The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Lira stood at the tent's entrance like the final judge in a play gone wickedly off-script—straight spine, gloved hands resting on the doorflap, black ponytail gleaming in lantern haze. The dusky glow painted soft gold along her cheekbones, but her eyes were twin obsidian mirrors. They traveled the cramped interior one slow inch at a time, absorbing tangled limbs, half-fastened buttons, spit-slick skin, and the heady perfume of incense now hopelessly mingled with sex.

A heartbeat of silence.

Another.

Mikhailis felt each one thud against his ribs. Say something. Anything. His tongue flicked against dry lips. "L-Lira… I can explain—"

The explanation died when Serelith's elbow slipped off the cluttered table. She yelped, grabbing the edge with one hand while the other tried to yank her bodice up. Her violet hair stuck to her forehead in damp curls, and every tug at the laces only made the fabric bunch worse. Graceful court magician? Not tonight.

Beside her, Cerys stumbled over her own boots, face crimson clear to the tips of her ears. She'd managed to tug her tunic halfway on, but the neckline was twisted, exposing more freckled shoulder than modesty allowed. She opened her mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to roar—only to find no sound willing to rise.

Lira stepped fully inside, letting the flap fall closed with a whisper of canvas. The tiny click of its wooden toggle felt louder than a judge's gavel. "Should I return later, Master Mikhailis?" she asked, tone silk-smooth. "Or should I ensure none of this… becomes a public spectacle?"

Her calm carried a razor's gleam. The question dangled, heavy as an executioner's blade.

Mikhailis forced a shaky laugh. "Ah, well… you know… things got a bit… adventurous?" His cloak—somehow flung across a fortune-telling stand—was snatched up to cover his chest. Charming grin, engage. It wobbled at the corners.

"Adventurous." Lira repeated the word like a scholar tasting an unfamiliar spice. Her lips curved, but the smile never touched her eyes. "Clothes. Now. The festival is still bustling outside, and I would rather not explain why the prince and two ladies were… exploring intimacy in a fortune-teller's tent."

Serelith let out a nervous giggle—too high, too thin. She knotted her sash with fumbling fingers, remembering only then to drag her skirt down the last damning inch. Every brush of fabric against her thighs lit sparks where sticky warmth still lingered. Violet flame goddess undone by one stern maid, she thought, heat blooming across her cheeks.

Cerys, usually all battlefield composure, dropped to one knee to retrieve her belt. The motion tugged her tunic askew again, exposing a stripe of toned midriff. She yanked it straight, grimaced, then tried to sheath her sword with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. The blade clanged against the scabbard mouth—once, twice—before sliding home. Her jaw clenched at the noise.

Lira's presence expanded, filling the tent with a hush more suffocating than any lecture hall's hush. She glided to Mikhailis. Cool fingertips caught his collar, flicked a mislaid thread, settled the fabric flush against his neck. Each tiny adjustment was precise, almost tender, yet charged with silent reprimand.

"For someone so brilliant, you can be recklessly impulsive," she murmured, breath scented faintly of mint.

Mikhailis managed a weak teasing lilt. "Recklessly charming too, I hope?"

"Debatable." The single word sliced the air cleanly.

Serelith's laces finally surrendered; she exhaled hard and dared a sideways glance at Lira. The maid's expression didn't budge, but Serelith swore she heard an inner tally board scratching marks: one scandal, two headaches, three tarnished reputations. She swallowed, shoulders curling.

Cerys shifted her weight, eyes flicking from Mikhailis to Lira and back. The knight's protective instincts sparked—yet what sword could parry guilt? Instead, she settled for a curt nod of acknowledgment, palms smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her trousers.

Lira turned toward the women, voice cool but not cruel. "If I ever have to explain to Queen Elowen why her prince consort is caught in a scandal… it will not be you that I save first." No malice, just fact—sharp as frost on steel.

Mikhailis felt the words settle like stones in his gut. He straightened unconsciously, gaze dropping. Elowen would laugh herself breathless—or order my head on a platter. Possibly both.

The maid's tone softened a degree. "I brought you a carriage. We're leaving. The festival can survive without you."

A sudden flutter of night air stirred the tent canvas. Outside, distant drums thumped and children's laughter rang—life continuing, oblivious. The contrast made the cramped space feel even smaller, the lanternlight too bright, every breath too loud.

Lira swept the flap aside. Two sleek royal carriages waited in the lane, black lacquer gleaming, their teams of midnight horses stamping lightly. Guard lanterns cast halos on polished wood, and the royal crest glimmered beneath star-velvet sky.

"Lady Serelith, Dame Cerys, you will take the first carriage. Master Mikhailis and I will take the second." Lira's words brooked no argument.

Cerys inhaled, about to protest, then saw Lira's eyes—calm, sure, unyielding. She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and nodded once. No battlefield to win here.

Serelith's mouth opened. "Wait, why—" The maid's gaze slid to her, a single heartbeat of icy warning. Serelith's voice died. Heat crawled up her chest; she felt every damp seam of her undergarments. Another second and I'll implode like an overcharged rune crystal. She bit her lip, meekly stepping toward the guards.

The soldiers, professional as marble statues, offered no reaction—though a flicker of curiosity lit one man's eyes before duty tamped it down. They assisted the ladies into the first carriage, doors thunking shut. Wheels creaked, hooves clopped, and the coach rolled into the night.

Mikhailis turned to his carriage. He conjured a light smile—half apology, half boyish plea for leniency. Lira did not return it. The gentle curve of her mouth had chilled to a fine porcelain edge.

Inside, plush navy cushions and faint lavender sachets tried to soothe frayed nerves. The coach lurched forward, lanterns sweeping past shuttered stalls. Mikhailis settled opposite Lira, cloak gathered around him, and forced slow breaths. Okay. Damage control. Compliment her? Crack joke? Jump out the window?

Lira produced a porcelain teacup from an ebony case, poured steaming golden liquid from a silver thermos without spilling a drop. "Chamomile with honey, Master. It may help ease… tension." She offered it across the small space, fingertips brushing his. Polite, poised, as if minutes ago she hadn't walked in on a scandal fit for bawdy ballads.

He cradled the cup, inhaled sweet steam. "Thanks, Lira. I—"

"Perhaps it is I who should thank you." Velvet tone, razor lining. "For such an educational evening."

Heat pricked his ears. "Well, you know… things got… a bit out of hand." An uneasy laugh slipped free.

"Out of hand?" Lira tilted her head, ponytail sliding over one shoulder. A delicate brow arched. "Oh, forgive me, Master. I must have misunderstood. What I saw seemed quite… in hand, for the two young ladies."

Mikhailis's smile faltered. He swallowed. "Lira, look… I—"

"Oh, do not fret, Master," she purred, leaning back, her fingers folding in her lap. "I have always known of your intimate relationships. A prince is, after all, a man of many… responsibilities."

But her gaze didn't soften. Silence settled, thick and oppressive. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels felt louder, almost suffocating.

Mikhailis tried to joke, tried to find his footing, but the weight of her silent judgment pressed against him. He glanced out the window, noticing the unfamiliar, winding streets. "Lira… is this the long route back?"

No answer. Her eyes remained on the window.

A faint, sweet scent drifted through the carriage. Something floral, something faintly sharp.

Mikhailis's senses stirred—his instincts screaming a warning. His gaze shifted to Lira's lap, her hand disappearing beneath her skirt.

His breath caught.

Her expression remained calm, her eyes on the window, but her lips parted slightly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

Mikhailis's mouth went dry. His pulse quickened, his own hand shifting beneath his coat, his fingers brushing against his thigh. Silence filled the carriage, thick, heavy, and charged.

Mikhailis's pulse hammered beneath his ribs. The sweet, heady scent hung in the air, growing stronger—a faint, floral sharpness that wrapped around his senses, clouding his thoughts. His gaze stayed locked on Lira's lap, where the delicate fabric of her maid's skirt shifted ever so slightly. Her hand moved beneath the folds, slow, rhythmic. Yet her face remained a mask of calm, eyes tracing the passing night streets, lips set in a faint, practiced smile.

He swallowed, throat dry. His mind raced. She knows. She's doing this on purpose. But why? To punish him? To test him? Or… something else?

Mikhailis's fingers twitched, then steadied. He leaned ever so slightly forward, his hand moving to his own thigh, then inching lower. No reaction from Lira—no flicker of surprise, no sharp intake of breath. Her gaze stayed on the window, the faintest shimmer of moonlight dancing across her cheek.

But her lips parted a touch more. Her lashes trembled.