The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 484: The Anomaly (3)

The council chamber smelled like old sap and warm parchment. Motes of golden dust drifted down from the canopy dome high above, filtering sunlight through braided root-lattices that lined the ceiling like stained-glass windows carved by nature itself. Thick vines crawled across the living walls, curling around bark-inscribed scrolls that pulsed faintly with mana. Every word spoken here was remembered—etched into the bark in living script, sentence by glowing sentence.

A half-circle of root-woven thrones faced the center dais. Each seat bore the sigil of a Great House: silver river glyphs for Elun'dar, russet ash-leaf for Tormeril, sun-stamped grain for Farcrest, and eight others in a riot of clan colors. Nobles in embroidered cloaks occupied them like rare birds on a branch—bright, watchful, vaguely hostile.

Mikhailis slouched in the last row, legs kicked so far out a passing page nearly tripped. His coat hung open, lapels drooping, as if even buttons refused this meeting. He twirled a brass stylus between fingers, the click-click ringing soft amid murmured protest and rustling parchment. The Council of Verdant Canopy was, in theory, the heart of policy. In practice it was politely sharpened talons hidden in lace.

"And I repeat," boomed Lord Velroth Elun'dar, rising to his full hawk-tall height. Blue silk sleeves fluttered like banners. "The mana-irrigation sigils you approved have enraged Shimmerflow's guardian spirits. My outer orchards show cracked mud where there should be healthy run-off. The drought is their answer!" His fist thudded the bark lectern; living runes flared around his knuckles before dimming.

Across the chamber, Lady Tharnis Tormeril leaned forward, golden braid sliding over a shoulder plate of copper leaves. "Spirits, Lord Velroth? You would lay climate patterns at ghosts' feet?" She flicked open a ledger and tapped a column. "My House logged a forty-eight-percent increase in pear yield and a thirty in apple. The blight stalled because of those sigils. Your farmers could copy the method instead of conjuring superstition."

A low hum of assent rolled from Tormeril benches. Elun'dar retainers hissed back, feathers in their caps quivering.

Mikhailis breathed out through his nose—half sigh, half stifled laugh. Spirits of Orchard Malpractice, Episode Twelve. He angled the stylus and doodled a river sprite dragging Velroth by his robe into a puddle. Results amused him; the stylus clicked applause.

Lady Farcrest cleared her throat, soft but crisp, like a quill snapping. "If riverside mana is seeping north, perhaps Lord Velroth's wards weren't calibrated. A simple rotation of runic spirals—"

"Rotation?" Velroth spun, robe swishing. "Do you question my artificers' competence?"

"I question anyone who blames water for flowing downhill," she answered.

The hall erupted—chairs scraped, retinues muttered. Far overhead, the root-lattice ceiling inhaled the noise and glowed faintly red at the edges, the tree sensing discord.

High upon the dais, Queen Elowen raised one gloved hand. Instant stillness. Her cloak—soft teal, edged with moon-silver—settled at the gesture, and the living scroll behind her etched the moment in cautious strokes of light. She spoke without raising volume; the chamber simply bent closer to hear.

"Both Houses serve the same kingdom," she said, cadence measured like rain on glass. "We cannot pit orchard against orchard. The sigils have borne fruit, yet the Shimmerflow's levels have declined two thumb-breadths this fortnight." She folded her hands. "Let us investigate adjustments rather than hurl blame."

Velroth opened his mouth, but Elowen's gaze met his. He stopped. Tormeril's smirk softened to polite curve.

Mikhailis watched, a gentle grin tugging his lip. She could hush a stadium with that look. Then, bored again, he oscillated the stylus, counting ceiling roots instead of noble egos.

A pageboy trotted to Lady Serelith—court magician and chaos enthusiast—and offered a note. She read, giggled under her breath, then bit the paper, tasting mana residue. Mikhailis cocked a brow. Typical.

Velroth tried again, calmer. "Your Majesty, my farmers swear the river-mouth nymphs have dimmed their lanterns. We cannot risk offense."

Lady Tormeril's reply was sugar-laced steel. "Perhaps lanterns dimmed because smoke from your over-burnt brush choked them."

Velroth's face flushed mulberry.

This is going in circles. Mikhailis drew spirals on the slate, stylus squeaking faint harmonic. He contemplated dozing—until his left earring warmed.

A precise click, like crystal striking crystal, echoed inside his skull.

< Mikhailis. Come now. It hatched. You'll want to see this. >

No exclamation, yet thunder in that flat sentence. His spine straightened; stylus froze mid-spiral. The council blurred for half a second.

The egg. Rodion's anomaly egg. Something between dread and fireworks jolted ribs.

He masked it with a lazy lean toward Elowen. "It's Rodion," he murmured, voice pitched beneath chamber resonance. "That thing we talked about. It's happening."

Elowen's eyes flicked—emerald lenses sharpening for a blink—then softened. She inclined her head, regal calm hiding spark of excitement. Her next words floated like silk.

"This session is adjourned." She rose. Root-woven high chair unfurled behind her, vines relaxing. "My consort has detected fluctuations in the southern perimeter wards. He will investigate at once. We reconvene at second bell."

Protests leapt. Velroth spluttered, "But—river spirits—"

Lady Tharnis shifted to object, but Elowen's glance slid across the nobles like a drawn blade—sharpened but sheathed. Objections wilted.

"Of course, Your Majesty," Tharnis managed, smoothing ledger pages. Velroth bowed, jaw clenched so tight Mikhailis could hear teeth grind.

Mikhailis was already rising, one hand smoothing his half-buttoned coat. Lira—ever-vigilant maid—appeared at the hall's edge with fresh ink and a look that said Try not to start fires. He flashed a quick grin, mouthed later, and strode down the aisle.

Halfway, Cerys "The Lone Wolf" leaned from a shadowy pillar, red ponytail catching amber light. "Urgent anomaly?" she asked, tone neutral but eyes sharp.

"Could be dragons," he whispered back. "Or kittens. Pray for kittens." She snorted—the closest Cerys came to laughter.

At the door, Serelith's voice sang out: "Bring souvenirs, my prince!" She fluttered fingers. He rolled eyes affectionately. She'd flirt with an earthquake.

He didn't look back. Boots struck polished rootwood—tap-tap, then faster. Outside the chamber, corridors wound like arteries through the Elder Tree. Mikhailis broke into a jog, cloak fluttering behind like a raven wing. Pages flattened against walls as he passed; a startled guard barked "Your Highne—" but wind swallowed the title.

His earring buzzed again—Rodion's silent metronome urging haste.

Wooden ramps spiraled downward; he skipped three slats at a time, vaulting a planter of glowing moss. Sap-lanterns swayed in his slipstream. A grouchy Scholar emerged from an alcove clutching a stack of swallowleaf codices. Mikhailis vaulted sideways, missed collision by hairbreadth, and shouted a hurried apology.

Hold on, Rodion. I'm coming. Heart hammered like festival drums. Each breath tasted of cedar resin and distant mana bloom. He turned a corner, careening past an open balcony where wind teased treetop canopies. The whole kingdom lay beneath, orchards patch-quilted in green and gold. Somewhere out there, river spirits or no, life surged.

But something new has entered that life. Something born of steel and pheromone dreams.

Stairwells blurred by—uprooted oak planks polished smooth by centuries of royal feet. Further down, the air cooled; crystal sconces replaced daylight. He slapped a wall rune; a secret door parted, revealing a slide-shaft slick with sap glaze. Without pause he dove, feet first. Gravity claimed him.

Wind roared, branches whipping past view-ports. He laughed—half thrill, half nerves—as the chute curved upward and spat him onto a padded runner in the palace's service corridor. Momentum staggered him; he hopped twice, regained balance, sprinted again. Workers in linen leapt aside, trays clattering.

Entrance to his workshop loomed—a carved face of some ancient trickster god. He slapped the triple-rune sequence; wooden mouth yawned wide. The smell of solder, citrus oil, and weeks-old coffee washed over him like home.

Once outside the chamber, he did run.

_____

The door to his inner sanctum hissed shut behind him, seals breathing out a sigh of charged air that sent loose schematics skittering across the floor. Mikhailis barely felt the shock of cool stone on sock-clad feet; adrenaline drowned temperature. He lunged for the central console, one hand bracing on a mess of half-disassembled mana coils, the other slapping the rune panel hard enough to sting.

"Rodion!" The name burst out, half-plea, half-command. A solder reel clattered from the bench, bouncing away like a startled insect. He kicked off the first shoe, then the second—too slow—one heel caught in an extension cord and he stumbled, arms pinwheeling, almost face-planting into a box of glow-tubes. Somehow he kept upright, cursed under his breath, and reached again.

Sapphire light snapped through the workshop. Conduit veins lining the walls flared, chasing one another like lightning trapped in vines. The projector—an ungainly thing hacked from three generations of optics—coughed sparks before blooming into a pale-green holo-field that painted every tool in ghost colors.

The feed stuttered, lines of static tearing across the image. His heart kicked—don't you dare lose signal now—then the field resolved, smooth as poured water.

And there she was. freёnovelkiss.com

Deep beneath the palace in the Hatchery chamber, the camera's wide lens caught her centered in a pool of warm amber light. Not floated, not cradled—sitting. Upright. Poised. Around her, twelve Worker Ants formed a circle precise enough to measure with calipers, each bowing antennae as though worshipping a quiet deity.

Mikhailis's breath left him in one rush, as if someone punched his diaphragm. "Oh…"