The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 513: Whispers and Wicked Games (End)

The festival lanes of Silvarion stretched like a living tapestry—lantern-ropes slung between timber beams, streamers fluttering on night breezes, incense curling from brass braziers in lazy blue ribbons. Music burst from every alley: a three-string rebec somewhere to the east, drums layered beneath, children clacking bone castanets as they chased one another through the crush. Spices fought for dominance—cardamom, pepper, fried dough—and every other heartbeat a pocket of laughter burst against the hum of trade.

Serelith walked at Mikhailis's left shoulder beneath a simple charcoal cloak, yet nothing about her felt simple. Her senses crawled. Each lantern flare sparked tiny ghosts in the corner of her vision; each unfamiliar mana thread made the hair at her nape bristle. She kept her smile fixed—fox-sharp, playful—because that was what people expected of Lady Court Magician, but inside every calculation wheel spun at full speed.

To keep up appearances she leaned toward Mikhailis often, drawing his ear down to tease about a fire-breather's clumsy footwork or a juggler dropping his torches into a turnip cart. Every jest bought her a second of laughter from the prince, and the sight of his lazy grin helped bury the roiling edge inside her chest. Still, the muscles where neck met shoulder ached from constant readiness.

Cerys strode on the prince's other side, hood half-shadowing her hair—yet the crimson strands still gleamed when they caught an errant lantern-glow. She carried herself like a traveling mercenary tonight, loose but balanced, one hand never straying far from the short sword hidden beneath her cloak. At first glance she seemed relaxed, kicking at stray pebbles, flicking roasted chestnuts into her mouth, but Serelith caught the flash of amber eyes scanning reflection glass to watch their flank.

Mikhailis, of course, looked born to a festival. He tipped his head at buskers, winked at pastry sellers, made a shy girl in patch-sewn ribbons squeal when he overpaid for a bouquet of sugared daisies and then crowned her with them. Anyone watching would see nothing more than a good-natured prince consort enjoying Harvest Week with two loyal retainers.

Anyone… except professionals.

Serelith felt him drift half a step nearer; the back of his knuckles grazed her gloved hand. "Tell me if anything's wrong," he murmured, voice pitched low to die beneath the squeal of a pig-race two stalls over.

Sweet fool, she thought, warmth blooming even as tension kinked tighter. He would put himself in the path of crossbow bolts if it let her sleep easier. She could not allow that. So she lied—with a flourish, the way a courtier learned to breathe.

"Nothing's wrong, darling. The lanterns are simply distracting." She wound a violet curl round one finger, forcing her grin into something languid. "Besides, I'm starving. Someone kept me shouting last night until my throat's still sore."

Cerys barked a laugh that carried above all the hubbub. "Don't whine—he pounded me the same amount." Her grin flashed feral; the freckles across her nose darkened with heat.

Mikhailis's ears went scarlet to the tips. Serelith elbowed him gently. "See? Equal opportunity disaster."

They reached a candy-apple vendor draped in red paper dragons. Mikhailis insisted on paying, then handed Serelith the stickiest specimen, caramel still dripping. She took an exaggerated lick, eyes half-closing. "Trying to bribe me?"

"Bribe?" Mikhailis gasped, palm to chest, playing affronted bard. "Merely paying tuition fees for last night's… lesson plan."

Cerys, cheeks full of chestnut, snorted so hard she nearly inhaled the nut. "You'll bankrupt the crown if you keep rewarding her 'lessons'."

They wandered past puppet stages—little heroes slaying cloth dragons—past a wishing-well ringed in lovers tying ribbons, past a smith heating tiny decorative daggers to stamp festival runes. All the while Serelith's eyes worked: counting visible guards (too few), mapping alleys, noting which roofs offered an archer clear line of sight on the prince.

A stall stacked with garish wooden practice swords snagged Mikhailis's attention. He spun on his heel, cloak fluttering. "Duel! Loser buys… those obscene plates of fried dough dusted in iridescent sugar."

Cerys's pupils lit like torch-tips. "You'll regret this, Magister."

Serelith accepted a hilt, ribbon-wrapped, and twirled it until air shrilled. "Don't cry when I dent your pride, Lone Wolf."

The crowd sensed good sport at once. Space opened in the lane, onlookers hooting. Mikhailis leapt onto an upturned cider barrel to play announcer. "Ladies and gentlemen, behold! In the left corner, crimson scourge of the bandit horde—Dame Cerys Talwynn! In the right, mistress of midnight mischief—Lady Serelith Vyrel!"

Cerys gave a curt warrior's salute with the wooden blade. Serelith dipped into an exaggerated curtsey that flashed one slim boot. Inside, her mind ticked: three suspicious faces near the pottery stall—two men, one woman, all too sober, eyes flicking between her hood and Mikhailis's back. Keep them in periphery.

Mikhailis dropped a shredded ribbon—improvised starting flag.

Cerys attacked first, textbook diagonal cut. Serelith parried, letting the block slide into a flourish that flicked her cloak like wings. The crowd cheered. She retreated two steps, giving her gaze line-of-sight past Cerys's shoulder. The trio pretended interest in ceramic whistles. Noted.

Second pass. Serelith shifted her weight, executed a dancer's spin, brought flat edge to tap Cerys's ribs. "First blood," she sang.

Cerys's answering grin was wicked. "Lucky swing."

They reset. Mikhailis delivered comedic commentary: "And there she goes, our fiery knight, brandishing righteous fury—oh, that pottery vendor just saved his stock by inches!" The crowd howled.

Third clash—Cerys's riposte nearly tagged Serelith's hip. She blocked, but her cloak hem caught beneath her boot; balance tilted. Before disaster she redirected momentum, thumping Cerys's wrist. Point to mage—but she had to catch herself against a wine crate, pulse hammering. Fog at edges of vision—no, just stress. She exhaled slow, rolled her shoulders.

While Cerys saluted the crowd, Serelith risked a glance—Pottery trio splitting. One man heading deeper into stalls, the woman pausing to buy a fan, the second man slowly circling opposite direction. A pincer move, maybe. Target? Probably Mikhailis.

Fourth bout turned slapstick: Serelith feinted high, cloak tangled again, Cerys lunged—both crashed into a fishmonger's display tub. Water, eels, and squeals erupted. The market broke into raucous applause. Mikhailis doubled over laughing, pretended to judge "artistic water form."

Even the tension inside Serelith had to cede a breath of laugh—Cerys looked like a drenched fox, hair plastered to cheeks. But the second pottery man had vanished during the commotion. Damn.

Mikhailis purchased ridiculous eel-shaped plushies from the flustered fishmonger as "consolation prizes." He draped one over each woman's shoulders. Serelith would have teased him, but her gaze tracked the pottery woman—now speaking to two cloaked figures near a tarot tent.

"Tarot reading, anyone?" Mikhailis chirped, jabbing a thumb toward the purple-and-gold marquee that had sprouted between two lantern poles like a particularly gaudy mushroom. His grin was boyish, the lamp-light gilding the curls that fell over his brow. "Come on—could be fun. They might predict how many fried dough spirals I can eat before Rodion lectures me."

Cerys, still dripping from her recent plunge into the eel tub, wrung another ribbon of water from her ponytail. "I'd rather spar real swords," she muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk's even half tired, kept drifting to the dense crowd behind them.

"I see." Mikhailis tilted his head, pretending to scan the stalls that stretched away like a river of color. "There's a caramel-almond stand I've been eyeing for a while. I'll fetch us something sweet. Wait here, both of you—and try not to set anything on fire, please." He touched Serelith's elbow in passing, a silent promise he would not go far, then slipped into the throng with that effortless coil-and-weave gait of his, vanishing behind a tower of hanging paper lanterns shaped like moons.

Serelith watched his cloak until the last scrap of brown cloth blurred into festival motion. Only then did she breathe out the knot that had claimed her lungs since the pottery-stall trio disappeared. She wiped a caramel smear from her thumb, licked it absently, and flicked Cerys a sly smile meant to hide how tight her shoulders felt.

A gaudy tent striped in royal purple and sunrise gold crouched beside a pawn-game booth, incense curling from its mouth like lazy dragon smoke. A cracked wooden sign dangled over the entrance: FATES FORETOLD—SECRETS REVEALED in paint that glittered faintly with crushed mica. Serelith would have glided right past, but a voice rasped from the gloom within—old, brittle, yet carrying oddly clear over the clang of cymbals.

"Ah, the fierce sorceress and the loyal wolf. Shall I tell when your hidden hearts will shine?"

Heat shot up Serelith's throat, lodging behind her ears. Cerys froze mid-step, hand drifting toward her cloak clasp. The tent flap stirred as if breathed upon. Neither woman could have said who moved first, but their boots scraped the matting together, and in a heartbeat they slipped through the opening like thieves ducking into a safe house.

Inside, the scent of myrrh, cedar, and old parchment pressed close, thick enough to taste. Colored glass lamps swung from cords overhead, washing the cramped space in emerald, sapphire, and rose—each hue sliding over the velvet drapes like slow water. Cards lay fanned on a low table etched with constellations; in their flickering edges Serelith imagined tiny comets racing.

Behind the table the fortune teller perched on a cushion—a woman so withered she looked carved from driftwood, yet her black-marble eyes glittered with unsettling life. She gestured to silk pillows. "Sit. Truth is easier on the knees than on the pride."

Serelith clasped her gloved hands behind her back, letting a slow, skeptical smile bloom. "Parlour tricks bore me, grandmother," she said, voice languid. "I weave fates—I don't purchase them."

The crone's cracked lips curved. "Perhaps you'd rather I sing of a prince you hide behind laughter. Lantern-lit kisses that no court must see?" Her gaze flicked to Cerys. "Or of the knight whose growling heart begs to be stroked though her teeth stay bared?"

Cerys's scowl faltered, color flaring high on her freckled cheeks. Serelith's pulse spiked, a drum beneath her ribs. That could be guesswork… yet something in the old woman's tone pried open memory like a lockpick. frёewebηovel.cѳm

The seer reached across the table with a finger that shook less than it should. "You, Lady Magician, live in two mirrors—one reflecting devotion to your queen, the other reflecting hunger for the prince who fills your nights." Her voice softened to a teasing whisper. "Midnight balconies. Doors that never quite latch. And just last eve—was it a balcony rail? No… horseback, perhaps?"

Serelith's confident smirk wavered; her breath caught on caramel fumes. Cerys's ears blazed scarlet. Impossible, Serelith thought. No spy saw that.

The crone tapped three upturned tarot cards: The Lovers, The Tower, The Shadow. "One guards, one guides, both covet. And your devotions braid tighter than you fear." Her gaze pierced Serelith like a slender dagger. "Tell me, how often does a queen-rank mage bow to fear?"

Serelith fought the urge to cast a silence charm just to stop those words. Instead she tossed her cloak hem—as if swatting away nerves—and sat. Velvet hissed. Cerys dropped beside her, posture stiff enough to snap.

Without warning the fortune teller produced three tiny porcelain cups from beneath the table. In each, jewel-red liquid trembled. "To calm racing hearts," she crooned, offering one cup to each woman and setting the third at an empty place where Mikhailis might have sat.

Curiosity nipped harder than caution. Serelith lifted her cup, inhaling the fragrance—sweet wine, maybe pomegranate? She sipped. A syrupy warmth slid over her tongue, pleasant for half a heartbeat. Then a curious numbness bloomed, spreading to the roof of her mouth like frost. Her pupils dilated; lantern light smeared the colors of the room into dripping shapes. Across the low table Cerys swayed, grip loosening on her drink. Crystal struck carpet with a soft chime.

"You… old—" Cerys slurred, dragging her short sword free an inch. The blade winked in lavender light.

The fortune teller flinched, genuine horror bright in her eyes. "No! I did not—"

The rear flap burst inward before she could finish. Four men spilled through, cloaks dark, boots whisper-soft on straw flooring. The lead thug's face was shadowed beneath a wide hood, but silver flashed at his belt. His gaze swept the tent, cold and deliberate, then jerked toward the front exit. "The prince is close. Finish them. Quick."

Serelith's heart slammed against her ribs. Not the seer—the intruders. She heaved to her feet, but her body felt wrapped in damp wool. Thoughts slogged through treacle; the wine had been spiked—light dose, enough to slow spellcasting.

Cerys, though swaying, planted her boots and yanked the blade free. No flourish, no threat display—just naked intent. "Come then," she snarled, voice shredded but steady.

The thugs advanced. Serelith thrust out her palm. Violet sparks snaked into being, but the arcane lattice unraveled mid-air, falling in ash sparks to the carpet. Panic clawed her stomach. She bit her lip hard—copper burst on her tongue—forcing focus long enough to scratch sigils through the air. A translucent barrier shimmered into existence, thin as a soap bubble between them and the assailants.

One thug sneered, ramming his sword into the barrier. It flexed, rippled, but held. Serelith felt the impact reverberate up her forearm like a punch; her knees dipped under the pull of casting fatigue. "Cerys… hold them," she gasped, tasting every heartbeat pounding in her throat.

Cerys answered with steel. Even poisoned, her form was lethal economy: slash to wrist, kick to knee, pommel crack to jaw. One attacker crumpled. Another lunged low, dirk catching Cerys's shoulder. Red bloomed across her sleeve. Still she pivoted, elbow driving into ribs, forcing him back.

Behind beads and tassels the fortune teller cowered, palms raised. "I swear, that drink was not mine! Some stranger slipped me the vials!"

Serelith's vision tunneled. Each breath felt like drawing air through cloth. Think. Protect Mikhailis. She pictured his easy grin, that slight furrow between brows when he worried. Rage ignited like dry tinder. Lightning spat from her fingertips—wild, raw—arcing across the tent in a blinding ribbon. It sheared a thug's sword in half and hurled him against a support pole; wood cracked.

The world dimmed at the edges. She swayed. Darkness lapped like wavelets around her boots. One attacker remained, hesitation quivering in his stance. Cerys stepped in front of Serelith, eyes molten. Blood slid down her arm, but her sword came up. "Touch him and die."

Serelith scraped for one more spark of power. Wind coiled around her wrists, howling into the tiny space. Canvas walls flapped like startled birds; colored lamps guttered, shadows strobing. The last thug cursed, stumbled back. He hurled a smoke vial that detonated in a hiss of grey fog, and he bolted out the side flap, boots pounding into night.

Silence crashed down, louder than the scuffle. Acrid smoke stung eyes and throat. A tongue of flame skittered along a rent in the canvas where lightning had scorched; orange light danced across bead curtains.

Serelith's legs folded. She would have kissed the dirt if Cerys hadn't lunged forward, catching her under the arms. Cerys's face was pale as moonmilk beneath freckles, but her grip was solid iron. "Easy. Breathe."

"We need—need to warn him," Serelith whispered, lashes fluttering. Each syllable felt dragged through sludge.

"First breathe," Cerys insisted, though her own knees wobbled. She cleaned her blade on a fallen cloak, eyes never leaving the tent flap.

"I will not… let them harm him," Serelith breathed, forcing weight onto dead-feeling legs. The world swam. She pushed again, but her knees laughed at her rebellion. "Must… stand…"

Canvas rippled as a night breeze stirred embers. Sparks chased along seams with ominous crackles. The fortune teller crawled from behind the bead curtain, hands shaking as she pulled at a water jug to douse flames.

Serelith's thoughts thinned to a single bright thread: Mikhailis—find him—shield him. She pried one hand free of Cerys's support, tried to weave another sigil, but purple light sputtered like a dying coal.

Her eyelids drooped. Lanterns blurred to watery halos. Noise faded, replaced by a distant roaring hush. Cerys's urgent voice came through syrup-thick, but words slipped away.

No… not yet… She clawed at consciousness, fingers twitching in a half-formed rune. A spark wavered, then guttered out. The edges of the world closed like curtains drawn against dawn.

And darkness engulfed her.