The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort Chapter 582: The Lab and The Magician (2)

"Why not bring it to the court sages?"

"Because they’d lock it behind thirty scrolls of red tape. I need answers, not ceremonies."

She reached out, stopping a hair short of the leaf. "May I?"

"Please."

Her magic stirred like warm wind, invisible but felt. A silver thread of mana slipped from her fingertips, curling over the leaf’s surface. She closed her eyes. Mikhailis watched, holding his breath.

After a mont she exhaled, brows knitting. "It’s... almost asleep. Like a seed waiting for spring."

"But it’s a leaf."

"Exactly." Her lashes lifted; excitent sparkled in her violet gaze. "A leaf that thinks it’s a seed. Sothing rewrote its mory."

Mikhailis’s jaw slackened. "That matches a hunch I had about Verdant Canopy." His voice dropped. "A biological mory vessel."

Serelith lowered her hand slowly, as though afraid to stir the dormant pulse. "Imagine what it could contain."

"Imagine what could happen if it’s unlocked wrong," he countered. And if that secret shakes the kingdom...

She sensed the shadow in his voice. Her fingers slid up to his, gently squeezing. "Whatever’s inside, we’ll handle it."

He t her confidence with a grateful smile. How does she always cut through my nerves? He turned back to the leaf, exhaling. "Thank you."

"For touching your forbidden mysteries?" She grinned. "My pleasure."

Rodion drifted nearer.

Mikhailis snorted. "You try opening your heart in front of a judgntal balloon."

Serelith covered a laugh with her hand.

They lingered, shoulders brushing, the lab’s hum wrapping them in gentle sound. Mikhailis showed her shelves of resin samples; she demonstrated a tiny illusion spell that coaxed phantom blossoms from a jar of pollen. He adjusted a scrying lens; she teased him about the doodles of scantily clad adventurers in his margins.

At last, curiosity gave way to fatigue. Mikhailis rubbed his neck. She leaned back on her elbows against the table, watching him with half-lidded eyes.

"So," she murmured, "does this invitation include the grand tour of your bed’s underside?"

He chuckled. "Trust , the mattress springs aren’t as fascinating."

She slid off the table, standing close. Warm breath grazed his collar. "Hmm. I’m sure we could make them interesting."

His heart thudded. Focus, prince. The world outside this lab still spins. He cleared his throat. "For tonight, I’d rather not test their weight limit."

Serelith’s playful pout lted into another smile—soft, almost tender. "Then let’s solve your leaf mystery instead."

He nodded. "Tomorrow we start with the grove archives."

"Tomorrow," she echoed.

They packed away the leaf. Mikhailis’s fingers lingered on the heartwood fra before securing the latch. He drew a steady breath, feeling hope mingle with uncertainty.

Her hand slipped into his again, firm, deliberate.

"Lead the way."

They stepped out of the locker’s cedar-scented hush and into the tapestry-lined corridor, the air cool enough to raise goose-bumps where their clothes still clung damp with earlier exertion. Mikhailis’s hand remained wrapped around Serelith’s, warm and steady, as if afraid she might vanish back into a swirl of rose-perfu and cheeky smiles if he let go. Rodion waddled behind them, plush body giving the faintest little squeak each ti his soft feet hit uneven flagstones.

The passage was narrow, the walls more moss than stone. Ferns sprouted from cracks in the mortar, brushing against Serelith’s bare arms as she trailed her fingers along the damp surface. Her eyes glimred with mischief. "You’ve really had a secret lair beneath your own bed all this ti?" she whispered, voice low but vibrant with amusent. "All those nights I lost sleep tailing you through library attics and owl-infested gardens—only to learn you were literally one floorboard away from a pillow?"

Mikhailis grinned over his shoulder, keeping his pace light so their footsteps blended into the persistent drip of condensation. "Strategic misdirection. If my admirers can’t find , they stay interested."

"Admirers, is it?" She arched a brow. "Let guess: I’m just one on a very long list?"

"You are," he admitted cheerfully, "though you’re the only one with a monocle and the patience to stalk through ventilation shafts."

Ahead, a sputtering wall torch cast jagged shadows that danced across a faded boar-hunt tapestry. Footsteps echoed from the perpendicular corridor—a maid’s quick trot, followed by the squeak of a linen-laden basket. In one fluid movent Mikhailis pressed Serelith flat against the damp stone, his body shielding hers. Her gasp was soft, more curious than alard, and she tilted her chin so their noses nearly brushed.

The maid passed, humming an off-key lullaby, oblivious to the clandestine pair half-hidden behind woolen fabric stiff with age. Mikhailis held his breath. Serelith, emboldened, stole a quick kiss—just a warm brush of lips—but in the gloom it seared through him like a spark down a fuse.

"At this rate, we’ll never reach your hideout," she teased when the footsteps faded.

"Occupational hazard," he whispered back, offering a crooked smile. "Rodion, keep watch."

The plush guardian angled its sensor.

Serelith chuckled under her breath. "He’s bossier than most butlers I know."

"He’s saved my life more tis than formal etiquette ever did." With that, Mikhailis tugged her onward. They wove through servants’ hallways rarely used since the last renovation—places where dust lay thick and spiders kept generational hos in vaulted corners. Once, an ancient dumbwaiter rattled overhead, sending a shower of grit across Mikhailis’s coat. Serelith brushed it away for him, her palm lingering over his shoulder as though testing the shape of the man beneath the jokes.

The route bent sharply and spilled them at a plain wooden door, scarred by decades of draft and neglect. Beyond it, soft lamplight and velvet curtains announced the royal wing. Mikhailis’s personal chamber waited at the end, guards off-duty at this hour. He opened the door with a cautious glance. When both saw the corridor empty, they slipped inside like conspirators.

His suite looked every inch the prince’s retreat—thick carpets in forest green, heavy drapes, a hearth still smoldering from earlier. Towering bookcases lined one wall, each shelf cramd with treatises on insects, volus of bawdy adventure ballads, and the occasional sentintal poetry collection he kept turned spine-in to hide the titles.

Serelith wandered to the nearest shelf, tracing worn gold filigree on a dusty to. "You collect everything," she murmured. "Books, beetles, secrets..."

Mikhailis joined her, selecting a weighty volu on Thalorian flora. He slid it an inch down, then another. Faint tal clicks echoed like distant wind chis. The entire bookcase groaned, seams appearing where none had been. A disguised panel rolled aside on hidden rails with remarkable silence.

"Clever boy," Serelith breathed. Lantern light from the suite spilled into a yawning stairwell. Cool air rose, slling faintly of cedar sap and ozone. "And only Elowen knows?"

"She never liked stepping on the stairs—said they felt like descending into a beetle’s belly." He winked. "But she permitted it. Said a prince deserves one place where protocol can’t follow."

Serelith’s expression softened at the ntion of the queen. "Her Majesty always did have a forgiving heart." Then the mischief returned. "Lead on, then. I want to see what horrors you’ve cultivated."

Mikhailis gave a mock bow. "After you. Mind the third step—it’s shorter."

She passed the threshold, skirts brushing the rune-etched stone. Rodion hovered at Mikhailis’s shoulder as they spiraled downward. Lanterns flared automatically, erald crystals wicking to life in recessed alcoves.

Serelith ran her fingers over pitted walls, reading ancient chisel marks hidden beneath moss. "This stone is older than the new palace wings. Your family expanded downward instead of outward."

"Down is easier to hide," he agreed. Halfway, a hollow alcove displayed jars filled with iridescent carapaces. A sheathed exoskeleton of a moon-stag beetle glead in suspended resin, its horn curling like a frozen fla.

Serelith paused to marvel. "You collected these yourself?"

"Most of them. The ant workers retrieved a few." He shot her a sly glance. "Best research assistants—no vacation days."

She smirked. "I always wondered where those rumors of scuttling shadows ca from."

At the bottom, an oak door reinforced with verdigris-stained rivets stood sentinel. Mikhailis laid his palm on a milky gem set into the arch. Blue light spilled across the wood; bolts drew back with a heavy sigh.

The door swung inward. Warm amber washed over them, carrying scents of pine resin, aged parchnt, and the faint electric hum of active runes. Serelith stepped inside—and stopped, eyes widening in pure, unguarded awe.

Rows of benches stretched beneath wrought-iron chandeliers, each surface crowded with apparatus. Crystalline rods thrumd quietly, feeding sigils etched into bronze plates. On one wall, pinned moths ford a color wheel, wings preserved mid-flutter. A timber cabinet displayed dozens of six-legged clockwork prototypes, each wound down but frozen in lively poses—beetles flexing gear-driven wings, mantises poised with scissor arms.

Serelith turned in a slow circle, hand pressed to her chest. "So this is the mind of Prince Mikhailis."

"ssier than court rumors suggest, I’m sure."