The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 530: Secrets Beneath the Lens (3)

"L-Look at his face… the way he… looks at you…" Serelith whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of awe and longing.

Cerys's fingers brushed her own lips, a soft, unconscious touch. "And the way you arch for him… I didn't know… I didn't know I could look like that…"

In the playback, Mikhailis's deep voice rumbled through the display, a growl that made both women's knees weaken. "You're both… so beautiful… I can't… I can't get enough…"

They watched as his hands gripped Serelith's waist, pulling her back to meet his every thrust. Her moans grew louder, her head thrown back, eyes glazed, a quivering smile on her lips. The angle shifted, showing Cerys's thighs squeezing around his hips, her hands clawing at his back, her lips crashing against his, her muffled gasps swallowed in their heated kiss.

The wet, slapping sounds grew faster, a desperate, frantic rhythm. Serelith's voice, a high, breathless wail. "M-Mikhailis! I'm… I'm going to—"

"Me too…! Gods… don't stop…!" Cerys's voice mingled with hers, the two cries blending in perfect, desperate harmony.

Their bodies quivered, and then the playback shifted, capturing the fierce, shuddering climax—Serelith collapsing forward, her trembling form held up by Mikhailis's strong arms, while Cerys's body tensed, back arching, her head thrown back as a strangled moan spilled from her lips.

The two women watching in the corridor leaned closer, breathless, eyes wide. Their shoulders touched, and neither pulled away. The heat between them was palpable—an invisible thread of shared desire, of shared memory. Cerys's fingers curled at her side, desperate to touch, to feel that rush again. Serelith's breath came in soft, quivering gasps, her lips slightly parted.

"I… I can feel it… just watching…" Serelith whispered.

"Me too… gods, me too…" Cerys's voice was barely a breath.

The display panned out, showing the three of them tangled together, a perfect, sinful tableau of shared passion. Their voices, ragged and breathless, filled the corridor.

"M-Mikhailis… yes… yes…!" Serelith's voice trembled.

"Don't… don't stop…" Cerys's voice begged.

They watched, caught in the vivid playback, pulses racing, hearts pounding. And then—

"What in the God-Emperor's name are you two doing loitering in the corridor after dusk?"

The voice sliced through the thick, heated air like a blade. Both women jolted, the display blinking out in a flash. They spun around, hearts racing, to see Prime Minister Aelthrin standing just a few paces away. Tall, sharp-featured, with silver spectacles perched on his thin nose, his expression was one of stern curiosity tinged with disapproval.

Serelith's mouth opened and closed like a fish on dry land, her cheeks blazing crimson. Cerys snapped to a rigid salute, her face burning with shame.

Aelthrin's gaze swept over them, noting their flushed cheeks, their wide, guilty eyes, the faint shimmer of the monocle and visor still fading. "Serelith. Cerys. What… exactly were you doing?" His voice was calm, but the sharp edge beneath was impossible to miss.

"I-It's nothing!" Cerys stammered, the words tumbling out too fast. "I was just… consulting… about… about magic! Yes, magic theory!"

Serelith blinked, then nodded quickly. "And I was consulting about… about a warrior technique. Yes. Very advanced. Positioning and… uh… impact analysis."

Aelthrin's silver brows rose, but his lips curled into a faint, skeptical smile. "Consulting each other about magic and warrior techniques? You two? That's… rare. Pleasantly so, but rare."

Cerys forced a stiff smile, still trembling slightly. "Well… we… we're just trying to… expand our knowledge."

"Expand… indeed." Aelthrin's voice lingered on the word with an almost teasing hint. He glanced between them, noting the way they both seemed frozen, like mice caught in a trap. But then he sighed, his tone softening.

"Well, whatever you were 'consulting,' keep it brief. The Queen is currently at the sacred temple, meeting with Saintess Myria Elthea, with Lady Vyrelda accompanying her. I hope nothing untoward is happening there."

Serelith and Cerys exchanged a brief, startled glance—Elowen meeting the saintess? That was news.

"Of course, Prime Minister," Serelith managed, forcing her voice steady. "We… we will get back to our duties immediately."

"See that you do," Aelthrin said, turning with a swish of his indigo robes. He walked away, his sharp footsteps echoing down the marble corridor.

The moment his figure disappeared around the corner, Serelith and Cerys sagged against the wall, hearts still hammering.

"Oh gods…" Serelith whispered, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth. "He… he didn't see… did he?"

"No, but…" Cerys swallowed, wiping sweat from her brow. "But we… we were so close…"

A flicker of that heat remained, pulsing beneath their shame. Their eyes met, lingering for just a moment. And though their cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, the ember of shared desire hadn't dimmed.

"Later?" Serelith whispered, her voice low and shy.

Cerys bit her lip, nodding. "Yes… later."

But they didn't dare linger, each turning and walking quickly in opposite directions—yet stealing one last glance over their shoulders, hearts still racing.

_____

Moon-white braziers lined the central nave of the Sacred Temple, their flames scenting the air with sandalwood and crushed rose hips. Each step Elowen took rang softly against mosaicked stone, the sound swallowed almost at once by soaring vaults overhead. Starlight filtered through a lattice of crystal panes, painting moving constellations across her silver-and-blue gown. At her temples, the slender arms of her glasses glimmered—a sign only she recognized that Rodion was awake and watching.

Ahead, Saintess Myria Elthea waited upon the dais. She stood statuesque between two marble pillars carved with ancient hymns, dark umber skin glowing in the firelight. A circlet of moon-opal crowned her tightly coiled hair, and a ceremonial staff—ivory wrapped in living vines—rested lightly against her palm. When her golden eyes lifted to meet Elowen's, warmth and warning mingled in equal measure.

Elowen inclined her head, allowing a lock of ivory-blonde hair to slip neatly over her shoulder. "Blessings of the moon upon you, Saintess."

Myria's answering smile was gentle, almost affectionate, yet something sharper hid beneath. "And starlight upon your path, Your Majesty. It is always a joy to welcome a living descendant of Heliandria's line."

Rodion's cool undertone slipped into Elowen's ear.

<Heart rate stable. Micro-tremor detected in subject's left hand—possible excitement or suppressed irritation. Recommend neutral politeness, elevated caution.>

Noted. Elowen kept her gaze soft. "You asked for this audience. I trust the journey from the western cloisters was pleasant?"

"The road was smooth." Myria motioned toward a pair of cushioned benches before the altar. "But the omens along it were… interesting."

They sat. Incense spiraled between them, a lazy dragon curling toward the ceiling. Elowen folded her hands in her lap, feeling the subtle pressure of mana threads woven through her skirts—tiny wards Rodion had suggested for today.

Myria's staff pulsed once, sapphire light racing up the living vines. "The last time we spoke, I warned you the prince consort might be a lantern that burns itself out by your side."

Elowen's mouth curved serenely. "I recall." Internally she tasted a flicker of irritation but banked it with a slow breath.

The saintess tilted her head. "And yet I sense no failing flame. Quite the opposite. Your aura feels brighter than before—like fertile earth after rain."

Rodion: <Sub-context: She tests reaction. Recommending ambiguous affirmation—neither boastful nor defensive.>

"Mikhailis inspires many," Elowen said. "His curiosity is… infectious."

"Mm." Myria's eyes narrowed, playful but probing. "In the span of a single harvest, your kingdom's grain count rose by thirty percent. Orchards once dying from blight now bear fruit in winter's edge. Curious."

Elowen clasped her hands tighter. Stay gentle. "We implemented new irrigation ditches, recalibrated soil glyphs… sometimes simple solutions wait for the right mind to ask the right question."

Myria's smile told her she didn't believe it was simple at all. "Prophecies are like river stones—polished, turned, never quite still. Perhaps I misread the current." She leaned forward. "May I meet the prince consort soon? Firsthand communion clarifies many a vision."

Rodion flickered a warning. <High-risk request. Buying time advised.>

Elowen lifted her teacup from the side table—moon-bloom petals floated on the surface—using the motion to mask her eyes as she weighed answers. "He maintains a busy schedule supporting our scholars," she said, voice lilting. "Were I to permit an audience, I should like to prepare a proper welcome."

"Of course." Myria's tone held no sting, yet her staff vines curled tighter, green tendrils flexing. "Storm clouds gather, Majesty. When next thunder rolls, I pray your house is ready."

Elowen set the cup down, porcelain clicking softly. "I pray the same for all Valaris." She rose, silk skirts sighing across the polished floor. "Your guidance, as ever, is appreciated."

The saintess stood too, staff tapping the mosaic with a hollow chime. "Prophecies shift. Hearts shift faster." She offered a curious half-bow. "Until we speak again."

<Retreat path clear—no hostiles detected,> Rodion murmured as Elowen exited beneath the crystal lattice. <Data extraction minimal. She shields her thoughts behind divine wards. Impressive.>

Yes, Elowen agreed silently, heartbeat easing once the cool corridor embraced her. And worrisome.

At the foot of the temple steps, Vyrelda waited astride a sleek midnight mare. The commander's ash-blonde braid was bound with silver chords, her armor polished to mirror bright winter skies. On seeing the Queen, she dismounted, eyes scanning for threats even in this sanctified ground.

"Everything all right, Your Majesty?" Vyrelda asked, offering an arm to help Elowen into the waiting carriage.

Elowen accepted, settling on the velvet seat. "A discussion of rains and harvests. Little more." She let a soft smile bloom; only Vyrelda would note the faint strain around her eyes.

The commander raised an eyebrow but didn't press. "Captain Jorel rides ahead. We'll be at the palace within the hour." She closed the carriage door with care, then swung up beside the driver.

As wheels rattled over cobblestone, Rodion whispered updates—minor border skirmish defused, latest crop forecasts, a polite reminder to review the next treaty draft—but Elowen's mind kept drifting back to Myria's golden stare.

<Query: You appear distracted.>

"I dislike riddles spoken as truth," she murmured, leaning her head against the plush cushion. "Yet I cannot ignore a holy woman's visions."

<Strategy suggestion: Provide the saintess controlled access—public setting, limited duration, thorough security. Mitigates suspicion while preserving secrets.>

"Perhaps." Her gaze strayed to the passing rooftops, glowing coral under dusk. "But first, I want a quiet supper with my husband. No omens, no politics—just warmth."

<Noted. Scheduling adjustment: cancel minor council dinner.>

She smiled faintly. Thank you.

The carriage rattled through the palace gate. Moonstone lanterns sparked to life along ivy-clad arches, guiding her to the grand foyer. Servants dipped bows; a hush of reverence followed her progress down the marbled hall. Yet she moved with soft impatience—every minute away from Mikhailis felt suddenly magnified.

Halfway to the royal wing she slowed. Ahead, Serelith stood before a stained-glass window, violet robe glowing like twilight against ruby and sapphire panes. Her monocle dimmed, but her cheeks were startlingly pink, eyes fixed somewhere far away.

"Serelith?" Elowen called, gentle amusement lacing her voice.

The magician jerked, monocle flashing bright as if guilty. "N-Nothing!" Papers nearly slipped from her grasp; she scrambled to steady them, hair tumbling loose.

Elowen's laugh was light, affectionate. She'd worn a similar blush herself after long evenings with Mikhailis. "Do remember to breathe," she teased softly.

Serelith ducked her head, the tips of her ears turning violet. "Just… lost in calculations."

"Of course." Elowen's eyes sparkled. She fell into step beside the flustered mage, the faint lavender of Serelith's perfume mingling with her own jasmine and ink. Together they moved down the corridor, their footsteps echoing under vaulted ceilings.

Rodion, droll as ever, supplied a final whisper. <Observation: heart rates elevated for both parties. Hypothesis—recent exposure to explicit memory playback.>

Elowen pressed her lips to a polite line to hide a grin. I didn't ask for commentary, Rodion.

<Sarcasm module throttling to thirty-five percent.>

She shook her head fondly, amused at both servant and AI, and continued onward—toward hearthlight, toward Mikhailis, toward whatever storms prophecy might yet bring.