The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 601: The Secret Lab is Home (3)

She lingered at the bottom of the spiral for several breaths, fingertips resting on the brass rail Mikhailis had polished earlier that evening. A faint warmth still clung to the metal—a ghost of laughter, jesting, and the easy affection she had only recently learned to accept. With a slow exhale she released the rail, rolling her shoulders until the familiar weight of duty settled across her spine like an old cloak.

A soft hiss marked the hidden door’s opening. Stone slid over stone, revealing the narrow maintenance corridor that connected the prince’s haven to the palace’s lesser-used stairwells. Unlike the colorful warmth of the lab, these passages were cool and dim, smelling faintly of damp mortar and lamp-oil. Cerys’s visor dimmed automatically, the crystalline layer sliding to a low-light mode that painted the world in quiet shades of grey-green.

She stepped forward. The hush wrapped around her boots; even their normally confident tread seemed muffled, as if the corridor itself wished to delay her departure. Each stride became a small act of will. One more step carried her past a rusted service bell. Another brought her beneath a cracked lintel etched, long ago, with half-faded prayers for safe passage. The words brushed her shoulder, and she wondered who had carved them—some nameless mason hoping the tunnel would protect more than bricks and mortar.

Half a flight up, Rodion’s voice slid into her ear like a breath of chill air.

<Detected pulse spike stabilizing. Estimated emotional turbulence: moderate. Recommend mindful breathing intervals of four seconds in, six seconds out.>

"Noted," she muttered, refusing to slow. Her gauntlet squeaked as she tightened her fist. The AI had a habit of sounding sympathetic without ever feeling anything at all; some nights the objectivity soothed her, tonight it only made the ache in her sternum worse. She climbed.

At the final landing a discreet side door opened onto the servants’ arcade—a quiet, torch-lit gallery that wound behind the palace kitchens and out toward the noble quarter. She stepped through and the door clicked shut, erasing any sign of the prince’s secret world. Night-cool air brushed her cheeks, smelling faintly of river water and orchids from the upper terraces. Unlike the stale corridor, this breeze carried the distant murmur of street musicians and the soft hoot of canopy owls.

The visor’s tint shifted again, brightening the moon-washed cobbles. Far above, silvery leaves whispered against each other on branches thicker than city walls. Verdant Canopy’s braided treetops blocked most starlight, yet patches of sky peeked through, revealing slivers of constellations she’d memorized as a squire: The Wolf’s Crown, The Broken Blade, The Watchful Hart. All symbols of loyalty, legacy—bonds that once defined her.

She crossed the palace threshold onto the stately promenade flanked by vine-wrapped archways. Polished marble underfoot gave way to dark green paving stones flecked with mica; they glittered faintly each time a lantern swayed. A pair of palace guards saluted her as she passed. She offered a curt nod but kept her gaze forward. It was easier that way—easier not to see the questions in their eyes, easier not to wonder which rumors reached the barracks.

The Arundels are still waiting.

The thought threaded between her heartbeats like thin wire. My family... my duty... I can’t just stay here forever.

She tightened the strap on her gauntlet and lengthened her stride.

_____

The noble quarter lay a short walk beyond the palace’s outer curtain: wide avenues lined with dawn-bloom magnolias, each estate guarded by wrought-iron fences and stoic gate wards. Even at this late hour the district hummed: soft harp notes drifting from a balcony soirée, carriage wheels rattling over cobbles, distant laughter—controlled, courtly. Silvarion’s upper caste lived by ritual even in darkness.

The scent changed first. Where the palace smelled of wax polish, the noble quarter carried faint incense—juniper and cedar—burned at gate shrines to appease ancestral spirits. She recognized the particular blend used by her house: a sharper pine note beneath the cedar, like wintershadow forests from the northern marches where the first Arundel bannermen once hunted dire wolves.

The estate loomed ahead: twin watchtowers of grey-green stone draped in claret ivy. Silver filigree lanterns hung from wolf-head brackets, casting pale halos across the gravel path. The main gate stood open, but the iron bars—shaped into running wolves—created the illusion of teeth waiting to snap shut.

Two outer guards in deep green surcoats stamped spears as she approached. Their heads dipped in precise synchrony. She gave a silent salute—two fingers to brow, palm outward—then strode beneath the iron arch. Inside, moss-lined courtyards formed a series of square gardens, each centered on a polished wolf statue. The moonlight gave the statues a wet sheen, as if their stone fur bristled with life.

Servants moved like wraiths through the arcades: candle-bearers extinguishing lamps, stable hands leading midnight-shivering horses to rest. Every one bowed as she passed, eyes lowered in deference. Yet from some she sensed more than protocol—a flicker of curiosity, perhaps relief that their wandering Lady Knight had finally come home. Others, older retainers with lines like tree rings around their eyes, watched her with reserved caution. Does she still belong to the pack? those looks seemed to ask.

At the inner hall threshold she paused, smoothing her tunic where Serelith had tugged it during their last match. Crumbs still dotted the fabric; she brushed them away, inhaling until her lungs creaked. Then she pushed open the double doors.

The hall stretched long and high, timbered beams arching like the ribs of a great beast. Trophies of hunts past lined the walls—carved shields, twin-bladed glaives, a manticore spine polished to ivory. Candles guttered in silver sconces, casting restless shadows that danced across tapestries depicting Arundel victories. The largest mural showed a red-haired knight—an ancestor—standing atop a felled wyvern, banner raised. Family legend held that the knight had slain the beast in single combat to defend an oath-bound friend. Cerys had traced that banner’s embroidered threads many nights as a child, swearing silently she would live a life worthy of that legacy.

And there, near the hearth, stood the current bearer of that weight.

Lord Gaius Wynne Arundel—broad-shouldered despite his age, beard trimmed with military precision, grey streaks at the temples giving him a statuesque dignity. He faced an inset display case, polishing the pommel of a ceremonial sword. When the doors shut behind her his head turned, gaze spearing her with familiar intensity.

"You’re late."

Her boots clicked over wolf-carved tiles. She stopped at formal speaking distance—three paces—hands clasped behind her back in the Arundel stance of respect. "I was training," she replied, voice even. The lie tasted stale; she doubted it fooled him.

"Training with that Prince, Mikhailis again? Or simply playing with him?"

He set the cloth aside, metal chiming softly against the display shelf.

"I remain your daughter," she answered, lifting her chin. "Still an Arundel."

"You are drifting, Cerys." He spoke not with anger but with the cool certainty of a commander citing battle reports. "Your closeness to that... eccentric prince has not gone unnoticed."

Her jaw flexed. "He is not just—"

"A man with no discipline," Gaius cut in. His lips barely moved, yet each syllable struck like a measured blow. "He fritters away his birthright on parlour gadgets and insect games. How many nights have you wasted in his shadow?"

Cerys’s pulse hammered against the visor’s grip on her temples. "He’s stronger—"

"Strength?" A dry chuckle. "Strength is duty. Strength is the legacy your ancestors bled for."

He gestured toward the mural. "Sir Geralt Arundel slew a wyvern with a broken spear and a vow. What oaths bind you, daughter? Holo-scores?"

She swallowed, tasting iron. "Father, His Highness carries responsibility you cannot see. He—"

"Responsibility?" Gaius paced a slow semicircle, boots ringing on stone. "Rumor says he spends his nights chasing skirts and nurturing strange pests. Is that the burden you admire?"

She stiffened. "He is clever, and kind, and—"

"—And a distraction," he finished. "Your sword-arm loses edge while you indulge his whims."

He halted before her, eyes flinty. "Are you prepared to shoulder the Arundel name at the Summer Tourney? Will you face Viscount Draven’s heir? Or will you beg leave to tinker in some burrow?"

Cerys drew a measured breath, feeling the cheek plates of her visor warm against flushed skin. Stay calm. Choose your strikes.

"My duty is intact," she said. "And I can still defeat any heir you set before me."

His gaze dipped to the scuffs on her gauntlets—games tonight, not sparring. He made no comment, but the silence screamed.

"You forget," she added, voice dropping to steel, "I chose this path. I rejected Aldric Calderon because I will not be bartered like cattle. You gave me a sword; I decide where to aim it."

A muscle worked in Gaius’s jaw. High above, a draft stirred the banners, setting wolf shadows skittering across the walls. Cerys held his glare, refusing to yield ground. Blood pounded so loudly in her ears she barely heard the crack of the hearth.

Gaius folded his arms, green robe rustling. "The Calderons were patient. They remain ready to secure our alliance—an alliance we need, lest Arundel strength wane to memory."

"And tether me to a man I despise?" Her voice leapt, then she tempered it, lowering the pitch so it wouldn’t echo off the rafters. "Aldric is arrogant. He views marriage as conquest. I will not submit."

His eyes narrowed. "You speak like a child who has tasted honey and now scorns bread."

He leaned closer, the edge of his tone cold. "Do not mistake affection for purpose."

Fresh heat surged in her chest. Honey? She pictured the lab—Serelith’s mocking cheers, Lira’s sly smiles, Mikhailis’s unguarded laughter that made her ribs loosen. If that was honey, she wanted more. But she also wanted the bread—duty, honor, the house crest shining unbroken.

Gaius straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "Tomorrow you will dine with House Calderon. You will demonstrate courtesy. Our name depends upon repairing this fracture."

Cerys’s breath caught. Tomorrow? He had already arranged the meeting without her consent. Fury pulsed, but beneath it twined a dart of sorrow. Does he truly value alliances above my own choice?

"I will attend," she said, every word sheathed in ice, "but courtesy does not equal acquiescence."

A flicker of frustration crossed his eyes. He opened his mouth—perhaps to order, perhaps to chastise—but closed it again. In the hearthfire glow his face looked older than she remembered, lines of worry carved deeper than battle scars. Legacy weighed him, too.

She softened her stance, one gauntleted hand lifting, almost reaching—then dropping to her side. "My path and our name can walk together," she said quietly. "Let me prove it."

Her father’s silence was heavier than his words.

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