The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort
Chapter 620 620: The Wolf's Determination (4)

The campfire had dulled to embers by the time they returned. Charcoal-red coals pulsed under a skin of grey ash, casting a faint heartbeat of light across the marsh mud. Under the sagging canvas lean-to, Serelith crouched with her sleeves rolled, stirring a dented tin kettle. Chicory and nettle hissed where droplets of rain slipped from her pink fringe and pattered into the brew; every hiss smelled of damp earth and bitter herbs. She hummed off-key, the sound somewhere between a lullaby and a threat.

Beside her, Mikhailis lounged on a wooden crate, bare feet stretched toward the warmth. His coat lay across his shoulders like an ill-fitting cape, and a half-flattened honey pastry sagged between his fingers. Sugary crumbs dotted his trousers and the crate lid in a constellation only he seemed to understand. I should sit up and look respectable, he mused, but then I'd be lying about who I am. He took another bite instead.

Lucien, wrapped in two cloaks that still seemed too thin, perched on an overturned bucket. Dark circles framed eyes that once devoured library candles until dawn; now they flicked toward every rustle beyond the canvas, half expecting the Queen's guards or worse. When boots squelched on the path, he jolted upright, hope flaring like a struck match.

"Cerys!" He half rose, blankets sliding from his knees.

She waved him down without a word. Water streamed from the edge of her hood, tracing lines over armor that glimmered in the emberlight. She strode past the fire, boots sucking at the mud, cloak plastered to her legs as though the marsh tried to claim her. At the crate stack she halted and let the satchel drop. The thud rattled tin mugs on a nearby lid.

"Deeds. Ledger. Witness secured."

Lucien's breath caught. He fumbled with the clasp, fingers shaking so hard the satchel's leather creaked. When the flap fell aside, parchment edges peeked out like shy doves. His throat tightened at the neat royal seals still unbroken.

"This is…" One trembling hand brushed the top scroll. "This is everything. You really—"

"Aldric found me." Cerys's voice cut through the steam rising from the kettle. Flat. Heavy. It silenced even the marsh insects. "On the bridge. Offered to drop all charges. Clear your name. Publicly."

For a heartbeat the only sound was rain ticking against canvas. Lucien's gaze snapped to her face, searching for the joke. Hope cracked through exhaustion. "He—what did he want in return?"

She didn't answer with words. She uncurled her fist, palm up. The signet ring lay there, black stone glossy as fresh oil, thorn crest gleaming like a hidden blade. It looked wrong in her calloused hand, wrong in the flicker of red coallight, wrong in the air between siblings.

Lucien recoiled as though it hissed. "No. Cerys, no."

"He said if I marry him, you walk free." Her tone was iron dragged across stone—sparks implied but unseen.

Lucien's chair scraped. He shoved the precious documents aside, barely noticing when a deed rolled into the mud. "Then I'll go back. I'll stand trial. I'll sign any confession. But you are not—" His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. "You can't."

"You are not the sacrifice." Cerys's eyes narrowed, green irises sharpening to blade-edges. The firelight painted copper shadows across her freckles. Behind her, Merrit hovered, wringing his cap like a man squeezing water from guilt.

Lucien opened his mouth but nothing came out—words tangled into knots too tight to pull free.

Mikhailis leaned forward, pastry forgotten, elbows on knees. Rain drummed the canvas overhead, steady and accusing. His usual grin had fallen somewhere between the marsh grass and his discarded boots; now only a thin, thoughtful line remained. "Then we don't walk into the cage," he said. His voice dropped the playful lilt, settling into something low and solid. "We build one for him."

Serelith's stirring slowed. She tilted her head, fox-bright eyes glimmering. "Oh?" The single syllable curled like smoke from her lips, tasting of wicked possibilities.

Mikhailis shrugged, a quick roll of shoulders that sent pastry flakes drifting. "We fake agreement. Let him think she's walking into it." He tapped two fingers against the crate lid, marking invisible steps. "While we tie a leash to his own words."

Cerys met his gaze. Mud crusted her boots, blood darkened a slash in her sleeve, yet her stance did not waver. "You have a plan."

Mikhailis's expression softened. Tired lines at the corners of his eyes eased, warmth sliding into his voice like sun behind stormclouds. "Don't I always?"

Even fools can carry lanterns, he thought, watching the ring's dark stone catch emberlight. But it takes a stubborn fool to shove it in the wolf's mouth and walk away smiling.

Lucien stared at Mikhailis, relief and fear wrestling across his face. Merrit exhaled, the sound barely louder than the fire's sigh. Serelith's lips parted in a grin too sharp to be comfort.

Rain tapped the canvas a little faster, as if the night itself hurried to hear what came next.

_____

"We call it Tower Gambit," Mikhailis announced, voice pitched halfway between stage magician and battle commander.

He crouched by the firepit and dragged a stick through the damp mud. Lines and circles bloomed under his hand, the sketch catching ember-light so the little trenches looked like molten gold. At the center he tapped a larger dot—Ivy Tower—then ringed it twice for show.

Cerys, arms folded, loomed at his shoulder. The pop of wet wood in the coals echoed her impatience.

Serelith perched on an overturned crate, chin balanced on her palm, eyes bright as a cat's at midnight. Every so often she flicked ash off her velvet skirt, pretending not to care while clearly absorbing every word.

Lucien knelt opposite, sleeves rolled, tension coiled in his back. He smoothed the mud beside Mikhailis's drawing as if neat borders might steady his pulse.

"Step one," Mikhailis said, tracing a graceful swoop from the marsh symbol to the tower. "Cerys attends. Full noble-lady smile. Perfect posture. The kingdom's favorite tragic heroine."

Cerys snorted; the sound was pure gravel. "Smile too long and my jaw locks."

"Fake it differently, then," he quipped. "Maybe a dignified grimace?"

"Gross," Serelith muttered, combing pink hair behind one ear. "But delicious theater."

Raindrops pattered on the canvas roof overhead, a slow heartbeat that steadied as the plan unfolded. Mikhailis tapped the tower circle twice. "Step two: Rodion spikes the leyline beneath the ballroom. We've studied its breathing cycle—one push here"—he stabbed a smaller dot—"and the whole lattice hiccups. Result: blackout. Forty-seven seconds of delightful confusion."

<Correction: 46.8 seconds. Not all of us round like peasants.>

Rodion's voice drifted from nowhere, crisp, faintly superior. The AI's dry tone earned an eye-roll from Mikhailis and a grin from Lucien, who still found the disembodied sarcasm unsettlingly charming.

Mikhailis sketched a lightning bolt through his tower circle. "Forty-six-point-eight," he amended, head dipped in mock apology. "During that exquisite slice of darkness, my tiny companions"—he tapped a cluster of dots shaped like ants—"scramble up the guard posts and chew through their rune fuses. No rune, no shield. No shield, no loyal lapdogs to scream for help."

Cerys crouched, finger hovering over the drawing. "Your ants can handle enchanted bronze?"

"They've eaten scarab carapace denser than castle gate hinges," he said, a proud lilt sneaking in. "They'll nibble runework like sugar glass."

He slid the stick sideways, connecting tower to a rectangle labeled Council Hall. "Step three: while Calderon fondly imagines vows and chains, Serelith and Lucien deliver Merrit's sworn testimony to the Queen. Broadcast to every noble seat through the council's crystal array. Think lanterns, but for shame."

Lucien's mouth felt suddenly desert-dry. He cleared his throat. "And they'll believe me? I'm… not exactly a commanding speaker."

"They'll believe what they feel." Mikhailis nudged Serelith's boot with the stick tip. "Which is where our lady of illusions shines."

Serelith's smile sharpened, wicked as a fish-hook. "Emotional resonance illusion," she whispered, savoring the taste of each word. "We blend the testimony with a pulse tuned to the audience's empathy frequency. Their own hearts insist you speak truth." She licked a raindrop from her lip—oddly decadent. "Messy. Delicious."

Lucien rubbed his arms, half comforted, half unnerved. "And Merrit won't freeze?"

"I'll anchor him." She flexed gloved fingers that crackled faint blue. "Fear becomes clarity in the right hands."

Mikhailis drew the final arrow, a looping curve that circled back to the ballroom. "And the final punch: while the crowd blinks back to light—no rune guards, no anthem playing—our dear Aldric suddenly hears his own voice piped through every chandelier crystal. Rodion will lift the gloating speech he fed Cerys on the bridge and broadcast it—full volume."

Lucien's brows knitted. "He said plenty, but will the recording carry weight?"

Mikhailis's grin glinted. "Rodion's echo picks up micro-expressions, heartbeat cadence. When nobles hear it, they'll know it's true. Our thorn prince won't even realize he's digging his own grave until the applause starts."

Cerys rocked back on her heels, armor creaking. "Suppose the Queen sides with him anyway? Politics loves convenient villains."

Mikhailis leaned onto his palms, muddy stick dangling loosely. "Then we win the stage beyond the throne. Court gossip travels faster than ravens. Nobles cling to popular wind. Calderon's support collapses like stale pastry."

A marsh gust lifted the canvas flap; rain-cold air swept through, tossing candle-flame sideways. For a second everyone shivered. Serelith wrapped her cloak tighter, but her gaze never left the diagram. "You're more dangerous than you look," she murmured, voice half-pride, half-arousal.

Mikhailis let his shoulders relax, an almost shy gesture at odds with his wild plans. He winked, crumbs still clinging to his cheek. "I get that a lot."