The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort
Chapter 614 614: Helping The Wolf (2)

"Useful trivia. I'll add it to my memoirs."

Cerys didn't slow, yet her tone softened a sliver. "Save the jokes—focus on breathing. One foot, then the other."

A pause stretched as they wove by shuttered stalls painted with peeling murals of desert lilies. Night mist clung to the paint, turning the flowers into dripping, colorful ghosts.

Rodion's cool voice slipped into the hush. <Notice. Coded glyph message intercepted. Sender identification: Serelith. Transcription reads: 'Boat on east quay secured. Tell my silly prince to keep his limbs attached. Move quickly.' End of message.>

Mikhailis exhaled—a low, warm sound that misted in the chill. "Of course Serelith makes an escape plan sound like a love letter."

Cerys cut a sharp right, entering a back lane so narrow two people could barely walk side by side. The buildings leaned in here, half-timbered beams meeting overhead until only a ribbon of sky remained. Moonlight dropped away; the lane turned blue-black.

Lucien's gait faltered. Cerys slowed, letting him draw level.

"You good?" she asked, low but clear.

"Fine," he lied, though his shoulders trembled under the cloak. "Just… my ribs itch. Means they're healing, right?"

"That or you're catching a chill," she murmured, shifting so her body blocked a gust that whistled between warped planks.

Mikhailis lifted his hand; the interface brightened then dimmed in rapid pulses as he checked for patrol signals. He frowned. Strange. Quadrant east shows clear. Could be a trap… or we're lucky for once.

They emerged behind a string of greenhouses whose roofs were only shards now—the glass glittered on the ground like a scatter of frozen stars. Vines had crawled out of their frames, curling along gutters and down walls, turning manufactured order back into quiet jungle.

Mikhailis pointed left, voice a rumble close to Lucien's ear. "Old wine cellars run beneath those buildings. They surface near docks five and six—less patrols."

Cerys nodded, already adjusting course.

They passed beneath an arch where someone had painted "We Remember Verdant Canopy" in fading red letters. Beyond it, the alley opened into a broad cobbled yard littered with overturned barrels. Lucien's breath caught—his pace slowed. Shame crept over his features, drawing fine lines at the corners of his eyes.

"She knows," he whispered, as if confessing to the stones.

Mikhailis paused. "Who knows?"

"My step-mother, the court, everyone by now. Father declared me missing, maybe dead." He swallowed. "Rumor says I fled because of guilt—treason." He tried for a laugh; it cracked midway. "Titles gone. Estates frozen. Even the orchard I planted last year… seized."

Cerys turned fully, placing a steadying hand on his upper arm. "They'll spin any lie to tighten their grip. Truth is inconvenient."

Lucien shook his head. "House Arundel lives on land and honor. Without those, I am a nobody in nice boots."

Mikhailis' look softened—quick as dawn's first blush. He clapped Lucien's shoulder, gentle yet firm. "A name is just a badge. You can pin a badge back on once you've survived the fire." He winked. "Brooding noble heirs are very in season. Trust me—read more shōnen manga."

Lucien huffed—half snort, half sob—and scrubbed his face. The single laugh that escaped felt like a knot loosening inside all three of them.

Cerys spent a heartbeat longer studying her brother's eyes, then pivoted, moving forward again. She didn't speak, but the set of her shoulders promised retaliation.

A cold wind swept the yard, rattling broken shutters. Mikhailis motioned them toward a low cellar door banded in iron rust. He knelt and pried a chain free, the padlock already hanging open—Serelith's earlier handiwork, no doubt. Stale fermentation air wafted out, thick with oak and dust.

One by one they slipped inside. The floor sloped downward, and rows of ancient casks flanked them like sleeping beasts. Cobwebs spanned every ceiling beam. Cerys lifted her cloak hem so it wouldn't drag through spilled lees that had dried into glassy puddles.

Lucien's fingertips brushed a barrel rim. "My tutor once said wine never truly dies, it just waits." The melancholy in his voice sounded older than his years.

"Smart tutor," Mikhailis said. Patience is its weapon. He flicked a small rune-chip at a cobweb; static popped, lighting a faint path forward.

The far end of the cellar hid a metal grate barely taller than a crate. Cerys knelt and pressed two hidden latches. Iron slid with a soft groan. Seawater air drifted through—briny, cool.

Beyond the grate, a service tunnel slanted upward toward the quay. As they stepped into its curved stone, low waves lapped faintly against pilings overhead. Lanterns, encased in salt-pocked glass, burned at rare intervals, painting trembling gold coins on the wet floor.

Rodion spoke again. <Caution. Two patrol clusters converging north bank. Speed recommended.>

"Then let's hope Serelith's boat has sails," Cerys muttered.

Mikhailis puffed out a quiet breath. "Or rowers with very strong arms."

Lucien's responding smile was small but hopeful.

They climbed a narrow spiral staircase that emptied onto the quay's backside, hidden behind stacks of cargo nets. The smell of dried fish hit them first—salt, scales, and iodine sharp enough to sting eyes. The river itself glimmered under twin moons, sluggish with silt, reflecting scattered warehouse torches.

There, at the water's edge, crouched Serelith. Even in dull light, her pink curls glowed like a sprig of foxglove. She wore an over-large cloak that covered her usual satin attire; only the gleam of her silver monocle betrayed refinement. Hands busy at a crate lock, she spoke without turning.

"You're late, puppies. I almost sent ants to drag you by the ears."

Mikhailis smirked. "And miss your dramatic entrance? Never."

She flicked him a grin—equal parts mischief and relief—then returned to her task, popping the crate open with a grin that verged on feral. Inside lay wrapped loaves, flasks of water, and sealed vials flickering with pale alchemical light.

Cerys's gaze swept the dock: five patrol boats moored across the river, lanterns dark so their silhouettes blended with shore shadows. Guard towers farther up had dim beacons at the ready. Risk hung heavy, like humidity before rain.

Rodion's interface pinged, overlaying red icons on her field of view. <Guard pair. Distance: forty-one meters. Mana-warded padlock on gangplank registering active.>

Serelith shrugged as if discussing lunch. "Heavy lock. Couldn't pick it politely."

Clicking rose from the shadows—a dozen chimera ants moving like living clockwork across the dock planks. Their blue-lit rune bombs, each tiny as a pebble, pulsed with quiet menace. Two ants scuttled to the padlock, planted charges, then darted back under a coil of rope.

A breath. A flash.

The lock cracked open, metal sighing as it split. No sparks, no flame—just a hush, then silence.

Cerys helped Lucien across the gangplank first. He sucked a breath through teeth at every step, but determination fueled him. She squeezed his elbow once, pride glinting in her usually stoic eyes.

Mikhailis lingered, watching the ants scatter seaweed to mask scorch marks. Little heroes, he thought, and nobody but us will ever sing about them. He gave a tiny salute.

The skiff was plain pine, but wide-beamed and low enough to hug the water. Crates of dried kelp and salted cod disguised the center hold. Serelith passed Cerys an oar, retained one for herself, and nodded at Mikhailis to handle the rudder. He hopped aboard, boots landing soft beside Lucien.

"Everyone ready for a graceful departure?" Mikhailis asked.

"Just row," Cerys grunted, pushing off with a firm shove. Water gurgled under the hull.

They drifted into the mid-channel current. Mist skated across the surface, blurring lantern lights into long orange smears. Behind them, the dock and its warehouse silhouettes faded.

Lucien huddled by the crates, cloak tight, as Cerys set a steady rhythm with her oar. Each stroke dragged cold spray across her knuckles, the sting keeping her senses sharp.

Serelith hummed under her breath. Something jaunty, though breathy: maybe a tavern tune filtered through the echo of fog. She shifted her weight, eyes scanning both banks. "Guards on the south side are bored," she whispered, delighted. "They'll blame each other for the missing lock."

Rodion pulsed. <All clear for ninety seconds.>

Mikhailis tugged a line, adjusting their angle. Almost too easy, he worried.

At nine strokes out, the fog parted just enough to reveal an anchored patrol cutter downstream—Halvenna's crest gleamed on its prow: a silver asp coiled around a black dagger. Two more cutters drifted in formation, oars shipped, waiting.

Cerys's blood chilled. She had expected Calderon tricks, not Halvenna. "Serelith…"

The magician saw it too. Her grin faded into a thin line.

And then a sharp bellow ripped across the riverbank, amplified by horn: "CUTTERS! HALVENNA'S RIVER WATCH!"

The shout ricocheted across the black-green water, a rough male voice that broke the hush like glass. It bounced from the stone embankments, leapt over the fog, and crashed back into the little fishing skiff until everyone on board felt it in their ribs.

Cerys's pulse slammed in time with that echo. She planted one boot against the gunwale, leaning into the oar, muscles crying from the night's battles. Cold river spray kissed her cheek; the droplets smelled of mud and old iron. She forced air through her teeth. "Hold fast!"

Wood groaned beneath her command, the skiff rocking as Lucien's shaky grip tightened around the tiller. Mikhailis was at the bow, hair damp, coat flapping like a crow's wing. He peered into the mist that curled around them—white coils veiling everything more than twenty paces away.

The veil parted.

Twin shadows grew larger, sharper, until the lantern glow atop their prows stabbed through the fog—thin blades of gold carving lines on the dark water. Sleek interceptors, river patrol cutters built for speed. The crest on their sails flashed a coiled asp—House Halvenna, Calderon's eager ally.

"Lovely," Mikhailis muttered. Water lapped against the hull in nervous slaps. Because nothing says 'good morning' like rich nobles playing pirates.

One of the cutters loosed a bolt. The projectile hissed past, skimming the water close enough to leave a comet-tail of spray.

Lucien flinched. His hands jerked on the tiller and the skiff slewed sideways, snapping Cerys's balance. She caught herself on a crate, the wood bruising her palm.

<Status update: Two interceptors closing fast. Current velocity differential: 3.2 knots in their favor. Hull integrity insufficient for direct engagement. Evasive actions recommended.>

Rodion's cool voice spilled into Cerys's ear. The words were calm—too calm compared to the thundering of her heart.

"Fantastic," Mikhailis said, raising his hands in a mock toast. "Couldn't they be slow and corrupt like normal guards?"