine.

"I'm glad you're not delirious anymore. You were starting to worry me."

"Me? Worry you? Never." He shifted slightly, testing his strength. His muscles still ached, but the crushing weight of the fever was gone.

"What's for lunch?"

She rolled her eyes, but her smile remained as she retrieved a small pot from the fire outside. The aroma of cooked vegetables and roasted meat wafted through the tent, making his stomach growl audibly.

"You've been holding out on me," he teased as she handed him a bowl.

"This smells amazing."

"Just eat," she replied, sitting beside him.

As they ate, the moment felt uncharacteristically quiet and intimate. Mikhailis glanced at Cerys, noting the way the soft light caught the red strands of her hair. Her usual stoicism seemed to have melted, replaced by a warmth he hadn't seen before.

"You're full of surprises," he said, his tone softer now.

"Cooking, nursing… I might have to keep you around."

She laughed lightly, shaking her head.

"Like you'd have a choice. Someone has to keep you alive."

"And here I thought it was my charming personality keeping you close."

Cerys turned to him, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, before he could react, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him in a sudden embrace. The action startled him, but he quickly recovered, returning the gesture. Her warmth, her presence… it was grounding in a way he hadn't expected.

"Don't scare me like that again," she murmured against his shoulder.

He felt his chest tighten, a mix of emotions swirling within him. Slowly, he pulled back, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders.

"Cerys…"

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with an unspoken connection. Without thinking, Mikhailis leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that started as hesitant but quickly grew more fervent. Her initial surprise melted into a willing reciprocation, her hands sliding up to grip his arms with a strength that mirrored the intensity of the moment. His fingers found their way to the nape of her neck, threading through her fiery hair, pulling her closer as the kiss deepened.

Their breaths mingled, and the soft touch of her tongue against his sent a jolt of heat through him, igniting something primal and urgent. He pressed her closer, his hands trailing down her back as their kiss grew more passionate, a desperate need shared between them. She responded in kind, her grip tightening, her lips moving with a fervor that left him dizzy.

The world outside their small tent faded entirely, replaced by the warmth of her body and the racing of their hearts. He felt her shiver—not from the cold, but from the overwhelming heat of their closeness—and his hand instinctively cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against her flushed skin. She tilted her head slightly, deepening the kiss further, and for a moment, it seemed as though neither of them would pull away.

But then, with a breathless gasp, Cerys broke the kiss, her cheeks burning as she placed her hands on his chest, gently pushing him back.

"Stop," she whispered, her voice shaky but firm.

"We need to move."

Mikhailis blinked, his thoughts still tangled in the haze of their shared passion. He chuckled softly, his voice low and warm.

"Always so practical," he murmured, his fingers reluctantly slipping away from her.

She stood quickly, turning her back to him to hide her flustered expression.

"Pack up," she ordered, her tone carrying a hint of embarrassment.

"We're not staying here any longer than necessary."

Mikhailis watched her for a moment, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips, before finally nodding and beginning to gather their belongings.

Still smiling, Mikhailis got to his feet, his strength mostly returned. Together, they packed their supplies, folding the tent and securing it to the horse. The chill of the mist was sharper now, prompting them to wrap the horse in additional blankets.

The ride toward Serewyn's border was uneventful at first, the mist thickening with every mile. As they reached a rest stop, Cerys dismounted and stretched.

"We're about half a day away," she estimated.

Mikhailis nodded, adjusting the horse's reins.

"Good. The sooner we—"

<Mikhailis, the weather is turning into a severe storm. Atmospheric pressure has dropped sharply, and wind velocities are escalating. Precipitation levels are likely to intensify within minutes. Strongly recommend seeking immediate shelter to avoid exposure and potential harm.>

He frowned, turning to Cerys.

"Storm's coming. We need to find cover."

"Here?" she asked, scanning the area.

"No. Rod… instinct says there's a cavern nearby. Follow me." He mounted the horse, reaching down to help her up.

"Hold on tight."

She complied, wrapping her arms around his waist as the horse began to gallop. The mist grew denser, the cold seeping into their clothes, but Mikhailis' focus remained steady.

When they reached the cavern, the storm had begun in earnest, rain and wind battering them as they dismounted. The cavern was dry and spacious, its natural formation providing ample room for their supplies and tent.

As they unpacked and set up, Mikhailis glanced at Cerys, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"The journey was never uneventful, huh?"