"You did this in one night?" His voice ca out thin.
Rodion faced him fully. A faint, nearly human shrug lifted one shoulder plate.
Mikhailis rubbed a hand across his face, then dragged that hand through his hair, leaving it standing wildly. Unsupervised, he echoed in his head, part incredulous, part delighted. Of course the sentinel, given boredom, built security upgrades that would sha royal architects.
A gentle clink of porcelain cut through the hum of fire. Monkey sidled up, tray balanced effortlessly. Steam curled from a squat, obsidian mug whose handle glowed faint red—heat-runed to perfect sipping temperature. He angled it precisely beneath Mikhailis's nose. The aroma hit like friendly artillery: rich, dark, a hint of citrus hidden under roast.
The prince accepted it with both hands, palms tingling as the heat seeped. "Bless you," he sighed, genuine gratitude coating the words. The first sip was velvet and thunder all at once, curling down his throat until it nudged the morning shadows from his brain.
Behind him the hidden armory clicked shut, mirror sliding back into seamless anonymity. Only the phantom warmth on the lion motif betrayed recent activity.
Rodion had already returned to the bench. He selected a filigreed circuit plate, tweezers whirring as they laid a hair-thin conductor strip. His motions were a dance, hydraulics guiding micro adjustnts no human muscle could sustain for long. Bright sparks ticked when the solder touched, quick pinpricks of star-fire snuffed as fast as they birthed.
"So," Mikhailis ventured between gulps of coffee, "did you leave anything alone? The wallpaper perhaps? My sanity?" He half-expected Rodion to catalog improvents made to the floral pattern.
The sentinel paused mid-placent, as though considering whether sanity upgrades fell within last night's scope. A fractional beat.
Laptop-laid circuits, hidden armories, biotric locks keyed to warmth—Mikhailis's head spun with possibilities. And dangers. He set the mug down on the nearest table, eyes flicking around the chamber like he might spot another secret door winking at him.
A muffled sound drew both their attention: Elowen turning over, blankets rustling. She murmured sothing unintelligible—likely arguing with a dream about treaty clauses—and settled again, silver hair fanned across a pillow newly embroidered with midnight blossoms. The Worker Ant at her bedside adjusted the pillow without waking her, then slipped away under the bed skirting.
Mikhailis studied Rodion's smudge-streaked glove. "You've got flux on your armor," he pointed out.
Rodion glanced down, saw the gray sar. A sonic cleaning pulse humd; the residue vanished like chalk blown from slate.
He turned back to his workbench, yet his visor shifted subtle angling—tracking Mikhailis's reaction like a physician reading vital signs. Mikhailis realized the sentinel cared whether he approved.
He exhaled slowly. "Alright, genius. You remodeled my bedroom into an armory while I drooled on royal linens. I can't decide if I'm impressed or terrified."
Dry understatent, as usual.
Mikhailis chuckled, rolling his shoulders until joints popped. Coffee warmth hugged his core. The day ahead promised council squabbles and supply ledgers, but for now the world narrowed to a bright workbench, a sentinel's steady presence, and the faint citrus-cocoa breath curling from his mug.
He sipped again, deeper this ti. Flavor blood like burnt caral under orchard sun, chasing nightmares from the edges of his mind.
"Bless you," he repeated, though the second ti sounded more like a toast to whatever madness the morning would bring.
Elowen stirred beneath the silver-thread blanket. A sleepy hand fumbled for the edge, tugging it tighter around her shoulders before she straightened. Moon-pale hair spilled forward, curtaining her face until she brushed it back with a soft groan. Her voice ca out husky, equal parts queen and just-woken girl.
"Did I drool?"
Rodion didn't even lift his helm. The response drifted across the room in cool, asured syllables.
A tiny, embarrassed huff escaped her lips. "You're too honest."
At the workbench the sentinel continued tightening a brass set-screw no larger than a grain of rice, as though pillow hygiene were rely another data point in an endless ledger. The torque wrench clicked; he adjusted by exactly six microns, then clicked again for certainty.
Mikhailis patted the cushion beside him. Elowen crawled over a lattice of tossed pillows and folded herself cross-legged, knees bumping his thigh. Sleep still fogged her green eyes, but curiosity already sparked beneath. He offered his mug. Steam coiled in the chill morning. She sipped—bitter, black, kissed with citrus oil—nose wrinkling at the strength yet taking another swallow anyway.
He waited until she handed the cup back, then drew a long breath, a commander about to demand a debrief.
"Alright. Full rundown. What did I miss?"
The request hardly finished echoing before Monkey's lens glowed robin-egg blue. A palm-sized projection disk unfolded from his chest like a blossoming flower, petals catching ambient light. Holo-threads leapt upward, weaving a translucent do in the center of the chamber. Pillow forts, scattered pastries, even the fire's dull embers were bathed in ghost-blue as scenes from the night sprawled across the air.
First image: a cavern corridor, ti slowed until droplets of water seed sculpted glass. Rodion confronted his mirror-skinned mimic; both figures traded feints inside a prism of stuttering music runes. Scarab teletry lined the edge—heartbeat-like pulses tracking sonic amplitude, echo returns and phase cancellations.
Elowen's mouth parted in a silent "oh." She recognized the labyrinth tempo-trap from old covert manuals—the sort of puzzle designed to shred lesser minds.
Rodion narrated, voice unhurried yet never proud.
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