The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"Overlay last decade's shift rosters," she ordered.

Rodion's voice materialised, softer down here where stone swallowed echoes. <"Compiling roster archives. Please note: this facility lacks palace network uplink. Initiating local cache sync.">

A fresh wash of light shimmered across the map. Tiny glyphs scrolled beside each patrol dot—names, ranks, favours owed. Calderon's patterns emerged like tell-tale cracks in otherwise perfect glass: the same officer signing off on every second night shift, the same two corridors left conspicuously unguarded after dusk bells.

"Shadow corridors," she muttered. "Because their bribed engineers can't resist lazy shortcuts."

She zoomed the projection, fingers carving a quick rune in the air. Guard rotations peeled back, showing heat gradients. New illuminations flared where arcane sensors slumbered. She made mental notes: Ventilation grate L-23—loose bars. Water-well passage—unmonitored. Stone balcony above the tapestry gallery—view of both wings.

Rodion pulsed another layer of data. <"Stress levels exceeding safe thresholds. Heart rate: one-hundred-thirty-two beats per minute.">

Cerys ignored the tremor in her chest. She tugged her red ponytail tighter, twining the leather tie until it bit. "Good. Let it burn hot."

She swept to a compact armour cabinet in the corner. It clicked open under her sigil ring, revealing three neatly folded sets of gear. She chose the middle kit—matte grey plates thin as parchment but enchant-hardened to shrug off a crossbow bolt at twenty paces. Perfect for gliding through torchglow without reflection.

Buckles snapped silent beneath practiced fingers. Forearm guards, elbow couters, knee wraps—each piece locking into place with the intimacy of habit. She left the shoulder plates aside; stealth valued mobility over bulk. Daggers followed—twin crescent blades, grips wrapped in navy ribbon to mute contact. She spun one, feeling the weight settle into muscle memory.

From a small alchemy shelf she lifted a glass flask no larger than her thumb. Violet liquid glimmered inside, swirling like captive moonlight.

Sixty seconds of invisibility. A dangerous brew; the shimmerfield often cracked if the user's heart rate spiked. She tucked it into a suede pouch at the small of her back—final contingency, nothing more.

Rodion's projection rippled. <"Proximity sensors show a guard passing three levels above. You remain alone.">

"Not for long," she whispered.

She crossed to the map again. With a few gestures she stripped away the public ward overlays, revealing Calderon's private rune nets—wards normally hidden unless one had clearance or, as in Cerys's case, had once disarmed a copy during war games.

She enlarged a ward array: a cluster of hexagonal glyphs packed around a single corridor. She recognised the pattern—sourced from old Wrenfall designs. Meant to paralyse any intruder for ten heartbeats, just long enough for crossbowmen to assemble.

"Calculate disruption pulse," she said.

<"A level-two pulse at centre seam should disable seventy-eight percent of glyph function for thirty-five seconds. Probability of silent failure: sixty-two percent. Probability of loud arcane backlash: thirty-eight percent.">

High odds of frying her eyebrows. She considered alternatives—and grimaced. Time mattered more than caution.

"Prepare the pulse. Deliver on my mark."

<"Buffered and ready.">

At the gear table she laced stealth boots, soles layered with muffle hide. She slipped throwing darts—obsidian tips etched with runic disruptors—into wrist sheaths. Lastly, she lifted a plain steel signet from a velvet box: her mother's. The wolf crest half-worn, edges battered by age. She pressed it to her lips, inhaling the faint scent of old iron and cedar.

Bring him back. Then show them what a cornered wolf does.

She strode to the wide panel of polished copper that served as mirror. The low amber rune around her collar cast faint light on her face. Freckles stood out on pale skin; sweat still gleamed at her hairline. She turned her head left, right, examining for hidden tremors. The eyes that met her gaze were the colour of storm clouds over the sea: restless, unflinching.

"This isn't a rescue," she told her reflection. Her voice barely stirred the silence, yet each syllable felt like a hammerstroke setting steel. "It's a reckoning."

The map dimmed as Rodion acknowledged. <"Understood. Initiating silent mode. All external alerts routed to your private channel.">

She reached for the hood of her cloak, tugging it forward until only her mouth remained visible—a pale line of determination beneath darkness.

"And Rodion?"

<"Yes?">

"Don't let anyone know. Not Her Majesty. Not Mikhailis. No one."

_____

The kitchen tunnel hugged the belly of the castle like a forgotten vein, its ceiling so low Cerys had to dip her head each time the ancient granite arched downward. Condensation clung to the walls in silver beads, gathering momentum before dropping with patient plinks into the shallow drainage trench that snaked along the flagstones. Each quiet splash sounded deafening to her keyed-up nerves, so she controlled her breathing, inhaling through her nose, slow and steady, exhaling with lips barely parted.

She advanced in a half-crouch, the wool of her cloak brushing the slick stone and collecting cold damp that seeped through to her sleeves. Rodion's overlay shimmered on the inner surface of her visor—soft lines of pale green tracing passages, junctions, and the small red arrows that represented enemy paths. The projection was faint enough not to reflect off the tunnel walls, yet bright enough for her to read every heartbeat of detail.

<"Two guards ahead. Rotation interval: one hundred thirty seconds. Next crossing point in twelve.">

A tiny vibrating icon popped at the corner of her vision. Cerys touched thumb to index finger, acknowledging. She counted the seconds by feel—tightening and relaxing her fist in rhythm with her pulse. When she reached eight, she flattened against the clammy wall, pressing shoulder blades to stone so hard she felt uneven mortar dig through her armor.

Boot steps echoed, hollow and careless. The tunnel bent just ahead, where torch-light painted an orange splash on the corner. Two silhouettes ambled past the junction, Calderon crests gleaming briefly on breastplates. The men spoke in lazy murmurs—something about pie cooling in the mess and a wager on tomorrow's jousting spectacle. Their voices faded, swallowed by damp.

Cerys waited three extra breaths—enough to be certain they turned another corner—then slipped forward. Her soles, treated with muffle salve, made no sound, yet every movement felt thunderous inside her skull.

A floorboard creaked beneath an uneven tile. She froze, heart leaping to her throat. The noise was minuscule, but paranoia magnified it.

A second set of footfalls. Faster, solitary. Someone checking a side alcove. A junior guard, maybe bored by routine and eager for mischief.

He came around the bend: young, lean, helmet strap dangling. His surprise widened into panic when he spotted her. Cerys darted in—no hesitation. One palm sealed over his mouth, the other pressed the sleep-powder sachet to his nose. The fine dust bloomed like dull gold sparks in the torch-light. He inhaled once, twice, eyes glazing before his knees buckled. She guided him down, easing his head onto her forearm so it wouldn't clang against stone.

She searched him quickly—belt knife, pass token, three copper coins. The token went into her pouch; the rest she left. No time for thorough concealment. She dragged the limp body behind a pile of unused grain sacks, arranging him as though napping off stolen ale.

<"Two minutes."> Rodion's voice whispered in her ear, as austere as the tunnel itself.

"I saw." She resumed her advance.

Ahead, the corridor ended at a narrow service hatch, and beyond it, a faint red glow flickered: the rune-locked passage she'd anticipated. Calderon architects prided themselves on alarm glyphs woven like spiderwebs over their private corridors, but every web had a strand that could be cut.

She crouched, hand slipping into a pocket to retrieve a pulse crystal no bigger than a pearl. Its surface shimmered iridescent; inside, charged energy roiled. She eased the crystal against the first resonant line. The runes rippled, arcs of red surging along the door's seam like veins pulsing under skin.

<"One wrong pulse and the alarm will trip.">

"I know," she mouthed, lips barely moving.

She jerked her chin left, noting the subsidiary sigil hidden under a smear of soot near the hinge—a lazy concealment job. Typical Calderon arrogance. Her pulse quickened with grim satisfaction. The secondary circuit would delay the alarm if severed precisely when the main line surged.

She timed it. One… two…

The crystal flared like a captive star. On the third beat she slapped her palm onto the soot-covered sigil. Heat bit her skin. White sparks fountained—then fizzled, guttering into nothing. The wardlines dimmed from furious crimson to soft rust, like embers losing breath.

The latch clicked.

Cold air wafted out as the door eased open, carrying the faint copper tang of blood far too recent for comfort.

A staircase spiraled downward, lit only by a single spell-lamp that pulsed weakly. She padded down, every sense straining. The walls here were smoother, newer—Calderon families liked marble where Arundels favored granite—but chips marred the lower sections, perhaps from hurried furniture or struggling captives.

Halfway down, she paused beside a narrow floor vent with iron slats. Through the gaps she glimpsed muted lamplight and a rectangular chamber below. She knelt, slitting one gloved finger beneath a slat to pry it just enough for the visor to focus.

Lucien.