The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort
Chapter 616 616: Helping The Wolf (End)

The marsh still held the memory of fog, thin curtains that drifted between black reeds like shy ghosts not ready to vanish with the coming day. A lazy wind rolled across the water, lifting the smell of wet earth, old fish, and the faint salt that always clung to dawn near Ashwyre. Dew beaded on every blade of grass, fat pearls that caught the orange hints of a sun still hidden under the horizon. In the half-light, the small camp looked less like a camp and more like a secret—one word out of place and it would dissolve.

A fire, no larger than a soldier's helmet, snapped in their circle. It was more ember than flame, fed by driftwood and a trickle of resin Cerys had shaved from a fallen pine. The glow painted their faces in warm bronze and threw jittery shadows up the sides of the overturned crates they used as stools. Above the flame, an iron spit held three marsh-eels, their silver skins blistering and curling back to reveal white meat. Fat hissed, dripping onto coals and sending up puffs of fragrant smoke.

Rodion's panel—a neat rectangle of pale blue light—hovered over the fire like a scholar inspecting soup. None of the locals would see it; the interface existed only for those linked to its system.

<Breakfast Efficiency: 37 percent. Nutritional composition inadequate for prolonged pursuit or diplomatic confrontation. Recommend protein enhancement.>

Mikhailis, sleeves rolled to the elbow, squinted at the numbers while turning the spit with one hand. He looked half asleep, dark hair a storm of curls that hadn't seen a comb since yesterday's escape. A fish tail dangled from a stick between his teeth. "Protein enhancement?" he mumbled around the tail. "What are we, mercenary golems?"

Rodion's panel blinked once, as if offended but too dignified to say so.

Mikhailis tugged the tail free and tossed it among the reeds for scavenger birds. Honestly, Rodion could be more helpful and less judgmental. He flashed a lazy smile toward Cerys, but her eyes were on her arm.

She sat a little apart from the rest, edges of her cloak gathered tight against the damp ground. A length of linen lay across her thigh, already stained where she had cleaned the cut earned in yesterday's alley skirmish. With quick, economical motions she wound fresh bandage around her forearm, her fingers steady despite the soreness. Each pull and tuck looked like steps in a drill she had rehearsed a hundred nights in dark barracks corridors.

Her hair—vivid red that the dawn would soon set ablaze—was bound in a new, stricter ponytail. The tail looped back on itself, tucked beneath a small copper clasp so it wouldn't whip into her eyes if she had to run. She finished tying the bandage, bit off the thread, and finally lifted her gaze.

The expression she wore was not cold, exactly, but it allowed no argument. "I'm going alone."

The words slipped into the camp with the same finality as a drawn sword. Mikhailis froze mid-chew. Serelith, crouched over a kettle of water that bubbled an unsettling shade of violet, blinked as if Cerys had just suggested they swim through lava.

Mikhailis swallowed hard. "Alone as in—alone alone?" He let the stick drop and wiped his fingers on a cloth. She means it. Of course she means it.

"Rodion stays in my ear," Cerys said. "And I'm taking three of the ants. Skitter, Quill, Glim. That's it."

The small lump that was Serelith's kettle spoon clanged, splashing purple drops onto the sand. "You mean to sneak past guards, storm archives, fish a trembling stable boy out of his tears, then dodge that perfumed bastard duelist—alone?" Her voice slid quickly from disbelief into arch amusement. "Ambitious."

"Yes," Cerys replied.

Serelith pushed a strand of pink hair behind her ear. She wore a grin but her gray eyes sharpened. "I admire your masochism, dear, but I wasn't asking for a performance."

Cerys finally looked at her, red brows lifting a fraction. "I need to do this without risking you."

"Risk," Serelith said, stirring her kettle again, "is what makes breakfast taste better."

The answer came quiet but edged: "Serelith."

The magician huffed. She tapped the rim of her kettle, drums of annoyance. "I hate old men who think they can play with lives like they own them. I hate them so much it itches." She snapped her fingers and blue sparks danced over the kettle lid. "Those council fossils groomed Aldric like a prized mastiff, and now they send him to fetch your father's yes like it's a bone."

Cerys's eyes softened, just a flicker. "I know. And I appreciate you more than I say." She tugged the glove onto her newly wrapped hand. "But I still need to do this myself."

Mikhailis leaned forward, forearms on his knees. The gold flecks in his irises caught the firelight. "We won't follow," he said. His usual joking tone slipped to something calmer, steadier. "But at least let me give you something." He rummaged inside his long coat—one pocket produced a tiny glass vial, another a stray beetle carapace (he brushed that aside with faint embarrassment), until finally he found a folded cloth packet.

He tossed it across the fire. Cerys caught it without looking down. It was soft, warm, and smelled faintly of sugar. "Pastry pouch," Mikhailis declared, straightening. "Fuel for heroes."

For half a heartbeat, Cerys's expression cracked. The faintest twitch of mouth, almost a smile, then it vanished. She nodded once and slid the packet behind her belt loop.

Rodion's light brightened as the AI synced the new one-way link to Cerys's ear cuff. A muted chime hummed, then vanished.

<Relay established. Outbound transmission blocked by user request. Incoming data stream steady.>

Serelith raised a brow at that. "Stubborn," she muttered. But she dipped a ladle into her violet brew and poured a dollop into a shallow dish. "For your ants," she explained. "Sugar, iron, and a whisper of lightning. It'll stiffen their nerve cords."

Three small shapes emerged from a crack between two crates, glossy black and bronze. The chimera ants approached like elite soldiers reporting for judgment. Skitter, larger than her thumb, saluted with fore-legs and drank first. Quill and Glim followed. The violet liquid hissed where their mandibles touched it, and tiny runes on their carapaces lit soft blue as the mixture powered their internal sigils.

Cerys watched them, thoughtful. These creatures owed their existence to Mikhailis and Rodion's experiments—part insect, part runic vessel. Yet they bowed to her with perfect trust. She gave them a simple gesture: index knuckle pressed against the thumb—"Stand ready."

Mikhailis lifted the eels from the spit and laid them on a scrap of parchment. He offered one piece to Cerys; she shook her head. He grimaced, then tore it in half, shoved the larger bit into his mouth, and wordlessly handed the smaller to her. When she finally accepted, he tried a grin. "You'll need something better than chicory sludge."

Serelith sipped her own mug, nose wrinkling yet satisfied. "I laced ours with energy herbs. Hers"—she nudged Cerys's tin with a toe—"plain. Can't risk arcane signatures trailing her."

Cerys drained it anyway. The bitter taste scraped her tongue, but warmth settled in her chest. She could almost believe the ghosts of the fog were retreating.

A hush fell. The fire popped, spitting a spark that skittered across wet stone and died. Somewhere, a marsh bird called twice, then went quiet as if warned.

Cerys stood. She tightened the straps on her greaves, checked the buckles on her cloak. Each movement flowed like water around rock, the ease of a body trained for war. She slid a short dagger from its sheath, inspected the edge, then resheathed. Her gaze moved over her companions—Mikhailis, ever ready with a joke and a hidden plan; Serelith, a storm in lace and runes; Lucien, asleep under extra blankets near the boat, unaware. She lingered on Mikhailis a beat longer. He shrugged softly, as if to say, We'll be here.

She turned to the ants. "Form on me." The three clicked, lining behind her boots. They would ride her cloak until ordered otherwise.

Rodion's light pulsed once more. <Operational note: current weather—low mist, rising barometric pressure. Visibility to third-tier watchers minimal.>

"Perfect," Cerys said.

Serelith shoved the kettle lid closed with a clang, frustration still simmering under her polite smile. "When you bring back your pound of victory, I expect you also bring biscuits. This camp is criminally short on biscuits."

Mikhailis laughed under his breath. She'll remember that. Cerys always keeps promises, even ridiculous pastry promises.

Cerys glanced at the eels left on the parchment. "Eat before they cool," she advised. "Cold eel's worse than no breakfast."

Then she took one step back, letting hood and shadow swallow her brighter features. A cloud drifted over the low moon, deepening the world's blue. In that dimness her figure thinned, melted into the fog.

No goodbyes. Just a single nod that landed heavier than any speech, and a soft rustle of reeds parting.

"And then she was gone," Mikhailis whispered. He felt the words sink into the cool morning. Like mist denying the sun.

The first rays of dawn, timid and pale, pressed against the horizon yet dared not rise high enough to chase her silhouette.