The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 381 : Rodion’s Warning, Mikhailis’s Resolve

"I'd never dare dream of it," he replied with exaggerated solemnity, earning himself another weak snort of annoyance.

With the women safely laid down, Mikhailis felt the strange, adrenaline-driven strength finally leave him. His limbs trembled suddenly, as if reality had only just remembered to assert itself. The heavy toll of their escape hit him like a crashing wave, nearly sending him sprawling to the floor. He steadied himself quickly, clenching his jaw tight, refusing to show weakness now.

A sharp exhale escaped his lungs as he fought against the sudden dizziness that clouded his vision for half a heartbeat. He shook his head roughly, forcing himself upright, gathering what limited medical supplies they had brought. He began swiftly and meticulously tending to the injuries—pressing a fresh bandage tightly against the deep slash on Rhea's thigh, checking Cerys's arm carefully, fingers gentle yet firm as he applied ointment to her wounds. His hands moved quickly but precisely, his mind fully focused despite the pounding headache building steadily behind his eyes.

Rodion's voice crackled suddenly in his mind, sharp and clear, startlingly urgent.

<Mikhailis, you appear to be experiencing an unusual spike in neuromuscular output. Might I suggest not breaking your own body in half?>

"Later," Mikhailis gritted out between clenched teeth, continuing his treatment without pause. His fingers trembled slightly, though he quickly regained control, pressing gauze firmly onto Lira's bruised ribs.

Rodion did not relent, his digital voice edged with a sharpness Mikhailis had rarely heard before.

<Mikhailis, are you prepared for my report?>

His head snapped up immediately, the tension in Rodion's tone causing his stomach to tighten painfully. Rodion rarely expressed urgency unless the situation was genuinely dire.

"Tell me," Mikhailis demanded harshly, barely masking the unease rising rapidly in his chest.

<The Chimera Ant soldiers and workers you allocated for reconnaissance—those meant specifically to locate Crown Prince Laethor of Serewyn—have failed to find him.>

Mikhailis froze mid-motion, his breath catching painfully in his throat. A chill of dread clawed its way up his spine, spreading swiftly through his limbs.

"What?" His voice was barely above a whisper, disbelief mixing sharply with fear.

Rodion continued evenly, though the AI's urgency lingered just beneath the surface of his typically controlled tone.

<Despite utilizing every available predictive model, despite employing every resource at our disposal, Laethor remains… missing.>

The word landed like a physical blow, echoing ominously through Mikhailis's mind.

Missing.

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Rodion's tone softened subtly, but the edge of urgency remained, warning of greater danger yet unseen. <This was not coincidence, Mikhailis. The patterns are too precise, too intentional. This was planned. And if my calculations are correct… this may have been a trap from the very beginning.>

Mikhailis let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Rodion's certainty had eased some of the tension in his chest, but the doubts still lingered, stubbornly whispering at the edges of his thoughts. He rubbed his temple with the back of his hand, smudging soot across his forehead, eyes narrowing as he sorted through the chaos spinning inside his head.

If Laethor is genuine... then why isn't he here? What went wrong?

"Then why isn't he here?" Mikhailis asked aloud, frustration simmering just beneath the surface of his words.

Rodion was silent, but Mikhailis could almost feel the AI running through probabilities, scenarios racing behind that artificial voice that was usually so irritatingly calm. The silence stretched for a heartbeat too long, heavy with unspoken implications.

<Considering all variables,> Rodion began at last, voice measured yet edged with an uncommon urgency, <There are several plausible explanations.>

"Well, don't keep me waiting," Mikhailis snapped impatiently, his tone harsher than he intended. He forced himself to exhale slowly, regaining control. "Please," he added softly, a rare concession.

Rodion continued smoothly, unfazed by Mikhailis's rare slip of composure.

<Scenario one: Crown Prince Laethor was intercepted en route and taken hostage. Given the precise timing of recent events, this is statistically likely. Capturing him would grant the Crownless House immense leverage.>

Mikhailis grimaced, fists clenching tighter. "And scenario two?"

<Scenario two involves internal betrayal. Prince Laethor may have been forced into hiding due to unforeseen threats from within his inner circle. The Crownless House has proven capable of infiltrating even secure institutions. A traitor close to Laethor could explain his prolonged absence.>

Mikhailis shook his head slowly, his jaw tightening further. "That would mean they've planned this longer than we thought..."

<Precisely,> Rodion continued smoothly, undeterred by the bitterness in Mikhailis's voice. <Scenario three: Laethor was already captured or under enemy control prior to the catacombs' collapse. This scenario, while distressing, aligns with the precision and timing of their attacks.>

"Meaning we've been played for fools since the start," Mikhailis muttered darkly, voice sharp as a blade. "Is there a fourth possibility, or have you saved the worst for last?"

<A fourth scenario remains plausible,> Rodion added, tone dryly formal yet subtly edged with spite. <Laethor may indeed be en route, but his arrival is being deliberately delayed by the Crownless House. They would benefit from prolonging uncertainty and confusion, maximizing their strategic advantage.>

Mikhailis exhaled slowly, a dull ache settling behind his temples as he absorbed the information. Each scenario was worse than the last, a tangled web that seemed impossible to unravel neatly. He felt anger bubble within him—not just at the enemy, but at himself. He'd allowed this to happen, trusted blindly, thinking himself infallible. Damn it. Was my intuition really so off? I thought I knew people better than this.

"Rodion," he said quietly, voice tight with controlled fury, eyes locked on the cracked stone floor, "Are you saying I've misjudged this whole mess?"

<No.> Rodion's reply was firm, immediate, sharper even than usual. <Laethor is real. The man who sought your aid, the man who stood before you in Silvarion Thalor, was without question the true Crown Prince.>

The certainty in Rodion's words provided a brief respite from Mikhailis's doubts, grounding him momentarily amidst the swirling uncertainties. He closed his eyes for a moment, silently grateful for Rodion's unwavering logic—one stable point in the chaos of his emotions.

But still, questions gnawed at him relentlessly.

"Then why isn't he here?" Mikhailis demanded, frustration bleeding through his voice once again. "If he's genuine, if he's as sincere as you say, why are we stuck guessing his fate?"

Rodion's silence was telling, the AI likely recalibrating every possible outcome before responding. Mikhailis paced, steps echoing softly against stone as the weight of uncertainty pressed harder against his chest, suffocating him. The sound of his companions' labored breathing filled the heavy silence around him, each slow exhale a painful reminder of the consequences of this uncertainty.

A flicker of determination sparked to life within him, igniting into something fierce and unyielding. He shook his head sharply, forcing away the doubt clouding his thoughts.

"No," Mikhailis murmured, the word quiet yet filled with absolute certainty. "I already know where this is going."

Rodion paused, his voice tight with restrained curiosity. <Mikhailis?>

His eyes narrowed decisively, a newfound clarity cutting through the fog of confusion. "Rodion. Call back the Chimera Ants," he ordered, voice firm, decisive. "Leave only twenty of them to keep searching for Laethor. I want the rest gathered, ready to act as my eyes and arms for whatever comes next."

Rodion hesitated briefly, an unspoken question lingering in the brief silence. Then he responded, voice crisp, unwavering. <Understood, Mikhailis. I trust your judgment.>

Mikhailis nodded slowly, grateful for Rodion's unwavering support. He allowed himself a brief pause to let the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. It felt heavier now, the reality of their situation clearer than ever. There were no easy answers—only hard decisions that needed to be made swiftly.

His attention shifted abruptly, his gaze returning to his injured companions. His heart clenched painfully at their battered forms, guilt twisting sharply inside him once again. Yet there was no time to dwell.

"Rodion," he said briskly, forcing the emotion from his voice, "analyze their conditions thoroughly."

<Initiating medical diagnostics,> Rodion replied immediately, tone professional and detached as always, but Mikhailis knew him well enough to detect the subtle notes of urgency beneath the surface.

While Rodion conducted his analysis, Mikhailis worked quickly, tending carefully yet swiftly to each woman's wounds. His fingers moved with practiced ease, securing bandages tightly around Rhea's wounded leg, gently cleaning the shallow cut across Vyrelda's temple, and cautiously examining Lira's bruised ribs. Each action was deliberate, focused, even as worry continued to gnaw at the edges of his thoughts.

His mind drifted momentarily to Estelle, who he'd dispatched earlier for intelligence gathering. She should've returned by now, and her absence worried him more deeply than he wanted to admit.

Rodion's voice crackled suddenly, interrupting his spiraling thoughts before he could fully voice the question.

<Estelle is safe, Mikhailis. She remains at the Merchant Council as instructed.>

Relief flooded him instantly, briefly easing the relentless tension gripping his chest. "At least something hasn't completely fallen apart," he whispered, more to himself than Rodion, a quiet acknowledgment of small mercies amid the chaos.

His gaze shifted downward, landing once more on his arm, where the brand pulsed faintly, almost in rhythm with his heartbeat. The mist. He felt its presence keenly now, more vivid, more alive than ever before. It twisted and curled around him, whispering softly—promising power, offering strength, yet lurking ominously beneath was the understanding that it exacted a price.

Rodion's voice filled his mind, calm and analytical as ever, but carrying an unusual hint of gravity. <The bond is evolving, Mikhailis. It is not merely a passive connection—it is actively responding to your actions, your decisions. It is alive. A sentient force drawing energy from your emotions, your fears, and your resolve.>

Mikhailis swallowed hard, suddenly acutely aware of the weight resting heavily upon his shoulders. He closed his eyes briefly, grappling with the enormity of Rodion's revelation. When he opened them again, determination burned brightly within their depths, mingled with grim acceptance.

"We've gotten ourselves completely tangled up in a web," he said slowly, voice low, each word laced with bitterness. "A royal war. One that's pulling us deeper by the moment."

He clenched his fists again, eyes narrowing fiercely.

"If we're not careful, we'll drag Elowen and Silvarion Thalor right down with us."

He paused, inhaling deeply, resolve hardening his features once more.

"Laethor must be found," he stated firmly, conviction flaring anew in his chest. "I have a feeling I already know exactly where he is."

Rodion's response was immediate, composed, steady as always. <Awaiting your orders, Mikhailis.>

He straightened, shoulders squared with determination, eyes blazing fiercely.

"Rodion, prepare for our next move," he commanded decisively, his voice carrying an edge that resonated with unshakable authority.

He turned, silhouette framed starkly against the burning ruins of the city outside, a beacon of resolve amidst the chaos.

"We have work to do."