The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 499: Sudden Training With Serelith (1)

The warm amber glow of the sitting-room stretched long fingers across the carpet, turning every silk thread into molten copper.

Steam from Mikhailis's bath still drifted round his shoulders as he raked a towel through his damp hair—and then the light ripped open.

Vines burst from thin air. Green whips corkscrewed together, bark and blossom twining until an archway big enough for a carriage throbbed in the middle of the floor. Sweet sap and damp earth rushed in like a forest exhaling. Out stepped Serelith—silver-ink robes swirling, midnight hair fanning behind her, pale lips curved in a cat-caught-the-canary smirk.

"Yikes! Zombies!" She flopped onto the couch, legs folding beneath her as though the furniture were her personal throne. "Rodion, change the channel. I crave something with knives and messed-up psychology."

On the wall-mounted crystal-panel, the grainy zombie film vanished, replaced by a stylish noir menu. A digital voice, honey-smooth yet dry as winter leaves, drifted from hidden runes.

<Detective Thorne versus the Westwind Slasher. Viewer discretion is advised, Lady Serelith.>

Serelith wiggled like a delighted child, clasping her hands beneath her chin. "Splendid."

A second voice murmured only inside Mikhailis's AR lenses, crisp as frost.

<Her arrival aligns with a sealed directive from Her Majesty. Suggest vigilance.>

Elowen's hand again. He kept the thought to himself, letting a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Draping the towel round his neck, he strolled in, pretending nothing was amiss—even though he wore only a loose robe and the fragile hope no one noticed the way it clung to still-damp skin.

Cerys, perched on the couch's far arm, straightened so fast the cushions wheezed. Rodion's hidden exhaust vents had already scoured the air, leaving only sandalwood and faint pine, but colour climbed her neck in a swift tide. She tugged at her tunic hem, adjusting the fabric over leather pants that still bore an incriminating darkened patch.

Serelith's gaze drifted lazily across the room and snagged on that flicker of red embarrassment. Her smile stretched, slow and wicked. "And here I thought only royals were allowed in royal chambers."

Cerys's amber eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "And I thought guests knocked before barging into private rooms."

"Oh, knocking is for people without keys." Serelith's laugh chimed like cracked bells—sweet, but off by half a note. "I possess… privileges."

"Privileged to be a nuisance?" Cerys folded her arms, leather creaking. On the outside she was stone; inside her pulse drummed against her ribs, half fury, half mortification.

Serelith lounged deeper, fingertips brushing the brocade armrest as though testing fabric quality. "A personal bodyguard, hmm? Tell me—are you guarding him… or clinging to him?" Her eyes dipped meaningfully toward Cerys's still-damp crotch.

For a heartbeat Cerys's mask cracked; heat flooded her cheeks. Then she set her jaw, shoulders back. "My duty is to protect him. I take duty seriously."

A darker gleam quickened behind Serelith's violet irises. "So do I." The words floated, feather-light, yet carried a promise of thorns.

The crystal-panel chirped, plunging the room into rain-drenched alleyways and neon reflections. A detective's voiceover began: gravel, regret, the smell of cordite. Perfect ambience for a duel of wills.

Mikhailis cleared his throat, stepping between them before verbal daggers turned into real ones. Droplets traced lines down his collarbone; he hoped no one noticed. "Ladies, please. Could we keep the homicide on the screen?"

Both women angled their attention at him—Serelith with feline amusement, Cerys with that fierce protectiveness he'd come to cherish. He raised a hand, towel ends swinging like a truce flag. "Serelith, why are you here?"

Her pout melted into playful delight. She pressed a palm over her heart, bowing just enough for sarcasm. "At last, attention. Her Majesty sent me. Sword lessons with our Lone Wolf were only phase one." She cocked her head toward Cerys, who bristled. "Now comes magic class—with me."

"Magic class?" Mikhailis arched a brow, though curiosity sparked behind his relaxed expression.

"Mm-hm." She rose, robes whispering across the carpet, and closed the distance until the scent of crushed herbs and ozone surrounded him. With one slim finger she tapped the faint silver brand on his wrist—a swirling pattern like frost on glass. "After your Serewyn escapade, this Mist Mark needs taming. We must ensure your Silvarion Thalorian mana stays in charge. Complications, otherwise."

He flexed his fingers; the brand responded like living fog, thin tendrils of silver curling across his palm before sinking back into skin. A cool pulse followed, icy enough to make the hairs on his wrist stand.

Serelith watched that shimmer with parted lips—as if she'd just spotted a diamond ripe for stealing—then offered a mock-solemn bow. "And since Lira's off playing courier," she drawled, "I'll feed you as well. Can't have our prince fainting midway through his lessons."

Mikhailis opened his mouth to reply, but she was already clapping. A staff of dark wood coalesced in her hand, bark engraved with looping runes, thin green shoots spiralling around the shaft like snakes eager to strike.

"Now, personal knight," she sang, eyes dancing toward Cerys, "you may withdraw. Private royal business."

Cerys's fingers twitched near an invisible hilt; her shoulders squared. "His safety is my charge," she said, voice low but clear. "I stay."

Serelith's lashes fluttered, fake innocence incarnate. "Stubborn," she whispered as though confiding a secret. A flick of her wrist and the doorway exploded in green—roots as thick as forearms erupting from the threshold, lashing toward Cerys like hungry eels.

Steel flashed. Cerys drew the practice saber that lived, hidden, in a back scabbard beneath her cloak—one smooth motion. The blade met wood with a crack, severing the first tendril. Sap scattered in glowing beads.

"Try harder," she muttered, pivoting so fast her ponytail sliced the air.

Serelith giggled—not a human laugh so much as wind chimes in a storm. She twirled her staff; new vines surged, smaller, faster. They slithered across the carpet in a web meant to entangle. Cerys stepped, cut, stepped again, her boots barely crunching petals that showered with every strike.

Watching, Mikhailis felt a ripple of pride. Her footwork, even confined to a sitting-room, was textbook—weight forward on the ball, knee bent just enough to spring. Lone Wolf indeed.

But the furniture began to suffer. A vine hooked the corner of a crystal side-table, yanking it over. Glass clattered; a framed portrait of Elowen and Mikhailis—in happier, less vine-infested days—hit the floor with a dull thunk.

Mikhailis winced. "Enough!" His voice cracked across the room like a whip; the vines hesitated mid-lunge. "She stays. Personal guard's orders."

Serelith's grin turned sulky, but she gave a theatrical sigh. The plant whips shrivelled, retreating into floorboards with soft cricks. A few stray petals drifted down like wounded butterflies.

"If you insist," she said, dusting nonexistent specks from her sleeve. "She might regret watching."

Her nostrils flared, sensing the air; a spark of wicked understanding lit her eyes. Slowly her gaze slid from Cerys's clenched jaw to Mikhailis—and lower. A wrinkle of her nose, a soft inhale, and her smile sharpened into a weapon.

"Ahh. Energetic, aren't we?" Her voice dripped syrup. "No wonder the air smells… fresh."

Heat shot into Mikhailis's cheeks. He followed her gaze and felt his stomach dive: the dark patch on Cerys's trousers had not dried, and a faint pearly thread lingered along her cheekbone where she'd missed wiping. His own robe suddenly felt far too thin, hanging open at a dangerous angle.

Cerys realised an instant later. Colour flooded her face in a rush; she rubbed her cheek with her sleeve, but the motion only drew attention to her trembling hand. For a heartbeat she looked ready to bolt—then, jaw set, she faced Serelith squarely.

Serelith's chuckle was velvet cruelty. "How lively," she purred, twirling her staff once more before letting it dissolve into sparks. "Anyway—training in your private chamber. Easier to rest when exhausted." Her emphasis on the last word was a scandalous caress.

Mikhailis cleared his throat, trying to salvage regal dignity. "Yes, fine. Private chamber." Blessed Ancestors, Rodion, start the exhaust again. A faint hum obeyed overhead.

They relocated quickly—Mikhailis grateful for motion if only to hide the evidence of earlier activity. The royal bedroom lay just beyond, carved from moon-white stone, its domed ceiling painted with constellations that glowed in soft silver. Ivy trailed down from hanging gardens set into arched alcoves, leaves quivering as if aware of Serelith's presence.

She entered first, barefoot now, gliding across rugs woven with old elven patterns. From a satchel she produced thumb-sized crystals, each one pulsing a different hue: emerald, topaz, amethyst. She placed them at compass points—north, south, east, west—whispering under her breath. As each touched stone, a ripple of colour spread outward, settling into glowing sigils that hovered an inch above the floor.

Cerys positioned herself by the door, back straight, arms folded. Her cheeks still burned, but outwardly she was every inch the Duke-rank knight: cool, alert, unassailable. She scanned the corners, noting each candle Serelith lit—tall tapers of violet wax etched with runes. When the wicks caught, a scent like rain on pine needles filled the chamber.

Mikhailis stood in the centre, feeling oddly naked even though he'd belted his robe tight. The crystals' lights painted green and purple bands across his bare calves. He rubbed his thumb over the Mist brand; it tingled beneath the glow.

Serelith completed her circuit, then faced him, clasping her hands. "The rules are simple, darling. You will channel only Silvarion mana. Should Mist Mana leak, I intervene." She raised one delicate brow. "Understood?"

He nodded. "Understood."

Cerys shifted, eyeing Serelith's smirk. She rested a hand on her hip near an imaginary sword, ready.