The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 514: Sugar and Shadows (1)

The festival lights shimmered like a newborn galaxy over Silvarion's winding streets, each colored lantern a tiny sun that tugged at Mikhailis's wander-born heart. Banners rustled overhead like lazy kites, and flute trills skipped across the rooftops, weaving into drumbeats that thumped against his ribs. Crowds squeezed past in bright waves—elves in leaf-green cloaks, dwarven traders jangling with copper rings, children darting under tables to chase dream-moths released for luck.

He let the tide carry him, cloak open, boots scuffling soot and sawdust. In his gloved hand a fritter still steamed, honey glistening down the crisp ridges. He tore off a bite; sugar crackled, molten sweetness hit his tongue, and for a moment everything else—politics, secrets, responsibilities—melted away.

<Mikhailis, you exhibit the impulse control of a magpie loose in a jeweler's. Your glucose intake has exceeded recommended thresholds by one-hundred-and-thirty-two percent.>

Worry later, he answered inwardly, die happy now. A thin ribbon of honey escaped, threatening his chin; he licked it before it could fall, earning a scandalized gasp from an old matron passing by. He winked an apology, which only deepened her blush.

One stall over, copper pans hissed where almonds tumbled through molten caramel. The air smelled of toasted sugar and warm spice. He paid double for a bag still hot enough to sting his palm, then flicked two extra coins into the vendor's tip jar.

"Bless you, sir!" the woman beamed, eyes crinkling.

"Share it with the fiddlers so they play faster," Mikhailis said, juggling a fresh almond into his mouth. The shell snapped, butter and brown sugar filling every corner of taste. He sighed like a poet finally finding the right rhyme.

A trio of acrobats flipped past, streamers fluttering from their wrists. One landed beside him, cheeks flushed from exertion, and thrust out a painted wooden token. "Luck for the night, traveler!"

He traded an almond for the token—an impish face carved in miniature. "Fair deal," he declared, slipping it into a pocket already bulging with snacks, trinkets, and the half-crumbled dignity of a royal consort who refused to behave.

<At this rate you will require your title changed to "Prince Candied.">

"Prince Confection sounds better," he muttered around another almond, voice muffled.

The acrobat giggled, already cartwheeling away. Mikhailis shook sugared crumbs from his gloves and pushed deeper into the festival current. A masked mime offered an exaggerated bow; he answered with a flourishing spin that sent his cloak flaring like black silk. Cheers followed—apparently they mistook him for part of the show. He shot the mime a playful salute, then let himself be swallowed by the next surge of revelers.

A pair of young lovers argued over whether to buy a rose-quartz charm; Mikhailis slipped a coin onto the stall and whispered, "For your first anniversary." Their stunned thanks trailed after him like petals on water.

That buoyant warmth cracked, though, when a sudden needle of chill pricked the back of his neck. He paused mid-step. The music wavered—it was still there, yet somehow distant, as though muffled by glass. Mana in the air vibrated off-key, a single string in a chorus strained just past harmony.

<Detected. Anomalous mana flux. Origin uncertain. Recommend elevated caution.>

He masked the jolt with a leisurely stretch, rolling a shoulder as if shaking off stiffness. Eyes half-lidded, he scanned. Jugglers tossed flaming batons near a fountain. A dwarven brewer argued prices with a lanky elf. Nothing out of place. Yet the hair at his nape stood rigid.

Subtle, he reminded himself. Inside his pocket his fingers tapped a short rhythm against the leather—command code Delta-Seven. Spread and report. Tiny receivers stitched in his cuffs pulsed the signal outward. Across stall roofs and lampposts, half-hidden beetles stilled, antennae quivering as orders changed. To any onlooker they were humble insects; in truth, scout-class Worker Ants piping silent data back to Rodion.

He bought time with more theater, ambling to a glassblower's kiln. Heated sand glowed white-orange behind crystalline walls. He complimented the artisan, asked three questions about flux ratios—enough chatter to sell the image of a curious noble killing time—while data streamed in faint pulses against his wrist rune. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

<Scan results inconclusive. However, one oversight remains. Serelith and Cerys. Their current vector lies outside grid fifty-eight. Coverage gap persists.>

Cooling glass hissed as the blower quenched a hummingbird figure. The sound echoed the sudden hollow thud of Mikhailis's heart. The festival swirl seemed to tilt. Lanterns flickered too fast, shadows too slow.

Serelith. Cerys. Images flashed bright—Serelith's sly violet smirk above the rim of a wineglass; Cerys rolling her eyes yet hiding a grin after some terrible pun. Two pillars of his world. Powerful, yes, but still flesh and blood.

He spoke without moving his lips. "Rodion. Update. Now."

<Calculating… Scanning… No active distress pings. No visual confirmation. No traces.>

The words felt colder than northern steel. A hollowness yawned under his ribs, threatening to swallow his buoyant good mood whole. For a breath he couldn't taste almonds anymore, only the coppery sting of fear.

A pair of teenagers jostled past, arguing over drum sticks, nearly clipping his elbow. He didn't flinch. He barely noticed. His mind raced—If they'd left the surveillance net it meant deliberate movement, maybe lured. Calm down. Think.

He exhaled slow, tasting smoke and cinnamon. Cerys can break stone with her bare hands, Serelith can set half this district alight with a flick. If they vanished, someone planned around that.

The festival's shimmer dulled, rhythm replaced by a war drum thud of his pulse. He planted a smile on his face—it felt brittle—and forced himself into motion, weaving back the way he'd come with unhurried steps that belied the urgency coiling inside.

Every face he passed he catalogued automatically: a bard with shifting glamour—harmless; a cloaked figure too small to pose threat; a group of sailors reeking of mead. Yet he felt the hostile ripple again, somewhere just beyond obvious sight, like a spiderplucked webline in the dark.

Another fritter vendor called out discounts; he waved her off, appetite gone. Focus. Cloak rustled as he slid one almond bag inside, freeing both hands. A practiced tug loosened the weapon-belt hidden under the casual layers—a slim sword masquerading as decoration. Tonight it might earn its keep.

A child darted underfoot chasing a glowing tumbler beetle. Mikhailis scooped the boy's collar before he tripped, set him upright, ruffled his hair. The mother mouthed thanks. He barely heard it through the roar in his ears. Sorry, little one. Bigger monsters to catch.

He angled into a side lane where denser shadows pooled between shuttered pottery shops. The mana prickling worsened here, swirling eddies where someone had worked… something. Not raw power—more like carefully-woven blankets to muffle noise. He recognized the texture; Serelith had taught him the signs of silencing wards. The edges were sloppy. Whoever cast them wasn't her calibre but knew enough to imitate.

A pulse of dread hardened to resolve. They were here.

He snapped fingers once, short and sharp. A black beetle dropped from the sign above, clicking mandibles. He lowered two knuckles; it scrambled onto his glove, projecting a tiny light glyph. No audio, only a blank feed—scout's last memory had been severed. The ward jammed its senses.

<Local interference aligns with low-grade muting sigils. Purpose: conceal struggle. Probability of ambush site: 88 percent.>

His gaze traced faint scuffs on the clay tiles, a smear of silver dust—Serelith's signature alchemical mix for quick glyph drawing. A broken fish-scale, dyed crimson—Cerys's hair ornament shredded in motion. The pieces whispered a tale of sudden surprise, frantic pushback, overwhelming numbers.

Heat flushed his veins, not anger but a cold, clinical fire. He crouched, pressing fingertips to the dust. Six, maybe seven sets of prints. Heavy, staggered—toxins? Did they drug them? He swore under his breath, soft and lethal.

"Rodion. Elevate threat to crimson." His whisper barely stirred the night air.

<Acknowledged. Deploying additional Scurabon patrols. Main body ETA three minutes fifteen seconds.>

Three minutes could be eternity. He straightened, cloak settling like dark water around his calves. The laughter from the main avenue felt miles away now. He slid into its periphery, eyes fixed on the disturbance trail that pointed… west. Of course. Toward the old merchant quarter—derelict warehouses, thin guard routes, too much noise from fireworks to notice a scream.

The almond bag crinkled as his fingers clenched. He exhaled again, letting tension bleed into focus. Shoulders rolled back, stance loose. He rehearsed the map in his head—three alleys, a narrow bridge over the canal, then the lantern yard. Plenty of rooftops for pursuit.

Heart steadying, he stepped into the westbound alley, every sense strung tight as a bowstring.

Panic still tried to claw up, but he caged it. Calm down. Think.

Without another thought, Mikhailis exploded into motion. Cobblestones rattled under his boots as he wove between festival-goers who had no idea a storm now tore through their peaceful night. A cluster of masked dancers spun across his path—he slipped sideways, cape skimming bright silk skirts, and vaulted a barrel draped with ribbons. An onlooker gasped, mistaking him for some daring street performer. He heard nothing except the blood-thick roar of urgency in his ears.

The music behind him smeared into discordant echoes. Drums turned to distant thunder, flutes to shrill seabirds. Lanterns swung overhead, their pastel halos stretching into streaks of color as he sprinted—pink, green, gold, then black as an archway swallowed him.

They're strong. They're smart. But I need eyes on them, now.