The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

<Ancestral convergence from both kingdoms. The probability is… 94.7%.>

"I always hated math," Mikhailis muttered dryly, rubbing at the tension that tightened at his temple. He glanced sideways at the shimmering projection Rodion displayed in front of him, feeling a mild irritation at how neat and ordered the data seemed—each tiny detail arranged with perfect precision, as though mocking the chaos he felt inside himself.

<Understandable. Math hates you too.>

Elowen remained silent. Usually, she might have smiled faintly or at least rolled her eyes at Rodion's sarcastic commentary. Instead, her face had turned pale, the warmth drained from her cheeks, replaced by a subtle tension around her mouth. Her fingers gripped the edges of her robe a little too tightly, the knuckles pale and taut, betraying her unease.

"You were born to straddle both bloodlines," she murmured, voice low and filled with careful, deliberate weight. Her eyes remained locked onto his as though trying to convey the gravity of her statement. "You may be the first in centuries."

The first in centuries.

Mikhailis felt his breath catch softly at the depth of implication in her words. For a moment, the room seemed to constrict around him, pressing in with invisible weight, narrowing his world down to just him and the secret he carried. He had always known he was different—felt it in his bones—but to have it spoken aloud like this, made real by the woman he trusted most deeply, made his heart beat a little faster.

But humor had always been his shield, a reliable barrier against seriousness he wasn't ready to confront. "What does that make me?" He forced a playful tone, lightly waving a hand as if brushing away the heavy truth that had just been revealed. "I prefer anime protagonist. Has a nicer ring to it."

Elowen's expression remained unchanged, her eyes softening only slightly. She didn't indulge his playful attempt to deflect. Instead, she continued to watch him, studying his face carefully as though looking for cracks in the mask he wore. Her gaze held a gentle understanding, a quiet sympathy that left him feeling exposed yet strangely reassured. He knew then—she saw past the jokes, past the mask. She always did.

Rodion's voice cut sharply through the quiet.

<There's more.>

At Rodion's words, Mikhailis felt an uneasy weight settle heavier within him. He had grown used to expecting the worst whenever Rodion added "more" to anything. His eyes flicked back toward the projection in front of him, noting the swift, intricate lines of data beginning to form a pattern. A delicate web of connections appeared, growing denser and more complex as it spun slowly, illuminating the shadows that had been hidden within his own history.

Mikhailis watched quietly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he began to discern a repeating cycle. The intricacies within it were frighteningly clear, beautiful in their complexity yet chilling in their implications. He leaned forward unconsciously, drawn toward the delicate tapestry of history that had ensnared him.

Rodion continued, voice measured yet carrying a faint edge of caution.

<Across kingdoms, there is a repeating cycle. Roughly every 300 years, someone like you appears. The mark re-emerges. Then vanishes. Records stop. The marked vanish.>

"Where do they go?" Mikhailis asked quietly, feeling the words weigh heavy in his mouth. He was beginning to understand, slowly, that his story was not isolated, not unique. He was simply another thread woven into a pattern far larger than himself. But the question still lingered, taunting him.

Rodion paused, as if even an AI hesitated to reveal certain truths.

<The strongest theory? They're summoned. Taken.>

"Another world," Mikhailis whispered softly, almost to himself, eyes briefly unfocused, lost in contemplation. He felt a quiet chill sweep through his veins at the thought—a cold truth brushing against him, a stark possibility that felt entirely too real to dismiss. A strange sense of helplessness crept into his chest, replaced quickly by stubborn determination. If this was his fate, he would not let it come passively. He would fight, he would question, he would uncover every secret before history could repeat itself once more.

The silence stretched again, filled only by their breathing and the soft hum of Rodion's projection. Elowen remained still, her eyes still fixed upon him with gentle intensity.

Mikhailis considered his next words carefully, sorting through the confusion inside himself. He felt torn, uncertain of how to respond to the truth he'd learned. He felt trapped by the chains of history yet driven by an innate curiosity that demanded answers.

Before he could gather himself fully, a sharp, clear knock echoed against the wooden door. The sudden intrusion made both Elowen and Mikhailis tense, startled momentarily from their shared contemplation.

Elowen stood gracefully, straightening her robe in one smooth motion. Her voice returned to its composed authority, calm and steady once again. "Enter."

The door creaked open slowly, revealing Vyrelda. She stepped into the room quietly, carrying an air of dignity despite the bandages still wrapped around her shoulder and arm. Her presence was a stark reminder of the violence and chaos that had brought them here.

Mikhailis took in her appearance quickly, noting the careful way she held herself. Her posture was straight, disciplined, the lingering pain barely showing through the practiced elegance of her movements. He was surprised and mildly impressed at her resilience.

"Prince Laethor requests your presence," Vyrelda said calmly, voice even, betraying none of the exhaustion or lingering injuries she must surely still be feeling.

Mikhailis blinked, momentarily taken aback by Vyrelda's composed appearance. She stood confidently in the doorway, the bandages wrapped around her shoulder and upper arm neatly hidden beneath the sleeves of her formal attire. The usual traces of tiredness or pain he'd expected to find in her eyes were noticeably absent. Instead, a quiet strength radiated from her, an inner vitality that surprised him.

"You're already walking around?" he finally asked, his voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and genuine admiration.

A faint, almost amused smile lifted the corners of Vyrelda's lips. Her gaze was steady, composed as ever, and yet there was a subtle warmth to her expression now—something gentler than he'd ever seen from her before. "You've been asleep for five days," she responded softly, the words landing lightly yet heavily enough to shift the very atmosphere in the room.

Mikhailis's eyes widened involuntarily, confusion flickering rapidly across his face. Five days? His mind spun, grappling to reconcile this new information with his sense of time. He turned instinctively toward Elowen, his expression searching hers for confirmation, quietly hoping Vyrelda was exaggerating or mistaken.

But Elowen met his gaze evenly, offering only a gentle nod—one subtle motion carrying the heavy weight of truth. Her golden eyes held no hesitation, no uncertainty. She confirmed Vyrelda's statement silently yet unmistakably, her face calm but tinged with quiet concern.

Mikhailis felt something tighten in his chest, a sudden, disorienting pang as if reality had just shifted slightly out of alignment. The realization settled coldly over him—he had lost nearly an entire week. He exhaled slowly, disbelief lingering stubbornly in his mind, mingling with a quiet sense of unease.

Almost immediately, Rodion's familiar interface flickered vividly back into view, providing precise data that erased any lingering doubts. The AI's voice sounded clinical and unbothered, yet Mikhailis detected a subtle hint of smug satisfaction beneath the formal tone.

<Vital logs confirm. Five days, twenty-two hours, fourteen minutes. Mist backlash almost induced a coma.>

He groaned softly, rubbing the side of his temple with his fingers, suddenly understanding the source of the haunting dreams he'd experienced. Dreams filled with twisted images, distorted faces, and ghostly whispers—the result of his body teetering precariously on the edge of consciousness. "That explains the dreams," he muttered dryly, a faint shudder rippling through him at the memory.

Slowly, carefully, he stood up, feeling the stiffness of inactivity in his limbs. Elowen moved immediately closer, her hand gently resting on his arm for support. The warmth of her touch seeped into him, quiet reassurance in the face of his physical weakness. He glanced toward her gratefully, catching the quiet, unwavering trust reflected clearly in her golden eyes. Her gentle strength helped steady the lingering dizziness, anchoring him firmly back into reality.

Together, they followed Vyrelda toward the adjoining chamber. Each step Mikhailis took seemed to banish a little more of the residual heaviness, clearing his mind and reorienting him. He observed Vyrelda carefully, noting the subtle confidence in her posture, the dignity and quiet resolve she carried with every deliberate movement. Her resilience was inspiring yet somehow sobering, reminding him sharply of the harsh realities they'd recently faced.

The safehouse's living chamber was comfortable, filled with warmth from the hearth. Its stone walls, lined with faded banners and leather-bound tomes, offered a quiet sense of safety—a stark contrast to the violence and chaos they'd escaped. Prince Laethor stood silently near a low wooden table, the soft firelight casting warm glows and shadows across his features.

Laethor looked up immediately as they entered, his expression markedly different from before. Gone was the arrogance, the restless tension that had once defined him. In its place was something quieter, steadier—a clarity that spoke of genuine reflection and newfound maturity.

"Laethor," Elowen greeted smoothly, her voice calm yet authoritative, instantly seizing control of the conversation before it began.

"My Queen," Laethor acknowledged, bowing deeply, a clear gesture of respect. His gaze shifted to Mikhailis, holding the same level of quiet reverence. "Prince Mikhailis."

Mikhailis inclined his head gently, acknowledging the respectful greeting but remaining deliberately quiet. He was interested to observe, to understand the shift he'd sensed in Laethor's demeanor.

Laethor drew in a careful breath, straightening slowly. His eyes remained fixed, unwavering, earnest. "I owe both of you an apology," he began carefully, choosing each word with evident care. "For my failure. For my blindness."

Mikhailis felt his brows rise slightly in quiet surprise. The sincerity in Laethor's voice resonated genuinely, a humility Mikhailis hadn't anticipated.

Elowen stepped forward gracefully, the firelight catching the silver strands of her hair, illuminating her presence. Her eyes glittered with quiet intensity, reflecting both strength and controlled compassion. "You nearly lost your kingdom," she stated firmly yet softly, her tone firm enough to reinforce her dominance in the conversation. "Because you couldn't see the wolves at your gate."

Laethor didn't flinch or argue, merely nodded slowly, accepting her judgment. "I see that now," he admitted quietly. His voice carried genuine regret, yet beneath that regret was a newfound determination that hinted at genuine growth.

She pressed gently yet insistently, her gaze penetrating deeply. "And yet you still ask for help. Despite everything."

"I do." Laethor's voice was calm, resolute, clear. "Because I trust you more than I trust my own court."

Elowen's expression softened subtly, the slightest easing around her mouth and eyes—a quiet acknowledgment of his sincerity. "Then let us speak clearly."

The conversation unfolded slowly, intricately—layered with politics, alliances, subtle promises, and hidden threats. Mikhailis listened quietly, fascinated by the delicate dance of power, how effortlessly Elowen maneuvered within it. Laethor consistently deferred to her, each concession clearly demonstrating who held the upper hand.

But then, abruptly, Laethor's gaze shifted again to Mikhailis, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully, intensely. A subtle shift occurred in the atmosphere—something more serious, more profound.

"You bear the mist, don't you?" Laethor's voice was quieter now, his tone cautious yet probing, eyes searching Mikhailis's expression for any sign of acknowledgment or denial.

Mikhailis remained silent, neither confirming nor denying the question, choosing instead to maintain careful neutrality. But his silence seemed to confirm Laethor's suspicion.

Elowen's eyes flicked sharply toward Laethor, a warning concealed in their depths. She remained silent, but the slight stiffening of her posture spoke volumes.

Laethor stepped closer, cautiously, almost respectfully. "The mark… it's linked to our throne. Only royal blood can bear it."

"I didn't ask for it," Mikhailis muttered, mild frustration seeping into his voice, unwilling to embrace such a heavy legacy so readily.

"That doesn't matter," Laethor responded quietly yet firmly. "If you carry Serewyn's blood, you may have a claim stronger than mine."

The words settled like heavy stones between them, the implications profound, unsettling. The room fell deathly silent, tension thickening rapidly.

Elowen's expression hardened noticeably, her voice low but carrying unshakable authority. "That won't be necessary."

Laethor shook his head quickly, raising his hands gently in a calming gesture. "I'm not challenging you. But I need to know. If you are truly part of us, if you carry our blood… you might be the bridge we need."

Mikhailis leaned back slowly, carefully, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. He felt a strange sense of destiny pressing against him, a weight heavier than he'd ever imagined bearing.

A bridge between kingdoms, huh? Sounds romantic.

He raised a hand calmly, drawing everyone's attention.

"I have news," he said softly, a faint, knowing smile slowly curving his lips. "It's good news. For both of us."

Time to change the game.