The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort
Chapter 610: The Wolf’s Hunt (3)

Chapter 610: The Wolf’s Hunt (3)

Pale dawn filtered through the shattered arrow slits of the old forge-tower, and the first light of morning felt almost shy—like a guest uncertain it was welcome in this forgotten place. Golden beams rolled across broken stone and rust-flecked iron, illuminating floating dust motes that danced in the cold drafts. The air smelled of ash that would never fully leave the walls, soot that had long ago seeped into every crack, and a subtle, bitter tang of dried blood that no amount of wind could carry away.

Cerys sat on a dented anvil draped in a scrap of canvas. The canvas was stiff with age, but it kept the icy metal from biting straight through her trousers. In her lap rested Lucien’s head. His dark hair, usually brushed smooth like a young courtier, now lay in clumped strands. A trail of dried sweat curved behind his ear and vanished into his collar. Though her own arms were scraped and spattered with bruises—angry purples and sickly yellows—her hands still moved with the steady grace of a barracks physician. Each tug of bandage followed a memorized rhythm: pull, cross, tighten, knot.

She checked the line of cloth wrapped around Lucien’s ribs. The material was dark where salve had seeped through, but it still looked clean. She pressed gently along the binding, stopping where she felt too much heat radiate beneath her fingers. Lucien hissed and tensed.

"You still breathing?" she asked, low enough that the walls wouldn’t bother to echo it back.

Lucien’s eyelids fluttered. A weak grin tugged at his lips. "Barely."

"Good." She allowed herself the smallest answering smile. "That means I didn’t kill you with my stitching."

The joke was dry, edged with the same gallows humor that filled mess-halls after a long campaign, yet it carried undeniable warmth. It steadied them both for a heartbeat—long enough for Cerys to breathe through her own hurts. Her thoughts fluttered to the letter she had burned, to the ghosts she’d faced beneath her visor. She shoved them aside. Lucien was alive, and that single truth mattered more than ghosts or politics right now.

Lucien tried to push himself upright, but pain coiled through his ribs. A stifled groan slipped out. He sagged back, cheeks paling. "We need to move," he said, voice frayed. "They’ll be searching."

The certainty in his words sank its claws into Cerys’s spine. She nodded once and slid his head off her lap, easing him against the wall where the stone was cold and unyielding but at least upright. Every joint in her own body protested as she rose; flashes of the night’s combat—parries, pivots, the crushing weight of Rage’s final blow—flared behind her eyes. She ignored them and crossed to the battered staircase that spiraled down to ground level.

The steps looked worse in daylight. Entire corners had crumbled away, leaving teeth-like gaps. She touched the banister—it wobbled. One bad slip here and Lucien’s fragile frame would never survive the fall.

She returned and found a spare cloak buried beneath a pile of smithing aprons. It smelled of rust and tallow, but it was thick. Draping it over her brother’s shoulders, she fastened the clasp, tugging the folds to hide the bandages and bruises.

"Let’s get you moving. Slowly," she murmured.

Lucien clenched his jaw as she hooked an arm around his back. He had always taken pride in standing straight, shoulders back like the young heir he was born to be, but now his posture bent with each breath. Still, he tried to shift some weight off her.

"You’re heavier than you look," she teased in a whisper.

He managed a breathy chuckle. "Don’t blame me. Blame the rye."

They began the descent. Cerys set the pace: one cautious step, pause, feel the stone, then another. She kept her hip braced against Lucien so any slip would lean into her body. The stairs emitted groans—ancient wood protesting their passage. Shadows in the tower’s hollow throat stretched and shivered, as if curious who dared disturb their dawn silence.

Halfway down, Lucien’s boot caught a loose edge. He swayed. Cerys planted her feet, muscles locking, and hauled him upright before gravity could claim him. They paused, breaths mingling in white puffs.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Breathe. And shift your weight on the ball of your foot—remember fencing drills?"

He nodded, focus sharpening as he followed her instruction. Step by shaky step they reached the bottom arch where broken bricks framed the forge’s back hall—really just a collection of leaning walls and holes where a roof once stood.

Pale light seeped through gaps in warped boards, but deeper inside, corridors waited like unlit throats. Cerys tapped her earpiece, throat suddenly dry.

"Rodion," she whispered. "Overlay. Paths and patrols."

<Deploying tactical overlay. Current location recognized as southern forge watchtower. Nearest viable exit: Sub-kitchen corridor via Servant Passage A. Current patrol density: Medium. Recommended route now uploading to visor.>

Cerys’s visor warmed and shapes appeared—soft blue arrows pointing through walls. Red-orange silhouettes, pulsing with guard heartbeats, crawled across the distant hallways. She could almost smell their morning breath and stale tabac from here.

"Got it," she muttered. "Come on, Lucien."

They pressed into the servant passage—its ceiling low enough that Cerys’s ponytail brushed damp timber. Old banners used as makeshift curtains draped the walls, smelling faintly of mildew. She ducked under sagging beams, guiding Lucien past a web of abandoned laundry lines. The floor changed from stone to rotted boards, each one threatening to squeal. She slid a vial from her belt, unstoppered it with her teeth, and dripped a faint shimmering oil along the worst planks. The liquid seeped in, and the wood fell silent.

Lucien stumbled on a loose tile; her arm tightened around him.

"Quiet," she whispered, heartbeat skittering.

"Sorry," he replied, voice softer than a moth’s wing.

Ahead, a mouse darted into a crack, the only witness to their passage. They reached Storeroom B, its door half-off its hinges. Inside, barrels leaned drunkenly against walls, sacks of flour collapsed in sighing heaps, and linen bundles hung from hooks, stiff with age. Cerys eased Lucien behind a stack of rice barrels. She could feel his pulse tapping too fast beneath her fingers.

"You’re not fine," she repeated, staring into his sweat-shined face.

"I will be," he insisted, but the slight tremor of his hands betrayed him.

She knelt, calling the map again, searching for alternate exits in case they needed to double back. That was when the sound sliced through the hush: a slow, deliberate scratch—wood dragging across stone. A guard’s halberd butt, maybe, or boots shifting gravel.

Rodion’s overlay flared.

<Warning: Two hostiles approaching Hatch C. Estimated contact in thirteen seconds. Suggest evasive action.>

Thirteen seconds. Too short to drag Lucien across open floor. Her dagger—where had it gone? She glanced at her empty sheath. Lost on the descent. Panic scratched at her boundaries.

Lucien’s breathing spiked; she felt his body tremble against her shoulder.

Shit.

But then—clack... clack... clack.

From the floor grate behind them, three bronze-backed chimera ants slipped out. Their carapaces shimmered bronze in the slanted light, each segment etched with tiny sigils of loyalty. They moved in perfect silence, antennae twitching in unison, small claws gripping the grating as they emerged.

One positioned itself in front of Lucien, as though the little creature could block a human blow. The second pulled a rune disk from beneath its abdomen—no bigger than a coin. The third climbed a barrel stack like a mountain, mandibles glinting.

Cerys’s eyes widened.

The first ant lifted its device. The swirling dust rune was carved by hands so small she wondered how they didn’t break the lines. It pulsed, color shifting from dull sand to shimmering pearl. Without ceremony, the ant dropped it onto the stone between them and the approaching corridor.

No sound followed.

Just mist.