The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 597: Wake Up in The Lab (2)

"Alright, guys," he mouthed, turning toward a knot of chimera ants clustered near the distilling bench. "Cleanup. Whisper mode."

One lead worker—distinguished only by a slightly larger thorax and a daub of turquoise ink from yesterday’s spectrograph mishap—clicked twice in acknowledgment. The ants scattered like disciplined soldiers, each pairing off to a different corner. Tiny feet made almost no sound; only the faint hush of parchment sliding and the soft tap of glass vial meeting padded tray hinted at their work.

Mikhailis drifted among them, correcting angles, re-corking reagents, straightening an off-kilter lens stand. His fingers brushed a coil of silver filament. Serelith was rewiring the ether bridge... right before she decided my neck looked tastier. He smiled at the memory—how her giggle had echoed against copper plates, how her cheeks flushed darker each time he teased a rune out of place.

He found the monocle next, half-hanging off a pile of reference books titled Transmutable Flora, Vol. III. Careful not to smudge the lens, he folded its arm and perched it atop Serelith’s grimoire where she’d spot it first thing. For extra insurance he slid a bright orange ribbon—a makeshift placeholder—between the pages. She’d complain about the color choice; he looked forward to it.

Near the central pillar lay Lira’s glyph sheets, charcoal strokes marching in tiny, precise characters. Correction marks danced in the margins—Lira’s own ink mixed with Serelith’s mischievous doodles of chibi ants wearing lace aprons. He thumbed the edge of the top sheet, admiring how Lira’s pen pressure never wavered even during... distractions. Another lazy grin tugged at him. Elegant even in chaos, Miss Ponytail.

He stacked the papers by her elbow, aligning corners until they were perfect. A half-empty inkwell sat perilously close; one tilt and black ruin. He slid it three centimetres left and placed a cork over the nib.

Cerys’s battered leather gloves dangled from a stool, one finger torn where a buckle had snagged. He ran a thumb across the rip, feeling the callus lines etched into the hide. Fifteen years of sword work, and the only thing that breaks you is a love-crazy prince. He buffed the scuff with his sleeve then folded the gloves and laid them within arm’s reach of her outstretched hand.

The lead ant returned, balancing two fresh wool blankets on its back like a miniature pack-mule. Mikhailis knelt, whispered thanks, and lifted the soft bundles. The first he draped over Lira, tucking the hem beneath her chin. A stray strand of silky black hair curved across her cheek. He brushed it behind her ear, letting his thumb rest there an extra heartbeat. Her lips parted in sleep, a faint hum escaping. He smiled—noting the slight upward turn—then pulled back.

Cerys next. He laid the second blanket over her shoulders like a shield. She muttered—something about "flank" and "watch your left." The warrior never truly off duty. He adjusted the edge so it covered the scar along her collarbone, then pressed a reassuring hand to her forearm. "Rest easy, Wolf," he breathed.

Finally Serelith. He crouched, fingers ghosting over her knuckles. Her lips quirked, eyelids fluttering but not opening. For a second he imagined her waking, teasing him for acting like a mother hen. He pressed the blanket over her hips, smoothing the satin of her skirt, then allowed his thumb to trace a lazy circle on the back of her hand. Her pulse beat slow and content beneath his touch. He left a fleeting kiss on her knuckle—light enough not to wake her, heavy enough to satisfy his own heart—and rose.

Above, Rodion projected a stat counter: <Noise Level: 8 decibels. Acceptable.> The AI seemed almost smug.

Mikhailis answered with an exaggerated bow. "Your approval is my sunshine." He pivoted toward a cluster of ants organising gemstones by refractive index. "Good job, guys. Keep to the small parts. Silent as spiders."

The ants clacked in agreement, mandibles flashing, then resumed their ballet of precision—lifting shards of citrine hardly larger than bread crumbs, depositing them in velvet-lined trays. One particularly energetic worker attempted to hoist a quartz rod twice its length. It wobbled; its tiny legs scrabbled. Mikhailis lunged, pinching the rod just before gravity could claim it. He released a slow breath, setting the crystal upright in its stand.

The ant peeped an apologetic chirr. He offered a forgiving pat to its carapace. "We’ve all had long nights, friend."

He turned in a slow circle, surveying. The benches gleamed again, vials corked, quills stowed, loose reagents sealed. Only the soft chorus of sleeping breaths and the subtle shuffle of ant-feet remained. Satisfaction warmed him deeper than any hearth. It wasn’t just order restored; it was care made visible.

He gave Rodion a thumbs-up. The text responded:

<Manifold systems stabilised. Ambient mana turbulence returning to baseline. Suggest resuming research protocols or personal hygiene. Your hair resembles a distressed ferret.>

He snorted, running a hand through said hair—knotted, definitely. "Later. For now we prep the main console."

With careful steps he crossed to the primary workstation. The moment his boots settled on the slate platform, the nearest glowstones brightened in greeting, their light rolling over brass consoles like dawn pooling across rooftops. Mikhailis answered with a low whistle, half-melody, half-yawn—a tavern ditty about a spider hopelessly in love with a ladybug who kept flying away.

He set both palms on the brass rail. Static tingled against his skin, and the arcane circuitry purred—a cat recognizing its owner. Under his fingers the copper filigree came alive, little pulses racing outward as the system authenticated him. Good evening to you too, he thought, and the console’s rune-lattice winked as if it understood the sentiment.

Behind him the chimera ants resumed their scuttling, claws clicking in gentle punctuation. An occasional tap of glass or rustle of parchment floated up, soft enough to blend with the low hum of mana coils. Mikhailis drank in the quiet—a stillness so rare in his life it felt fragile—and let the tension drain from his shoulders before he got back to work.

He thumbed the standby rune. Lenses slid along their rails with delicate whirs, like camera shutters searching for focus. A thin line of light blossomed across the projection frame, then expanded into a translucent scroll. Layer after layer stacked—geographic, economic, thaumic—until a living map hovered in the air.

Bright ley arteries cut the kingdom into glowing muscles. Merchant roads curled like sinew, little glyphs marking granary towns, lumber camps, border forts. Political boundaries overlapped in pale blue. Even from three paces back he could pick out the fresh orange circles Rodion had added—each a flagged anomaly where mana flux crept past safe limits.

Mikhailis leaned closer, breath fogging the lower edge of the display. "Zoom northeast quadrant, scale two-point-five," he whispered, knowing the listening crystals would catch him. The map obeyed, hills swelling, rivers widening, villages tiny sparks in the dusk.

Satisfied, he moved on to the storage alcove. Its rune-lock recognized his aura and parted with a sigh. Inside, racks of glass vials lined black stone shelves, each glowing with captured ley residue—rose-pink, aquamarine, ember-red. But near the back, two vials oozed thin threads of vapor where their wax seals had split.

"Tsk." He cradled one leaky vessel in both hands, eyes narrowing as the bluish mist curled around his knuckles. Ley essence from the Tideroot Marsh... unstable when the room cools. He fetched a fresh crystal bottle, more robust, and a thin silver funnel. The transfer was slow, each droplet humming as it slid down glass. One wrong jar and the stuff could crystallize in a heartbeat, slicing flesh like sugar glass. He kept his breathing even, hands steady as a surgeon’s, until the last bead plinked inside. New wax, a neat seal, and he exhaled.

"You just can’t behave, huh?" he murmured at the glowing fluid. "Join the club."

He catalogued the fix on a small slate, then swung the cabinet shut. While he wrote, his eye caught a bright rectangle peeking beneath a stack of calibration charts. Curious, he slid the papers aside and chuckled. It was Serelith’s doing—of course. A stick-figure Mikhailis tangled in six cartoon ant legs, hair shooting everywhere, a speech bubble reading: "Not the antennae, darling!" She’d even drawn tiny hearts around the ants. He shook his head, warmth blooming in his chest. "Mischief incarnate," he whispered, slipping the pad into a drawer where he kept other absurd treasures.

Returning to the console, he perched on a tall stool, boots hooking its lower rung, elbows braced on the cool brass. He let the hum wrap around him, eyes sliding to the containment cradle. There the emerald leaf drifted—weightless, veins pulsing in a lazy heartbeat. Every gleam of its surface whispered that history was alive inside, layers of memory waiting to bloom.

Things aren’t the same anymore, he told himself. This lab used to echo—just gears and my own muttering. Now there are heartbeats, stray perfumes, blankets on benches... His thumb traced the cradle’s edge, polished metal cool under his skin. Secrets multiply when you share them. Hearts too, apparently.

Faces floated behind his eyelids: Lira’s gentle concentration, Cerys’s fierce blush when she relaxed enough to smile, Serelith’s wicked grin softened by half-sleep. He felt a tug in his chest—part joy, part pinch of fear. Balancing research and clandestine affection was trickier than juggling vials. Yet he wouldn’t trade the chaos for silence.

Elowen’s image followed—her serene composure masking keen eyes. She certainly sensed shifts in castle currents. She’ll corner me eventually, he mused. Better have answers ready—preferably ones that won’t get anyone exiled.

A soft ping nudged his thoughts aside. Across the display, Rodion’s status prompt pulsed.

<Analysis pathways ready, Master Mikhailis. Shall we proceed to the leyline-dungeon simulations?>

He cracked his knuckles. "Yeah, let’s torture some numbers."

The projection morphed. A mesh of colored pulses overlaid the kingdom—fast green flickers where leylines were healthy, red spikes at unstable vents, orange where dungeons already occupied the land like bruises. Text ribbons crawled in tidy columns, courtesy of Rodion.

<Correlations detected between leyline turbulence and the emergence of dungeonification hotspots. Cross-referencing with the glyph data extracted from the memory leaf indicates historical stabilizer usage.>

Mikhailis leaned in, eyes narrowing. "If the leaf was a stabilizer, how many were there originally? One per major node? Or a full lattice?"

<Insufficient data. Earliest legend fragments refer to a "Verdant Choir." Possible implication: multiple synchronized artifacts.>

He drummed his fingers. "Which means one missing leaf might explain why our west border keeps belching minotaurs every harvest."

<Correlation plausible.>

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freewe(b)nov𝒆l