The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

The ruins of the disrupted leyline operation smoldered beneath the oppressive weight of the corrupted mist, which curled around the wreckage like a living entity, whispering through the broken conduits and shattered stone. Sparks flared intermittently from the remains of the disruptor, illuminating the battered forms of the surviving engineers and soldiers as they struggled to regain their footing.

Inquisitor Veylan stood motionless amidst the destruction, his silver-threaded cloak fluttering faintly in the disturbed air. The fractured sun emblem—the only remnant of the operative who had betrayed them—rested in his gloved palm, its pulsing light slowly fading. He tightened his grip around the metal insignia, his expression unreadable beneath his hood.

A betrayal. No, more than that.

An infiltration.

His mind worked through the possibilities at lightning speed, filtering through every recorded anomaly, every inconsistency that had been dismissed as mere coincidence. A spy had walked among them, had returned to them, and had struck when they were most vulnerable. And worse—their sabotage had been executed with calculated precision, not reckless defiance. This was not a spontaneous act of rebellion; it was orchestrated.

Veylan's cold, methodical gaze swept over the battlefield of failure. Bodies lay scattered, some still twitching with the last vestiges of life. Others remained motionless, reduced to nothing but scorched husks. The leyline, once on the verge of full destabilization, had already begun to repair itself, the corrupted mist retreating from the worst of the damage. Their work had not been simply undone—it had been reversed before it could take effect.

The silence did not last long. Footsteps approached from the eastern perimeter, heavy and measured. One of his trusted commanders, Malakar, emerged from the shadows, his crimson-lined cloak draped heavily over his broad shoulders. His scarred visage was set in a deep scowl as he surveyed the aftermath. He stopped a few feet from Veylan and bowed slightly.

"Inquisitor," Malakar intoned, his voice gravelly from years of commanding. "We've begun retrieval of the wounded. Losses stand at thirty-two confirmed dead, another ten unaccounted for. The disruptor is beyond salvaging."

Veylan said nothing for a moment, simply holding the fractured emblem between his fingers, letting the weight of Malakar's report settle over him like an iron shroud. Thirty-two lives. Ten more lost to the void. And for what?

The emblem flickered once more in his palm, its glow weak. A fitting metaphor for the shattered trust within their ranks.

The air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burned earth. The ground still crackled with residual energy from the disrupted leyline, unstable threads of magic spiraling into the atmosphere like spectral wraiths. Shadows from the ruined structures loomed over the scattered remains of their operation, stretching unnaturally as the fractured sun's pulse grew weaker in his hand.

Malakar stood stiffly beside him, his posture that of a soldier awaiting orders, yet there was something tense in the way his fingers twitched at his side. Even he, seasoned and unflinching, was shaken. Veylan could hear it in his breath, steady but heavier than usual. He could see it in the flicker of his one remaining eye, the way it darted to the destruction before settling back on him with forced discipline.

Thirty-two.

Veylan rolled the emblem between his fingers, his mind replaying the moment the operative had turned against them—the swift strike, the precision of the sabotage, the unnatural hesitation before the final blow was struck. A man doesn't flinch when fulfilling his purpose. A man doesn't waver when carrying out his cause. That operative had faltered, not out of fear or weakness, but because something had wrapped its fingers around his very mind and reshaped it.

A spy.

A rot in their midst.

His fingers clenched around the emblem, the delicate fracture lines deepening beneath his grip.

"Inquisitor?" Malakar prompted, his voice cautious, though it barely concealed the anticipation in his tone.

Veylan lifted his gaze, the cold weight of reality settling in his chest like a lead anchor. His presence alone silenced the shifting remnants of the gathered troops, the flickering flames and dying embers of the shattered operation reflecting in the cold slate of his eyes.

He turned, his movements slow, methodical, and surveyed the survivors.

Some stood in dazed silence, their robes dirtied and torn, their hands bloodied from either their comrades or their own wounds. Others knelt among the wreckage, tending to the injured with whatever resources they could scavenge, whispering hurried incantations in an attempt to stabilize those caught in the blast. The younger acolytes, their eyes wide and wild with disbelief, clutched at their insignias, as if the fractured sun could shield them from the truth of their failure.

Pathetic.

Failure was expected. Failure was natural. But treachery—treachery was a disease that needed to be burned from the bone.

His gaze landed on one of the remaining engineers, a wiry woman with streaks of soot marking her face. She was trembling. He could see it in the way her hands shook as she finished binding the wounds of a fellow survivor, in the way she kept glancing toward the shattered remains of the disruptor as though it would suddenly rise from its grave and resume its work.

"Malakar," Veylan said, his voice smooth, deliberate.

"Yes, Inquisitor?"

"Remind them," he murmured, running his thumb over the fractured emblem, "what failure costs."

Malakar's visible eye gleamed with dark understanding. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, his heavy boots grinding against the soot-streaked earth as he moved toward the group of surviving engineers. The trembling woman stiffened as his shadow fell over her.
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"You," Malakar barked, his voice like a hammer against stone.

She flinched but forced herself to her feet, dirt and blood smearing her tattered robes. "Inquisitor," she managed, her voice hoarse.

Veylan did not move, did not blink. He simply watched.

"The disruptor," Malakar continued, his tone deceptively neutral. "Explain."

The woman swallowed hard. "The sabotage—it was too fast, too precise. We—we couldn't—"

A sharp backhand sent her staggering, the force of Malakar's blow cracking against the already tense silence of the camp. She gasped, barely catching herself before collapsing, her fingers digging into the scorched earth as blood welled at the corner of her mouth.

No one spoke.

No one dared.

Malakar loomed over her, waiting.

Veylan, still as stone, studied her from where he stood.

She swallowed again, a pained breath shuddering through her as she steadied herself. "We—We failed," she forced out, her voice a whisper.

Veylan tilted his head slightly, watching as she cast her gaze downward in shame, awaiting whatever punishment would follow. She did not beg. She did not plead.

Good.

At least she understood that much.

He took slow, measured steps forward, until the tip of his boot was nearly touching her fingers, still pressed into the dirt. The fractured sun emblem in his palm pulsed faintly, the last vestiges of the operative's presence flickering like a dying ember.

He crouched, just enough to bring himself to her level. The firelight caught the sharp angles of his face, the cool detachment in his expression making the moment stretch into unbearable silence.

Then, in a whisper, low enough for only her to hear, he asked:

"Did you feel it?"

Her breath hitched, her lips parting in confusion.

He leaned closer, his presence pressing against her like an invisible weight. "The moment it went wrong," he murmured. "The moment our victory was stolen from us. You were there. You saw. You felt it."

Her pulse stuttered, her mind racing, desperate to understand what answer he wanted. He could see the war in her expression, the fear clawing at her ribs.

Yes, she had felt it. The shift. The wrongness.

"I…" she started, then stopped.

Veylan's gaze did not waver.

"You hesitated," he said softly, almost kindly. "And that hesitation tells me one thing." He reached out, taking her chin between his fingers, tilting her head up just enough that she was forced to meet his gaze.

"You are not the spy."

Her relief was visible, crashing into her like a wave. Her entire body sagged, her lungs struggling to exhale the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Then his grip tightened.

"But you let them win."