The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort
Chapter 619 619: The Wolf's Determination (3)

Under the hanging lantern, rain whispered down like soft needles. The signet in Cerys's hand felt heavier than any sword she had ever swung in the practice yard. Droplets gathered on the onyx until it gleamed like an eye. She tightened her grip, water squeezing between her fingers.

"What do we do?" Merrit whispered again. His breath fogged the cool night air, then vanished. He shifted from foot to foot, boots sloshing where runoff pooled on the stones. The flutter of his cloak made a soft, frantic drumbeat.

Rodion's report slid into her ear, clinical and cold.

<Heart rate elevated. Blood pressure peaking. Adrenaline concentration at 163 percent. Decision paralysis probable.>

Cerys's jaw clenched. The AI's words echoed inside her skull, but she would not let a machine name her fear. She held still, refusing to blink, as if any motion might shatter the fragile pause that wrapped the bridge.

The ants hidden in her collarplates sensed the tension. Tiny feet stopped their restless pacing beneath the leather. One, braver than the rest, poked an antenna out near her collarbone, tasting the wet air before retreating again. Even they knew the night held its breath.

Rain fattened, striking her shoulders in dull taps. Though midsummer, the moisture carried a chill that slid under her armor. Goose-bumps prickled along her arms. She ignored them. The real cold pressed inward—from memories she tried never to touch.

Her father's voice marched through her thoughts, each syllable a boot heel on stone. There are only two kinds of Arundel. Those who serve and those who shame. That sentence had followed every lesson, every spar, every dawn patrol. Serve the crest, or blacken it forever. Even now she tasted the iron of it on her tongue.

A softer recollection pushed in beside the stern one: Lucien at twelve, barefoot in the library, wobbling under a stack of atlases twice his height. He had pretended the burden was nothing, cheeks dimpled with stubborn pride. She had laughed and taken half the books. In that moment she had vowed to carry whatever weight he could not.

Rodion's interface bloomed against the darkness—pale lines weaving a cold, silver spider-web. Three strands brightened, leading in different directions, each stamped with brutal clarity.

Path A: Comply. Lucien's life guaranteed. Cerys forfeits her own.

Path B: Refuse. Lucien dies. Cerys flees. Blood war likely.

Path C: Subvert. Risk unknown. Hope balanced on a blade.

Merrit's shoes squelched again. His voice quavered. "Lady Cerys? The guards could still be near. If they return—"

She raised a hand. He bit off the rest of the sentence, pressing his lips together so hard they blanched. Rain slid down his cheek like a tear.

Cerys inhaled through her nose, slow and deep, filling her lungs until her ribs ached. She let the damp night settle into her, letting every scent and sound anchor her body in the present: wet iron from the bridge rails, distant gulls crying over the river, the pulse of lantern flame snared in glass.

She exhaled. Another breath followed. Her heartbeat steadied, thunder retreating to a steady march.

The signet remained, a silent challenge in her palm. She rolled it between thumb and forefinger, feeling the thorn crest's sharp engraving. Aldric's last words lingered—Midnight. Ivy Tower. They rang like a bell.

She imagined standing beside him, forced smile stiff on her lips, the court applauding a union forged in chains. She pictured Lucien watching from the crowd, free but hollow-eyed, knowing the cost. Her stomach lurched.

A gust bent the lantern flame, sending jittery shadows across Calderon's courier crest still drying on the envelope stuffed in her belt. In the wavering light she glimpsed herself in a puddle: hood dark, eyes fierce, a woman on the knife-edge of choice.

She slid the signet into her satchel, letting the leather swallow its black gleam. It was not acceptance, but it was also not refusal. It was a thorn kept close until the time came to use it.

Merrit let out a breath he had been holding. "So… is that a yes?" The words wobbled with fragile hope.

Cerys turned at last. Her cloak swept in a small arc, water flicking from the hem like sparks. She faced him fully, the lantern outlining her sharp profile: wet lashes clinging together, freckles bright against pale skin, rain tracing red strands of hair to her jaw.

Her stare pinned him. Merrit's shoulders sagged under invisible weight. His eyes darted to the satchel, to her sword hilt, to the dark river swirling beneath the bridge. He seemed to weigh every possible future at once.

She spoke, voice quiet but iron-hard. "We go back."

Merrit opened his mouth, perhaps to question, perhaps to protest, but the resolve in her tone left no gaps. He swallowed and gave a small, jerky nod.

He adjusted his sodden collar, pulling it high as if it might shield him from more than rain. Cerys pivoted, boots splashing. Each footfall felt deliberate, claiming the slick stones as her own.

Rodion broke the hush again, softer this time, almost curious.

<Selected branch: Subvert. Adaptive protocol engaged. Uploading contingency matrices.>

She did not reply. She didn't need to. The AI would watch, calculate, and—if she failed—record the fall. Machines were good at that.

Wind picked up, driving rain sideways. The lantern flickered, fighting for breath. In that brief stutter of light Cerys saw a stray scrap of parchment caught against the rail—half of Calderon's stamped courier slip torn by the storm. She reached out, plucked it free, and crumpled it in her fist.

The paper dissolved under the rain, ink bleeding into her glove like spilled secrets. She let the pulp drift away, carried by water toward the river.

Merrit shivered. "Lady Cerys, the marsh trail will be mud. We might—"

"We will manage," she said. Not assurance, but command.

An ant peeked from her cloak, its tiny body reflecting the lantern glow in shifting blues. It tapped her throat once, like a heartbeat, then vanished. In that gesture she felt Mikhailis's presence—his impossible mixture of mischief and faith—stretching across the night. Wait for me, it seemed to say. Plans bloom best in darkness.

The weight in her chest loosened, just enough for one more breath.

She glanced back down the length of the bridge. No figures emerged from the alley's mouth. No torchlights bobbed. Aldric had gone, trusting his ultimatum. The space he left felt both threat and gift.

Cerys lifted her hood. Rain hammered the fabric, drumming out the pulse of doubt inside her ears. She squared her shoulders.

"We go back," she repeated, softer, as if sealing the words to her own bones.

Merrit stepped closer, boots slipping, but she steadied him with a hand to his forearm. He flinched at first touch, then calmed, drawing strength from her grip.

The path behind them curved into darkness, bordered by flickering lamps and shuttered windows. Somewhere a dog barked at ghosts. Somewhere a door slammed against the storm.

Cerys started forward. Her cloak swished, heavy with water, but she moved with the unhurried certainty of a wolf returning to its den. Merrit matched her pace, his fear bending into wary trust.

Rodion's panel dimmed to a single blue dot, tracking heartbeats and distance.

<Wayfinding active. Marsh camp: 1 500 meters. Threat level: variable. Advising caution on eastern quay.>

She allowed a thin smile. "Noted," she murmured.

They walked. Rain softened from needles to threads, weaving a veil between them and the sleeping city. Cobblestones gleamed, reflecting errant lantern sparks like scattered stars on the ground. The smell of river silt chased away the iron tang of the bridge.

Merrit cleared his throat once, then again. "I… I never thanked you."

"There's time for that later," she replied.

Another dozen steps passed in silence. Then Merrit tried again. "When you—when he offered that bargain… you looked like you might—"

"I considered every cost," she said. "But not that one."

He pressed his lips together. After a moment he nodded, though she doubted he understood. Few did.

They crossed a narrow arch over a drainage canal, water rushing beneath in muddy torrents. Cerys paused to glance downstream, as if searching for shapes in the black water. None surfaced, but she lingered a heartbeat longer. When she moved on, she kept her fingers near her satchel, touching the cool outline of the signet through leather.

It pulsed with possibility—dagger or key—and she would decide which soon.

The wind shifted, carrying distant music. Somewhere a tavern still dared to sing despite curfew. The violin strains reached them thin and ragged, but the melody flicked a spark in Cerys's memory: a harvest dance years ago, Lucien laughing as she spun him across the courtyard, both of them dizzy with cider and freedom.

She felt the warmth of that night settling over her shoulders like a dry cloak. It would keep her warm enough.

Rain eased to a patter. Clouds tore open, revealing a slice of moon, pale and watchful. Its light touched the puddles at their feet, layering silver atop gutter mud.

Merrit hugged himself. "Will tonight ever end?"

Cerys's reply was almost gentle. "Tonight ends when we make it."

He might have smiled; it was hard to tell in the dim light. But his shoulders straightened, and his pace steadied.

They turned onto the marsh road, the city lights thinning behind them. Reeds whispered on either side, bowing in the damp breeze. The lantern on the bridge shrank to an amber pin, eventually swallowed by fog.

Cerys did not look back again.

He followed without a word.