The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 462: The Queen’s Smile (2)

"Bless Mikhailis. Bless those tiny wonders."

Rodion's text flicked a pale heartbeat of acknowledgment in her lens, then vanished.

Minor reports rolled by—border patrols noting quiet roads since the new fortified waystations (another ant innovation) deterred smugglers; the tax assessor celebrating smoother coin flow now that secret under-streets funneled bulky trade wagons beneath the clogged northern passes; the Guildmaster of Artisans requesting modest funds to repaint the public amphitheater's faded frescos. Compared to treaty wrangling, these issues felt feather-light.

Yet time flew. Amber shafts creeping across the marble floor lengthened and cooled toward noon. When Aelthrin finally pronounced the agenda concluded, sunlight had shifted high enough that the stained-glass saints above the chamber doors cast halos on the back wall.

Elowen rose in one fluid motion. Royal etiquette manuals demanded she show no fatigue, yet a quiet ache tugged behind her shoulders. Still, she nodded farewell—each minister bowed deeply—and glided from the hall with attendants in tow.

But halfway down the echoing corridor, she lifted one hand. "Remain," she murmured. The pageboys and guards halted, puzzled, as their queen slipped through an ivy-framed archway few courtiers ever noticed.

The powder room was small, domed in pearl plaster, its only decoration a single hydrangea bloom floating in a crystal basin. Witchlight orbs drifted overhead like sleepy fireflies, tinting everything with a candle-soft glow.

Elowen braced her palms on the carved ivory sink, leaning forward until her reflection filled the polished mirror. A half-loose braid spilled russet hair over her shoulder; she coaxed stray strands back under the silken binding. Ink smudged her cuff—probably from passing a policy scroll to Lord Rether—she dabbed it with a damp cloth until the white fabric gleamed again.

That was when the voice hummed at her ear, smooth as ever. <Status: Appearance already optimal.>

She rolled her eyes to the vaulted ceiling, lips quirking. "Nag, nag, nag. You sound just like Mikhailis now."

<Did you only realize this after weeks of exposure?>

Elowen's laugh puffed against the mirror, fogging a circle on the glass. She dabbed it away with the cuff of her sleeve, then teased the tiny fold at her collar until the embroidery lay flat. Small rituals steadied her nerves better than chamomile.

So this is what Mikhailis lives with, she mused, picturing the prince forever flanked by Rodion's dry commentary. Delightful—and mildly exhausting.

The spectacles glimmered as new words traced the inner lens.

<Prince Mikhailis requests you proceed to the Royal Consort's Wing. A gift awaits.>

A gift. After a four-hour council debate and two emergency tax amendments, the promise felt like cool rain on summer dust. She straightened, shoulders rolling back into regal lines, but inside a thrill fluttered—childish, exhilarating, impossible to fully disguise.

She stepped into the corridor. Daylight had swung west, and witch-light globes floated in gentle relay overhead, each orb tinted blush-gold to soften the marble glare. Their glow painted moving coins on the floor, and her slippers clicked from one circle to the next like stepping-stones across a lazy stream.

Servants melted into alcoves as she passed, offering bows so deep she saw the part in their hair. One maid nearly tripped over a feather duster, cheeks flaming, yet Elowen only smiled and carried on. The faintest tapping echoed within the walls—chis-chis-chis—the sound of ant mandibles trimming excess vine-root or patching seam-gaps behind the masonry. Most humans heard nothing but settling stone. She, attuned through months of secrecy, recognized the living heartbeat of her hidden allies.

The air cooled as she neared the Consort's Wing. Cedar panels lined the hallway here, polished to a moonlit shine; lavender sachets hung at intervals, their fragrance calming yet bright. A weaving of soft ant-silk edged each door curtain—Mikhailis's handiwork, of course—catching motes of dust before they reached royal lungs.

At the appointed doorway she paused. The carved oak stood ajar, as though breathing. Warm orange firelight flickered beyond. She pushed gently; the hinges whispered like distant reeds.

And the world tilted.

By the hearth loomed a silhouette—tall, rounded, impossibly gentle. Not metal nor flesh; something in-between, as if starlight had learned to hug. Its surface gleamed like pearl-polished leather stretched over a frame of cloud. Pale blue runes pulsed beneath the skin, drifting in slow constellations across the chest and down pillowy arms thicker than archery targets. The figure's edges were all soft radii, no spears or corners, the sort of build that made enemies hesitate and children scramble forward.

Elowen's heart slid downward then soared back up, a swing rope with no knot. She found herself stepping in, boots hushed by plush carpet, one hand rising as if pulled on a string. Fingers brushed the outer curve of an arm—warm, yielding, yet firm like fresh bread. A delighted gasp caught in her throat.

The being inclined its head, every motion buffered by hidden gyros. A soft chime accompanied the bow, as though wind played a glass rim.

<Greetings, Queen Elowen. Protocol designation: "Rodion Autonomous Chassis Mark One.">

Rodion. She blinked, then laughed—a bright, startled sound that filled the chamber like bells. Of course. Who else would occupy a body equal parts guardian and comfort blanket?

A low chuckle drifted from behind. Mikhailis lounged against the doorframe, one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded across his crimson vest. Candlelight traced the amusement on his sharp features. "Rodion wanted a body," he drawled, eyes alight, "and—perhaps—I overindulged."

Elowen turned full circle, gaze flicking between plush knight and smug inventor. "Overindulged? You conjured a walking sofa!"

She circled Rodion again, studying details. Tiny petals of rune-script—protection, stabilise, soothe—floated beneath the outer sheen, moving like fish under ice. Where a normal suit of armour sported rivets, this body had gentle buttons of opalescent shell. Even the torso plates were layered like overlapping pillows, each breath expanding and settling them with the hush of distant surf.

A small part of her, the queen who viewed every asset through statecraft's lens, noted impact absorption, temperature regulation,—ideal for battlefield medicine. But another part, the weary woman who spent nights balancing budgets, simply wanted to sink into those marshmallow arms and sleep a week.

"You're so… squishy," she murmured, cheeks colouring at her own unroyal vocabulary.

Rodion's optics—wide ovals reminiscent of puppy eyes carved from moonstone—blinked.

<Optimised for impact absorption, care-taking, thermal regulation. Battle mode pending.>

Mikhailis straightened, spreading hands theatrically. "And plushness. Never underestimate morale-boosting fluff."

Elowen shook her head, half scandalised, half charmed. A wisp of lint drifted from her sleeve, caught on the static hush Rodion exuded. Instantly, a vast padded hand rose—gentle as falling petals—to brush it away.

The fingertip grazed her shoulder. Soft, yes, but still the weight of a small log. She squeaked despite herself, leaping aside. "Stars above!"

From the doorway erupted laughter—rich, raucous, utterly Mikhailis. He bent double, palm slapping the jamb. "He's—oh, by the Seven—he's trying!" he wheezed between snorts. "Give the poor construct some credit!"

Elowen pressed a hand to her fluttering heart, glare sharpening, though the twitch of a smile betrayed her. "You program boundaries first, hugs later," she scolded both man and machine.

Rodion's eyes dimmed a shade in what might be embarrassment.

<Error: Personal-space miscalculation. Adjusting approach protocols.>

A quiet whirr hummed through his chassis, like a kitten purring inside a kettle drum.

Mikhailis wiped a tear, composing himself. "There, see? He learns."

She folded arms, lips pursing. "Next council session he'll bow and accidentally cushion half the High Clergy."

"That might improve attendance." He tapped Rodion's shoulder—his hand sank an inch before the material pushed back. "This is just butler mode, by the way."

Rodion's optics darkened, pupils contracting to slits of sapphire. Subtly, runes along his flanks cooled from baby-blue to storm-indigo. Under the plush, faint servos clicked—metal bones waking beneath winter quilts.

Mikhailis lowered his voice, mischief smoothing into something almost reverent. "Next," he whispered, stepping closer, "you'll want to see battle mode."

Elowen's breath halted mid-chest. Firelight froze, embers suspended mid-spark. The room, the castle, the kingdom hung inside that single promised unveiling.

The world held still, caught between heartbeats.