The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 512: Whispers and Wicked Games (3)

"The both of you, stop it! Now!" Cerys's voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp, commanding, and laced with shock.

Serelith's eyes snapped open, her heart lurching. Panic surged through her, her cheeks flushing a deep, burning red. But even as she pulled back, her gaze met Cerys's—amber eyes wide with shock, her lips parted in disbelief.

But it wasn't their kiss that held Cerys's horrified attention. It was lower—on the bay gelding's sleek, dark coat, where a thin, glistening trail of white slowly dripped down, a thick, shimmering streak that painted the horse's fur in a sweet, unmistakable trail.

"You… the both of you… here?!" Cerys's voice was a mix of shock, outrage, and something else—something hot and jealous.

Serelith's face went scarlet, her heart pounding, her mind racing. But then—a faint, wild giggle slipped free. She clapped both hands over her mouth, her shoulders shaking, but the laughter bubbled up, uncontrollable, wild, and breathless.

Mikhailis's arms tightened around her, his lips brushing against her ear, a faint, teasing whisper. "Well… now you've gone and done it, my mischievous mage."

Cerys's expression shifted, her shock turning to a fierce, blushing glare. "You… you shameless… perverted… the both of you!"

But even as she shouted, her cheeks flushed a deep, burning red, her gaze flickering between them, a faint, unmistakable hunger simmering beneath her anger. Her hands clenched at her sides, and she stomped toward them, her voice a strained, trembling hiss. "Stop it! I mean it! Stop it now!"

Mikhailis chuckled, but his voice softened. "Alright, alright… we're done, we promise."

Serelith's laughter finally settled, but her cheeks remained flushed, her violet eyes shimmering with a mix of mischief and embarrassment. "Sorry, Cerys… I just… I couldn't help myself…"

"Couldn't help yourself?!" Cerys's voice was a fierce, breathless whisper. "You… you're unbelievable!"

But even as she shouted, her gaze lingered, her amber eyes betraying a faint, burning jealousy. Her fingers twisted in the reins, her breaths coming faster, her chest rising and falling with each trembling exhale. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

Mikhailis leaned toward her, his voice a soft, teasing whisper. "Jealous, are we?"

"W-What?!" Cerys's voice cracked, her cheeks blazing. "Jealous?! I—of course not! I… I just… it's… it's improper!"

"Improper?" Serelith's smile widened, a playful, wicked glint in her eyes. "Oh, please, Cerys. You know you're just upset because you weren't part of it."

Cerys's jaw dropped, her face turning an even deeper shade of red. "W-What?! That's… that's not… I would never… I…"

Her voice broke, her breath catching, and she turned sharply, her back to them, her fists clenched at her sides. "Just… just clean yourselves up! We're in public, for gods' sake!"

Mikhailis exchanged a quick, knowing glance with Serelith, his lips curling into a faint, amused smile. Serelith leaned closer, her voice a soft, purring whisper. "Oh, Cerys… you're adorable when you're flustered."

Cerys's shoulders tensed, but she didn't turn. "I'm not flustered! I'm… I'm just… I'm trying to keep you two from making a scene!"

But the faint, trembling quiver in her voice, the way her fingers twisted in the reins, the way her gaze refused to meet theirs—Mikhailis saw it all. A faint, playful warmth bloomed in his chest.

"Alright, alright," he called, pulling Serelith close, his fingers brushing against her cheek. "We'll behave. Promise."

Serelith leaned into his touch, a soft, dreamy smile on her lips. "For now…"

Cerys's blush deepened, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. "Just… just hurry up. We're going to be late."

Cerys end up scolding Serelith for a while, but she seems to be more jealous by how Serelith seem to be in bliss rather than mad because how it's improper. Then they continue their journey soon.

Cerys's sword hilt glinted under the hanging lanterns as she gestured toward a plank bridge sagging over the city moat. "South Market gate. Smell that? Fried honey dough."

The aroma drifted on the late-summer breeze—sweet batter, hot oil, a dust of spice sugar—and set all three stomachs rumbling. They reined in at a post just outside the gate where stable boys lounged, tossing pebbles at a crate.

"Mind the mare," Cerys warned, flipping a silver coin that twinkled through the dusk. One boy snatched it mid-air, eyes suddenly respectful. Serelith dismounted with practiced grace, cloak flaring like violet ink. Mikhailis slid down after her; his boots kissed the flagstones and his pulse kicked up—festival sounds throbbed ahead like a living drum.

Mana-lanterns bobbed overhead on invisible threads, round as moons, tinting the street peach, sea-green, lilac. Each lantern carried a rune that siphoned slivers of ambient magic from the air, keeping them aloft. Ingenious, Mikhailis mused while tugging his hood a little lower. Would make excellent insect traps back home.

<Statistically, you'll burn that cloak on a torch within the hour. Keep distance.> Rodion's dry voice tickled his right temple.

Noted, he replied, eyes already darting to the food stalls blazing beyond the arch.

Serelith's fingers slipped into his, tugging. "Come on, scholar—it's too crowded to daydream."

The plaza greeted them with a riot of color and scent. Spell-flame dancers corkscrewed twin ribbons of sapphire fire, each swoosh leaving after-images like comets. A trio of flutists perched on an overturned cart, piping a tune whose beat lived mostly in the hips. Children darted between ankles waving paper wyverns whose wings flapped by clockwork gears.

Cerys inhaled the smoky venison perfume rising from the skewer stand. "Food first." She stepped to the counter, and the aproned vendor beamed.

"These just off the iron, love. Rosemary and thunder-pepper glaze."

"Three," she ordered, sliding coins across. When he tried to hand her change she waved it away. "Tip the apprentice."

The man's brow lifted—most knights haggled. "Much obliged, Dame."

Cerys turned, handing out the skewers like spears. Mikhailis bit in; meat melted, sweet fire licking his tongue.

Across the aisle, a booth glittered with jewelry that pulsed in soft luminescence. Crystal insects—beetles, moths, dragonflies—seemed alive when lamplight touched them. Serelith drifted over, eyes wide as a child's.

"Look!" She pointed at a luna-moth brooch whose wings shimmered opal green. "It… it looks like the ones near the tower pond."

The jeweler's gaze lingered on her violet hair. "Five crowns, miss." A princely sum for a street stall.

Mikhailis reached first. "Three, and throw in that moon-glass pendant."

The man hesitated, then recognized the coins' mint—palace treasury. "Deal, my lord." He wrapped the pieces in velvet.

Mikhailis removed the brooch from its pouch and pinned it just below Serelith's shoulder clasp. Fingers brushed the pulse at her collar; a tremor flickered through her lips.

"It matches your eyes," he murmured.

Her blush painted sunset across her cheeks. "You're impossible."

"And proud of it."

Cerys reappeared clutching two glass flasks filled with swirling crimson liquid that glowed like fresh magma. "Fire-dancer's spirit. Dare you."

Mikhailis sniffed. Cinnamon and something metallic. He tipped the flask—heat blazed down his throat, erupted behind his eyes. "Spicy!" He coughed; flame seemed to curl out his nostrils. Serelith laughed and rubbed small circles between his shoulder blades.

"Lightweight," Cerys teased, cheeks already rosy from her gulp.

"Knight stomachs are cast iron," he rasped.

Ring-toss bells jingled nearby. Stacked bottles of jade glass promised plush prizes. Mikhailis paid the fee, balanced the thin rope circle, and let fly. It wobbled, bounced, and clattered away. Serelith hid a grin behind her hand. Second toss arced higher—landed, hung wavering—then dropped. Groans.

"Third time," Mikhailis vowed, tongue still tingling from spirit fire. He exhaled, pictured Elowen's calm aim at court archery trials, and snapped his wrist. The ring thunked, settled square. A small crowd cheered.

The vendor handed him a wyvern doll stitched from sky-blue felt. Tiny brass gears inside twitched the wings every few seconds. He offered it to Serelith. She hugged the plushie, nose brushing its snout, then surprised him by stretching on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

"My hero."

Cerys rolled her eyes—then locked on the next game: throwing daggers at spinning silhouettes. Prizes: mini sword charms, probably pewter but well-cast. She signed up, feet planting shoulder-width, concentration narrowing her gaze. First dagger skimmed the outer ring. Second bit wood, wobbling. Third struck dead center—but the target rotated again and dislodged it.

She cursed softly. Mikhailis leaned in, whispered: "Lead your aim half a spin."

Next throw thunked bullseye. Yet the booth was out of charms. Disappointment flickered across amber eyes—gone a blink later behind stoic veneer.

While she thanked the carny anyway, Serelith stepped aside, rummaged a hidden pocket of her cloak, and returned with the very charm Cerys had eyed. "Inventory miscount," she lied smoothly, pressing it into calloused fingers.

Cerys's breath caught. "I—thank you." Softness bloomed, rare and unguarded. She fastened the charm to her cloak tie straight away.

Evening draped the sky mauve. Lanterns lining the main road brightened, each releasing a tiny harmonic chime as runes switched from ambient mana to stored lumens. Petal illusions—pink sakura, gold marigold—drifted from invisible branches overhead. Laughter and fiddle reels tangled in alleyways.

A vendor shoved paper cones of fried honey dough under their noses. Mikhailis bought three; sugar stuck to his lips. Serelith licked a crystal of caramel from his lower lip before she realized what she'd done. Her eyes went wide; Cerys barked a laugh, then swiped her thumb across Mikhailis's cheek, tasting the sugar herself.

"I am but a glazed sweet in mortal shape," he declared, causing nearby children to giggle.

They wandered past a tent where a bard told epic romances. One tale featured a reckless prince who kissed three witches and turned into a toad. Serelith whispered, "Foreshadowing?" Mikhailis ribbed her with his elbow; she poked back.

Music shifted to ballads near the fountain square. Couples circled, gowns catching lanternlight. Mikhailis's pulse sped—liquor courage, festival mood. He tugged both women by the hand. "Dance with me before I remember I'm terrible at it."

Cerys half-protested but let her sword belt slide diagonally across her hip instead of dropping it. Serelith looped her arm through Mikhailis's, claiming first partner rights. He led into a slow waltz. His boots scuffed; her shoulders guided him subtly. After one pass he spun to Cerys. She was stiff at first, counting beats like marching steps, but when he purposely mis-stepped and nearly toppled them both, she laughed—a bright, husky sound—and relaxed.

Villagers watching murmured approval of the playful trio. One old lady clapped along.

Halfway through a turn Serelith lifted her eyes to the rooftops. A shiver of cold crawled her nape—sense honed by years among volatile grimoires. Somewhere beyond the music a discordant note of magic rasped, wild and feral, like iron scraped on bone. She slowed, grip tightening on Mikhailis's sleeve.

"What is it?" he asked, voice low, still smiling for the crowd.

"That." Her gaze flicked toward an alley where shadows pooled too deeply for twilight.

Cerys noticed the change in posture; hand drifted to hilt, palm resting casual-like.

Serelith reached with silent spell-sense again. The flavor was wrong—untamed, hungry, smelling of charred cedar and old moonstone. Not local sorcery. Foreign. Her stomach knotted.

Please… not trouble tonight.