The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort
Chapter 609: The Wolf’s Hunt (2)

Chapter 609: The Wolf’s Hunt (2)

A staircase spiraled downward, lit only by a single spell-lamp that pulsed weakly. She padded down, every sense straining. The walls here were smoother, newer—Calderon families liked marble where Arundels favored granite—but chips marred the lower sections, perhaps from hurried furniture or struggling captives.

Halfway down, she paused beside a narrow floor vent with iron slats. Through the gaps she glimpsed muted lamplight and a rectangular chamber below. She knelt, slitting one gloved finger beneath a slat to pry it just enough for the visor to focus.

Lucien.

He knelt at the room’s center, wrists bound behind him with a shimmer of arcane manacles that flickered each time he shifted. His dark hair—normally neat—hung over his eyes in damp strands. Even from above she spotted the ugly bruise purpling along his cheekbone. But his chest rose and fell. Alive.

Cerys pressed a fist over her heart, forcing herself not to exhale too loudly. Relief warred with fury, clenching every muscle.

<"Trap triggered. Hostiles incoming—three, right side corridor.">

The warning jarred her back. She sprang to her feet, scanning. A ventilation grate to the left led into a maintenance hallway—narrow, perfect. She dug a smoke rune from her belt, thumbed the priming glyph; it began to thrum like a restrained heartbeat.

She slipped through the vent, boots hitting the floor with the softness of falling dust, then crouched behind a stack of cleaning casks. Heavy footfalls pounded closer—three shapes, silhouettes rippled by the dim corridor torchlight.

She tossed the rune toward them. The moment it clattered, grey smoke erupted, thick and cloying. One guard choked, groping for vision. She lunged, driving a knee up into his throat; cartilage cracked beneath the force, and he crumpled without a sound save a wet wheeze.

The second stumbled out of the cloud, sword half-drawn. She swept low, slicing the tendon above his knee. He yelped, weight crashing sideways. Before pain became a real scream, her fist smashed the pressure point at the base of his jaw; he went slack like a cut marionette.

The third emerged, coughing, eyes streaming tears. He swung wildly. She ducked, feeling wind of the blade ruffle her hair. She pivoted behind him, hooking an arm around his neck, twisting. His spine bowed; she levered him to the floor, blade edge kissing his jugular before his panic could turn into resolve.

"Where is the key?" Her voice was a serrated whisper, deadly calm.

He trembled so hard his chainmail rattled. "On... on the wall. Red sigil. Gods, please—"

She pressed the steel a hairsbreadth deeper, enough to cut a slender line of blood. "Stay silent or dream forever."

Terror widened his gaze; he nodded frantically.

Cerys eased back, eyes darting toward the warded lock panel on the chamber’s far wall. A small crystal key glowed in a recess beneath a crimson rune—the very color of Calderon’s twisted pride. How fitting.

She bound the guard’s hands behind his back with his own sash, pushed him flat, then slid toward the recess. Heartbeats thundered in her ears, but her fingers were steady as winter frost when they grasped the key. Its surface pulsed—warm, alive with ward energy. She felt the magic resonate up her arm, stinging nerves.

Almost there. Lucien, hold on.

She grabbed it and sprinted.

_____

Cerys dropped to one knee, the key still buzzing against her palm. The air inside the holding cell was warm and stale, thick with slumber‐dust and candle smoke. Lucien lifted his head at the sound of her boots scuffing across the stone. His pupils were huge, liquid pools in the half-light, but when they found her, relief—bright, raw—bloomed over his bruised face.

"Cerys...?" The name cracked out of him, half-hope, half-shock.

"I’m here." She sliced the rope binding his wrists. The fibers parted with a muted snap. "You’re safe now."

The moment tension left his arms, his body sagged into her. Cerys caught him beneath the shoulders, guiding his cheek to rest against her plated collarbone. He was too light—she could feel the ridge of his spine through his shirt—and sweat had dampened his hair until it stuck to her gauntlet. Anger simmered, but she kept her voice soft.

<"He was drugged. Non-lethal compound: thorneleaf extract mixed with cheap spirits. Sedation window approximately two hours. No internal damage. He’s weak, but fine.">

Rodion’s analysis hummed in her ear like a physician’s calm verdict. She took a slow breath, letting the anger siphon off into focus. "Copy," she muttered.

Lucien tried to stand on his own, knees wobbling like a newborn foal’s. She slid an arm around his waist, hoisting his weight onto her hip. "Easy, brother. Small steps." His head lolled against hers in silent gratitude.

The narrow staircase Rodion had mapped lay two doorways down; its warped planks fed directly into a forgotten smithy. Every instinct urged speed, but she steadied him first, coiling one of her daggers back into place. "Left foot, then right," she coached, voice low.

They made it three steps before iron-shod boots clattered at the corridor’s far end. A lone guard—Cerys recognized him from earlier glimpses—a stocky man with a jagged scar across his chin. He drew steel, eyes widening at the sight of Lucien half-carried in his captor’s arms.

"Hold!" he barked, lifting his blade in a high guard.

Cerys set her jaw. "Stay behind me," she whispered, easing Lucien to lean against the wall. She shifted forward, knees bent. The guard advanced with the confidence of someone who believed a single captive could not stand against professional training. His sword whistled down.

Cerys ducked under the blow and drove the heel of her palm into his ribs. A wet crack sounded as cartilage buckled. The guard gasped, stumbling, weapon falling from numb fingers. She twisted, striking the back of his knee with a sharp kick. He collapsed, wheezing. She caught the falling sword, flipped it point-down, and planted it between flagstones beside his ear.

"Stay quiet," she warned. His eyes fluttered in frightened agreement.

She returned to Lucien, looping her arm beneath his again. He shivered as she guided him up the staircase, each step groaning under their combined weight. At the top, a warped wooden door wedged against the frame. She shouldered it once, twice; it popped free, and cold night flooded in.

Moonlight silvered the empty forge yard. The smithy hadn’t seen work in years—anvil rusted, water trough cracked. Cerys scanned rooftops, her visor’s display marking no immediate heat signatures. Safe enough.

Lucien lifted his head, dazed. "You... came alone?" His voice rasped like parchment.

Cerys exhaled, tightening her grip so he wouldn’t see her trembling fingers. "Of course," she said, guiding him toward the old watchtower attached to the smithy. "Can’t trust anyone with my problems."

Inside, half-collapsed stairs spiraled to an upper chamber where straw mattresses once accommodated night sentries. Dust coated everything in a thin grey veil. Cerys kicked aside cobwebs and laid Lucien on the least deteriorated cot. Moonbeams filtered through arrow slits, casting a lattice of pale bars across his face.

She knelt, rummaging through a pouch for salves and clean bandage strips. The salve smelled of pine tar and fresh mint; she dabbed it carefully on his bruised cheek. He winced but did not pull away.

<"Heart rate stabilized. Sedative still present but fading.">

"Good," Cerys murmured. She rolled up his sleeve, examining the faint pinprick where a needle must have entered. Anger flared again, but she tamped it down, focusing on practical matters.

Lucien’s fingers brushed her forearm. "I knew you’d protect me," he whispered, eyes swimming.

"I didn’t want to," she confessed, the words heavy with a truth that surprised even her. "But I couldn’t stop myself." She wrapped a strip of linen around his wrist, more symbolic than necessary. He sighed, eyelids drooping. Minutes later sleep claimed him, breaths evening into a steady rise and fall.

Cerys eased back. The room felt enormous now that only she remained alert, shadows stirring at the edges with every sway of aging rafters. She cleaned her blade, wiped her gauntlets, then propped her sword against the windowsill within easy reach. The visor she set beside it, screen dark.

She lowered herself to the floor beside the cot, knees pulling to her chest, head tipped back against the stone. Her lungs finally allowed a full exhale. For a heartbeat she simply listened: Lucien’s breathing, the creak of wood, distant gull cries over the river. A peace she rarely tasted.

"You remind me why I fight," she whispered into the quiet, eyes fixed on the sleeping face she’d just risked everything to save, "and that terrifies me." Because attachment was a blade pointed inward—every bond forged became a new place to bleed.

She reached across, brushing a stray lock of hair from Lucien’s brow. It felt oddly fragile beneath her calloused fingers, like a strand of silk her gauntlets might snap. She withdrew her hand before it could tremble.

<"You succeeded. But not alone. Never truly alone."> Rodion’s soft tone sank into the silence, neither congratulating nor scolding.

Cerys let a humorless smile twitch at her lips. "That’s debatable," she muttered.

No further comment from the AI; only the hush of stone and wind filled the watchtower.

The first hint of dawn crept through the arrow slit, a line of pale gold cutting the grey. She watched it climb brick by brick, warming dust motes into tiny embers. Morning would bring questions, maybe pursuit, definitely more politics. For now, though, there was only this sliver of calm above the chaos.

She turned her face into the newborn light, closing her eyes. Her body ached—shoulder bruised where she’d deflected a mace, thigh cut from a stray dagger. Each sting told her she was alive. And Lucien breathed, safe, beside her.

"Let them come. I’ll stand alone... but I’ll stand ready."