The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Chapter 596: Wake Up at The Lab (1)

Mikhailis’s lashes fluttered once, twice, before his eyes finally opened to the gentle hush of the laboratory. Warm silk-heavy soreness pooled in every joint, an ache that felt almost indulgent—his muscles hummed a memory of tangled limbs, soft gasps, and stolen kisses.

The glowstones set into the ceiling had dimmed to a mellow amber, their light rustling across brass pipes and half-open tomes like a lazy sunset caught indoors. Somewhere in the upper rafters a rune-fan turned with a lazy tick-tick-tick, circulating the faint scent of cedar polish and something sweeter—vanilla and rose, the echo of Serelith’s perfume now mixed with the dry spice of old parchment.

Blinking away a lingering haze, he lifted his head just far enough to locate the chrono-glyph glowing on a distant pillar. It pulsed a soft teal 18:03. His brain, still fogged, tried to add hours that weren’t there; then relief sank through him in a long, grateful sigh.

Six in the evening... not dawn. The worry that they might have slept straight through into another morning eased off his shoulders like a cloak. He let his head fall back for a heartbeat, savoring the peace.

Only then did he look around. Their makeshift rest station was a charming battlefield. Serelith had claimed a stack of folded linens as if it were a throne, her satin skirt hiked up to her knees, one stocking hanging by a single garter clip. Her silver monocle had slipped down and now rested at the hollow of her throat, catching the lamp-light with each slow rise of her chest.

On the floor below, Cerys had all but collapsed against a low bench, red hair streaking across her cheek in rebellious strands. Even asleep she looked prepared for a fight—arms folded, brow furrowed, lips parted in a small huff with every breath. One of her boots was off; Mikhailis suspected she’d kicked it away in irritation during their chaotic tumble earlier.

Closer still, Lira lay half atop his own coat, her ponytail a midnight ribbon sprawled over his waist. Her fingers were curled around the lapel of his jacket like a child refusing to release a treasured blanket. Each quiet exhale puffed against the fabric, a soft warmth that made the corner of his mouth lift.

He eased a hand toward her grip. The moment his sleeve tugged, Lira’s fingers tightened, even in sleep, nails pricking the cloth. He bit back a chuckle. Clingy kitten. With slow care he unfurled each slender digit, sliding free while smoothing her hand back onto the blanket. She sighed, lashes fluttering, but did not wake.

Rolling one shoulder, he pushed upright, every muscle complaining yet fond. A single chimera ant scuttled past, carrying a tiny nut-driver twice its size. The tool wobbled; the ant’s hind legs slipped. Instinct had him flicking a stern glare—and a finger to his lips. The ant froze, then gave a sheepish click of its mandibles before lowering the driver onto a padded tray without a sound.

Good soldier.

Soft green letters shimmered into view above the main console, as polite as a whisper in a library:

His eyes narrowed in amusement. You don’t need to announce that like it’s a battlefield report, Rodion.

A half-snort escaped before he could stop it; he clapped a hand over his mouth, shooting a glance at the still-sleeping trio. None stirred. He released the breath he’d been holding and stepped toward the central console, boots soft on the rug of discarded cloaks.

Let’s start with updates. Three things... He kept his instructions to a hush even the nearby crystals couldn’t echo. Progress on the memory leaf with Serelith’s decoding, mapping status for the whole kingdom, and a rundown of every dungeon—registered or hidden. Make it quiet.

Rodion’s reply poured into the air as lines of muted emerald light, each glyph fading before it could illuminate the room enough to wake anyone.

Mikhailis rubbed a thumb across his lower lip, the scientist in him already racing. Self-sorting memory? Lovely. Sentient leaves next—exactly what this castle needs. Imagine if it decides to gossip about me.

He grabbed a battered notepad—one page still smeared with blue ink from last night—and jotted a margin note: Test sentience: ask leaf simple yes/no once powering safety net.

Rodion continued:

He tapped the quill against his teeth, calculating routes. Twelve stubborn knots... I’ll need flight lenses or bribery—maybe both. Could lure the guilds with grain forecasts. Everyone listens when bread’s involved.

He flicked another glance over his shoulder; Serelith murmured something indistinct, rolling closer into her linens but stayed asleep. The sight made his chest warm. Sleep, troublemaker. I’ll handle the boring bits.

The final report line brightened:

Mikhailis’s quill stilled mid-air. Numbers always sobered him faster than a bucket of cold water. Forty-seven ticking time bombs, three about to detonate... and the Council thinks we’ve got twenty-nine total. Grand.

Mikhailis added the second note—Deploy resonator beacons at Site Beta-Nine—silent mode—then tapped the quill twice against the margin while his mind sketched routes, resources, and possible excuses he could feed the guild inspectors. A fresh tick of the chronoglyph told him only thirty heartbeats had passed, yet the quiet felt more fragile than crystal.

On cue a rustle came from the rug: Cerys, still half-cocooned in a wool blanket, rolled onto her other side. One bare foot nudged a bundled cloth, and a soft sigh slipped from her lips like steam from a kettle. Mikhailis’s spine went stiff, quill hovering in midair. He counted three breaths while her lashes fluttered, then settled.

False alarm. He let the quill touch paper again, moving slower now, each scratch small and neat. Around him the laboratory held its breath—the rune-fans eased to their lowest hum, the glowstones pulsed so faintly they were little more than embers. Even Rodion’s text feed dimmed a shade, as if the AI feared its own letters might rattle someone awake.

Forty-seven dungeons, three in labor, and a leaf that writes its own autobiography... lovely cocktail. He scanned down the bulleted list he’d written—each item a tiny storm waiting to burst. Odd how the scribbles felt lighter because three women behind him slept without worry. He pressed a knuckle to his lips, hiding a smile. Responsibility is easier when someone trusts you to carry it.

A new line of text unfurled in polite green.

He harrumphed, so quietly it barely left his chest. "That soon?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course it does. They never saw a ley pulse they didn’t want to poke with a stick. "Guess I’ll need to draft another set of fake supply contracts."

Mikhailis’s mouth twisted. "One time. And the trousers survived. Mostly."

"Mostly," he whispered back, then waved a dismissive hand. "Focus, Rodion."

He slid the parchment into a slim leather folio, tucking it under a stack of blank charts. No need for wandering eyes to find that list later. Then he raised his head and scanned the lab with renewed purpose.

"Alright, guys," he mouthed, turning toward a knot of chimera ants clustered near the distilling bench. "Cleanup. Whisper mode."