The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"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."

The pressure increased, just slightly, his fingers pressing into her skin with a force that promised consequence.

"That," he whispered, his voice chilling, "is just as damning."

Her eyes widened.

The blade flashed once.

A clean, precise cut.

Her body slumped forward, blood blooming beneath her throat in a crimson ribbon. Her head lolled to the side, the breath leaving her lungs in a final, trembling sigh.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Veylan let her fall.

He wiped the blade clean against the fabric of his sleeve, then straightened, rolling the fractured emblem between his fingers once more.

The fractured sun flickered dimly, its dying light catching the glint of the blood now staining the dirt.

Veylan turned to the gathered survivors, his gaze sweeping across their faces, imprinting the fear in their eyes, the way their shoulders stiffened, the way their fingers twitched toward their insignias as though seeking divine protection.

There would be none.

Failure was failure.

Treachery was treachery.

And he would root out both.

He turned, his cloak swaying behind him as he stepped away from the corpse, his voice as calm as ever as he gave his final order.

"Bring me every survivor," he finally spoke, his voice devoid of emotion.

"We are conducting a purge."

Malakar nodded without hesitation, his booted steps crunching over debris as he turned to carry out the order. Veylan did not need to clarify what he meant by 'purge.' Every operative, every engineer, every single survivor would be subject to scrutiny beyond their comprehension. If one of them had been compromised, how many more had been touched by this unseen force?

His thoughts spiraled deeper into the implications.

Whoever had orchestrated this sabotage had done so with intelligence and patience. The operative had not hesitated in their attack, had not flinched even as they ensured their own destruction. That level of conditioning required more than simple trickery; it required a complete rewriting of their fundamental will. Mind control? No, something far more insidious. Veylan had seen crude attempts at mental domination before—this was not it. This was infiltration so subtle that it had gone undetected until it was too late.

That realization burned.

Veylan's fist clenched around the emblem until its edges bit into his palm.

"I will find them," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Another figure approached through the mist, this one moving with urgency. A female technomancer, her pale skin marked with soot and her uniform slightly tattered from the blast. She stopped just short of him, bowing quickly before speaking.
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"Inquisitor, we have retrieved the memory core from the disruptor's mainframe before it collapsed. It contains the operational logs and leyline response data before the sabotage occurred." She hesitated for only a moment. "It also recorded the moment the operative struck."

Veylan's head snapped toward her. His grip on the emblem loosened slightly. "Show me."

The technomancer pulled a crystalline storage device from a compartment on her belt, its surface glowing faintly with the captured data. She pressed her fingers to its edge, activating the projection spell embedded within. A flickering display of raw memory data formed in the air before them, shifting through broken images, corrupted leyline readings, and then—

The moment of betrayal.

The operative stood near the disruptor, their posture unnaturally tense. The countdown had reached its final seconds. Their fingers twitched near their side. Then, in a single, fluid motion, they moved. The hidden blade flashed, slicing through the primary conduit. Sparks exploded, alarms shrieked, and the disruptor began its death throes.

But it was the expression on the operative's face that caught Veylan's attention.

Not defiance. Not fury.

Confusion. Fear.

As if they hadn't expected themselves to act.

Veylan's blood turned to ice.

The sensation wasn't one of fear—fear was an emotion for the weak, for those who lacked control. No, what slithered through his veins was something sharper, something colder. The realization was swift, calculated, undeniable.

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he focused on the microexpressions flashing across the operative's face in that single moment. The hesitation before they moved. The flicker of resistance—resistance against their own body. It was barely perceptible, a tremor in their fingers, the subtle tightness in their jaw, the brief dilation of their pupils. Signs most would miss.

But Veylan was not most.

A puppet.

And a puppet had a puppeteer.

His grip on the operative's wrist tightened ever so slightly, his thumb brushing against the fractured sun emblem still pulsing weakly against their skin. The energy within it stuttered, as though uncertain whether to flicker out completely or surge one last time in defiance.

The pieces snapped together in his mind with chilling clarity. Whoever was responsible had not just turned the operative against them. They had done so without the operative even knowing.

Not possession. Not compulsion. This was deeper. Worse.

His mind worked in precise, ruthless calculations, running through every known method of control, every technique available to those who dabbled in such insidious arts. A simple geas would have left traces in the nervous system, something their technomantic scans would have detected. A standard charm or influence spell? No, those were crude, temporary, easily undone. But this? This was seamless. It had allowed the operative to function as if nothing was wrong, to return to them, to move through their ranks undetected—until the exact moment their actions had been triggered.

A sleeper.

Someone had rewritten them from the inside out.

A name hovered at the edge of his thoughts. He did not yet know who, but he knew the type.

Mind alchemy. Deep restructuring of cognitive willpower. Not a crude spell, but an art, layered so intricately that even the victim would believe themselves untainted until the moment they acted. A technique rare, dangerous, and reserved only for those with the precision, the knowledge, and the sheer arrogance to wield it effectively.

And there were few minds in the world capable of such a feat.

Veylan's lips curled into something that was not quite a smile. A predator's satisfaction.

This wasn't just an act of sabotage. This was a challenge.

His mind burned with the implications. This was no ordinary adversary. This was someone who knew their work, someone who had infiltrated not just their plans but their very people, warping loyalty into a weapon turned against them. And that meant—whoever they were—they had overstepped.

Because now, Veylan knew they existed.

And he would find them.

He straightened, turning to the nearest operative, his tone glacial, his intent absolute.

"Trace every record of this operative's return. I want to know where they went, who they spoke to, what they touched," he ordered, voice low and dangerous. "Contact our informants in every city. Someone rewrote this one's mind, and I intend to unravel the thread back to its source."

The technomancer bowed swiftly and hurried off to fulfill his orders.

Veylan turned back to the smoldering wreckage, his mind sharpening with renewed purpose.

"You hid well," he murmured, as if speaking to the unseen force that had dared infiltrate the Order. "But you left your fingerprints in my house."

He let the fractured sun emblem drop from his fingers, letting it clatter onto the charred ground before grinding his boot against it, crushing the once-sacred symbol into dust.

"Now," he whispered, a dark promise in his tone, "I will find you."