Mikhailis tugged the rumpled bedsheet over one ankle, then pushed it away again with an impatient twitch. The linen felt suddenly scratchy, as if woven from second-rate hemp instead of palace cotton. He shifted to one elbow, squinting at the pen twirling between his fingers. The polished brass barrel flashed in the lamplight—one-two-three revolutions, a clumsy skip, then the nib clicked harmlessly against his thumbnail.
Stop fidgeting, he scolded himself, but the pen kept spinning, gathering speed with every restless thought.
A muted breeze slipped through the balcony doors, cool and resin-scented from the towering pines that ringed Silvarion Thalor. It ruffled a stack of parchnt lying near his hip. The sheets lifted, fluttered, and folded back down, almost accusing. Blue ink diagrams peered up at him: half-assembled manabatteries, preliminary sketches of mobile seed-harvesters, and in one margin a doodle of a sli girl wearing oversized goggles. He tried to tuck the papers beneath a pillow, then sighed and let them be. The kingdom never slept; why should his paperwork?
Rodion's voice lingered in the air like soft static. He always began with numbers, but tonight there was a lilt to his cadence—subtle, yet comforting, as though recounting a tale by hearth-fire.
Mikhailis snorted. "Nine percent? I was hoping for ten. Tell them the vines sing if they water them at sunrise. Maybe that'll push it."
A thin chuckle escaped him. He stretched one leg until toes brushed the carved headboard, then let it fall again, foot thumping the mattress. "All right. What about the other side of the canopy? The salt-wind fields?"
He grimaced, scratching the bridge of his nose. "No statues, no nas. Give the credit to Elowen's rural architects."
The lamplight flickered as if nodding. Rodion responded without judgnt.
Outside, a cicada chirped—a single lonely note puncturing the hush. Mikhailis tapped the pen against his ribs in slow rhythm, following the insect's cadence until it faded back into night.
"So… the Technomancer League," he said, rolling onto his side. His hair fell across one eye; he blew it away with a puff. "Do we know their delegation size yet? Or are they still hiding behind fancy letterheads and cog-wheel seals?"
"Security detail?" He whistled under his breath. "They must think we keep dragons in the attic."
The turn of phrase amused him. "Rodion, was that… sarcasm?"
He shrugged, cheeks dimpling. "Maybe I'm rubbing off on you." The pen spun faster, a blur above his stomach. He stared at the ceiling fan—it groaned on its pivot, casting fat shadows that circled the room like lazy hawks.
If they try any sabotage, he mused, Elowen will smile, Rodion will calculate, and I'll … improvise. The thought settled like a pebble in his gut—equal parts thrill and dread.
Rodion resud his litany, the syllables lapping gently against the room's brittle stillness.
Mikhailis blinked up at nothing, lashes brushing foggy glass. The numbers floated across his inner vision, neat gold lettering against lamp-shadowed rafters. He felt the data more than read it, each percentage a gentle tap on a ntal abacus.
"Finally," he muttered around a breath that slled faintly of jasmine and old ink. "The bees like our economy better than the council."
Rodion did not deign to comnt on sarcasm; instead the AI rearranged the figures into a honeycomb diagram that shimred, amused, above Mikhailis's sprawled knees.
Mikhailis snorted, rolling the pen between fingers until it clicked against bone. "Tell Jul to paint the Queen's portrait kissing a beehive. Velroth will faint on the spot."
Silence, then the faintest static—Rodion's version of a sigh.
"So we're quietly fortifying the kingdom without looking like we're fortifying. That's Elowen again, isn't it?"
No elaboration, but the approval was implicit.
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