The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 548: The Holy Saintess of The Tree (1)

The Sacred Grove of Silvarion Thalor still dozed beneath early-morning haze, a hush so complete the world felt paused between two heart-beats. Dew hung like tiny diamonds on every fern; wisps of silver mist threaded lazily through the roots of titanic silverwood trees, their trunks wide as guard-towers and their leaves aglow with a soft lunar sheen. High overhead, branches intertwined to form a living cathedral, stray shafts of dawn pouring through the lattice and scattering coins of white-gold light across the moss.

The Lady Saintess stepped into one of those light-coins and seemed fashioned from it. Each time she lifted a foot the moss sighed, springy and cool against her bare skin. A strand of her long platinum hair caught the breeze, floating for a heartbeat before settling across her collarbone. She brushed it back without breaking stride, fingertips lingering on the faint warmth sunlight had left there. Around her shoulders her robes swirled—silver-white silk so thin it looked spun from cloud, sleeves embroidered with tiny runes that glimmered whenever she took a breath.

She loved these quiet minutes before duty pulled her in a dozen directions. Here every sound felt intimate: the liquid trill of far-off star-finches, the sleepy creak of an ancient bough stretching after the night, even the soft rustle of her own robes. She inhaled and tasted petrichor, crushed mint, and something faintly sweet—the scent of night-blooming moon-orchids curling closed as daylight advanced.

At the Blessed Spring a sheet of water as clear as blown glass spilled over polished stone. She knelt, movements slow, reverent. Coolness slid across her wrists, up her forearms, coiling pleasantly in her veins. The sensation always reminded her how small she was beside the powers she served. Cupping her wet palms, she touched them to her cheeks, then to her heart. A sigh slipped out—a small sound that stirred several glimmer-sparrows perched nearby. They answered with a chirrup that chimed like tiny bells.

She began the morning hymn, voice rising in soft, even measures. No temple roof contained the sound, yet it folded back on itself beneath the vast canopy, an echo both crisp and distant. Ethereal birds took up a counter-melody; petals unlaced from tight buds and drifted lazily through the air, brushing her shoulders like confetti. When the final note faded, the mist at her feet swirled upward, hugging her calves as though reluctant to let her go.

A twig snapped behind her. She turned to find Alaric waiting at a respectful distance, silver-plated gauntlets tucked under one arm so as not to clang.

"Lady Saintess," he greeted, voice pitched low—as if afraid to disturb a dream.

The corners of her mouth curved in gentle welcome. "Good morning, Alaric. You rise earlier every day."

"The wards rest easier when I see them with my own eyes, my Lady," he replied. Despite the formality, warmth shone in his expression—a silent assurance that all was well beyond the grove.

She liked that about him: unflappable, but never cold. "Then we share the same habit," she said, and brushed past him, fingertips grazing the embroidered sigil on his pauldron in thanks.

They walked together toward the inner sanctum. Ferns parted at their passing, closing again behind like faithful doors. Tiny motes of luminescence hovered among the roots, casting soft halos on their boots. Motifs of leaf and vine twined up sculpted pillars of living wood, natural and intentional at once.

The Holy Tree dominated the clearing—so vast its crown was lost in a glittering canopy. Its bark carried faint veins of light, pulsing slowly like a giant heart. She always felt that, if she pressed her ear against the trunk, she would hear an ancient lullaby in a language too old to speak.

At the wide stone dais before the tree, the Saintess sank to both knees, hands resting lightly on her thighs. Alaric halted at the edge, honour-bound never to intrude upon the communion. She breathed out, long and steady.

"Great Tree of Silvarion," she whispered, "your servant seeks your whisper."

Leaves rustled high above—not merely stirred by wind but in response. Threads of silver-blue luminance cascaded down the trunk, converging into vines that snaked forward with unhurried grace. One tendril brushed her brow. Where it touched, warmth blossomed, sliding behind her eyes and tugging her consciousness inward.

Sound fell away. Sight narrowed to silver haze. She drifted, weightless, until shapes assembled—a corridor of shifting light, a gate of moonlit mist. Beyond stood a figure, tall and sharply outlined against the glow. Light struck silver off his tousled blond hair; shadows flirted with the curve of a knowing smile. His eyes—clear, playful, dangerous—fixed on hers and refused to let go.

Something inside her stuttered. The dream-man stepped closer, boots silent on unseen ground. He reached for her hand—not gently, not roughly, but with a confidence that assumed she would give it. When their fingers touched, heat leaped up her arm, bursting like sunrise through every nerve.

"You've finally come," he murmured, voice velvet with a teasing edge. His breath grazed her cheek, impossibly real, carrying a hint of crushed spice and sweet wine. Startled, she felt her own breath hitch, felt colour flood her face—could one blush inside a vision?

Before she could answer, his other hand slid to her waist, drawing her forward until silk met leather, until her rapid heartbeat drummed against the steadier rhythm in his chest. The warmth of his palm spread across her spine, grounding and igniting all at once.

He leaned down, lips ghosting across the shell of her ear. "I wondered how long the tree would keep you from me." Every syllable vibrated against her skin, each vibration a spark. She tried to summon composure, to remember prayers or sacred tongues, but the words disintegrated. All that remained was sensation.

His fingers traced a languid path up her back, leaving embers in their wake. The other hand tilted her chin. For a suspended moment she drowned in silver-blue eyes shining with mirth and hunger. Then his mouth covered hers.

Fire bloomed. The kiss was gentle only for the span of a sigh, then deepened—part question, part claim. Her knees weakened though she was not standing; she clutched at the front of his coat, shocked by the strength of her own need. A low hum escaped her throat, half protest, half invitation.

He tasted of midnight and risk, of Neriona wine sipped from a forbidden chalice. His tongue coaxed hers, a dance she had never practised yet somehow knew. Heat coiled in her belly, pooled lower, an ache both thrilling and terrifying. Instinctively she pressed closer, seeking anchor and acceleration in equal measure.

A gloved thumb swept the corner of her mouth—tender, proprietary. He broke the kiss just far enough to tease, breath mingling with hers. "You're sweeter than legend," he said, her name implied though never spoken.

"I don't even know you," she managed, voice trembling.

He grinned, wicked and fond. "You will." Fingers brushed the hollow of her throat, mapping its fluttering rhythm, then drifted down the curve of her robe as if the fabric were smoke. "I will know every sigh you hide, every prayer you whisper."