The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Auron's grin had widened. He was half-propped against a chunk of fallen stone, the last scraps of necrotic webbing peeled from his clothes. In the chamber's low, flickering light, his expression seemed almost bestial. There was a savage triumph in his eyes, a cruelty that far overshadowed the battered state of his body. His breath rasped, but that mocking smile refused to fade. As if reading Mikhailis's intentions, Auron's grin stretched further still, revealing a row of teeth stained with desperation and mania.

In that moment, Mikhailis felt as though an invisible bowstring drew tighter around the room, the hush so fragile it might shatter at any sound. A subtle fear fluttered in his stomach, but he clenched his hands, ignoring the twinge from his bruised muscles.

Laethor, to his right, shuffled uncertainly, the scuffed soles of his boots scraping over grit and broken marble. Mikhailis noted the battered man's readiness to move, but also the flicker of dread in his narrowed eyes.

A bead of sweat slid down Mikhailis's neck, cool against the heat of the brand beneath his skin.

Now or never, he told himself again, preparing to leap.

And that's when Auron's mocking laugh echoed through the chamber, the sound sharp as broken glass. A chill pricked at Mikhailis's spine, every hair on his nape standing upright. The laugh wasn't loud, but its unhurried confidence rippled through the air, taunting him to reconsider.

"You're planning to run now, foreign prince?" Auron said, voice edged with scorn. He half-limped forward, bracing his weight on a jagged slab of rock, but still exuding an air of twisted pride. "Fine. Go on, scamper away."

The hostility in his tone coiled around Mikhailis like serpentine vines, each word laced with condescending scorn. Mikhailis felt annoyance rise in him, tangling with the raw anger that smoldered under his composure. A wry part of him wanted to snap back with some sardonic comment, but the brand's quiet throbbing held him in check, reminding him that giving in to fury might cost him everything.

Auron's lips curled, eyes dancing with malicious glee. "But don't think this ends here," he added softly, the final hiss in his voice slithering through the battered hall like a curse.

In the dim haze, Mikhailis could see the faint glimmer of mania in Auron's stare, the half-crazy determination that suggested he'd chase them to the ends of the earth if they dared retreat. And Mikhailis understood, with a grim twist in his chest, that no matter how far or how fast they fled, Auron's hatred would remain a festering wound. The taste of that realization was bitter, fueling the swirl of conflicting impulses inside him.

We can't kill him easily, not with the Enforcer right here, Mikhailis thought, a savage frustration coursing through his veins. Yet if we leave him alive, it's an open invitation for more chaos.

He flicked a glance at the Enforcer, who stood rigidly a few paces behind Auron, silent and watchful as ever. There was no telling how quickly that assassin would react if Mikhailis tried to finish Auron off now. And with the brand's unpredictability, the chances of a successful kill-and-run felt impossibly slim.

Laethor let out a trembling exhale, shifting his stance. Mikhailis could sense the prince's longing for vengeance, how each of Auron's mocking words gnawed at his battered pride. Yet Mikhailis also glimpsed the flicker of acceptance in Laethor's eyes, as if the prince knew they had no safe path that included finishing Auron here and now.

Mikhailis's jaw clenched, and a flicker of anger rippled across his expression. A faint grunt escaped him, the brand pulsing again—another reminder that time was short. The tension in the air was so thick it felt solid, swirling around them like a choking fog. Even the drifting embers overhead seemed to hover, uncertain whether to flicker out or flare anew.

He suppressed the urge to snap back at Auron. No matter how white-hot his fury, no matter how deep his frustration, common sense demanded caution. The brand's warm thrumming meshed with the pounding of his heart, a subtle alarm telling him that any moment of recklessness could tip the scales of fate.

His gaze darted to Laethor, who met his eyes with a haunted weariness. They both understood the precariousness of this standoff: The Enforcer's readiness, Auron's cunning, the brand's looming threat. No matter how many times Mikhailis considered the scenario, each conclusion pointed to the same outcome: retreat was the only rational choice—for now. A bitter taste rose in his throat, regretful acceptance mingling with the quiet fury twisting in his gut.

Auron's breath rattled again, and he lifted his chin, giving Mikhailis a final, piercing stare of contempt. "You were never worthy of that crown," he hissed. "You're merely a jester thrown into royal finery. Elowen will see that soon enough."

The mention of her name caused Mikhailis's vision to tighten at the edges, but he forced himself to remain outwardly composed. No, not now, he reminded himself sternly. Don't let him hook you into a reckless battle. The brand, however, flared as if in protest, stoking the anger in his blood.

He swallowed, forcing down the impulse to lash out, to bury a sword in Auron's smirking face. Instead, he allowed only a stony glare, letting the tension in his shoulders and the slight curl of his lip communicate his wrath. Let Auron interpret it as fear or disgust—Mikhailis didn't care. As long as they escaped alive, he could let the man gloat for the moment.

"We'll settle this," Mikhailis said, voice taut with reined-in anger. "But not tonight." His throat felt thick, as though the brand's fire scorched his words before they even formed.

The battered chamber's gloom pressed harder on them, that intangible hush deepening. A swirl of dust rose where Mikhailis's foot shifted on the cracked marble. The Enforcer didn't move, but Mikhailis could sense the lethal watchfulness in his posture. That man was like an arrow drawn and aimed, ready to loose at the slightest sign of an opening.

Auron rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly, as if to remind them of the pains they had inflicted. Despite the flinch, his smirk returned, wide and vindictive. "Mark my words," he said softly, "you'll regret not dealing with me here and now, foreign prince. Because I'll repay every slight, with interest."

Mikhailis snorted a humorless laugh, though his chest was tight. "I'm sure you will."

Then, in unison, he and Laethor prepared to move, each muscle set, each breath prepared for the final dash. Mikhailis expected the Enforcer to lunge or Auron to hurl a magical strike, but for a fleeting instant, none of them moved. It was a standoff of glaring tension, a crackling silence that seemed to roar louder than any battle cry. The brand thudded inside him, reminding him not to overstep.

A wry, bitter part of him recognized the sheer absurdity: he, Mikhailis, a man with more jokes than caution in his repertoire, forced into a silent standoff with a twisted traitor prince and a monstrous assassin. And yet the worst part was, he knew it would only get worse from here.

Then Auron's mocking voice broke that hush, the final push:

"You're planning to run now, foreign prince?" Auron said, voice edged with scorn. "Fine, scamper away. But don't think this ends here."

Something about the drawl in Auron's words made Mikhailis hesitate, as though a cold wind had slithered across his spine. The battered prince's lips curled in a mocking sneer, and despite the fresh scrapes and half-torn sleeves, he radiated a vile confidence. His posture might have been hunched from pain, but his eyes shimmered with a triumphant spark, each shallow breath seemingly fueling his deranged arrogance. It was enough to set Mikhailis's nerves on edge. He forced himself not to flinch, keeping his stance loose but poised, ready to dart in any direction if things went south.

Auron took a sharp inhalation, wincing as he did so. "Once you're gone," he rasped, voice echoing off the surrounding rubble, "I'll finish what I started. Luthadel was only the beginning." His grin widened, revealing teeth faintly stained by dirt or dried blood. Then, in a tone laced with cruel relish, he added, "Elowen is next."

Those three words stabbed into Mikhailis like a knife. Elowen—she was everything that bound him to this realm. The notion that Auron would speak of her with such casual menace twisted Mikhailis's stomach, a queasy mix of dread and fury. Instantly, his body felt colder, as though an unseen frost had settled upon him.

"Don't you dare," Mikhailis murmured, voice trembling with suppressed rage, yet he managed to keep it low. Through the corner of his vision, he saw Laethor stiffen as well, his battered features contorting with equal horror. Only the Enforcer remained unmoving, silent, though Mikhailis felt the man's watchful gaze, as unwavering and deadly as a coiled serpent.

Auron let out a purr of satisfaction, noticing their reaction. "Oh yes," he murmured, dangerously soft. "She'll be mine. Whether she wants it or not. A woman like her—why, she's wasted on a nobody like you, Volkov." He flicked his gaze across Mikhailis, as if scanning him for weaknesses. "I'll bring her to the Crownless House, or maybe the Technomancers, and we'll see how useful she can be. She's too…fine a specimen to leave in your incompetent hands."

A muscle twitched at Mikhailis's temple. "Specimen," he repeated quietly, nearly choking on the word. A slow, electric anger crept up his spine, manifesting as a tightness in his jaw and a trembling in his fists. The brand in his chest thrummed, echoing in time with the fury pounding through his veins. It felt ready to erupt.

He forced a breath, reining in his impulse to lunge at Auron. For a split second, his mind conjured an image of Elowen's quiet smile, the gentleness in her eyes, the confident tilt of her posture whenever she teased him about some new misadventure. The idea that Auron—this twisted, power-hungry creature—would dare treat her like an object stoked a terrible wrath in Mikhailis, one that nearly drowned out all sense of self-preservation.

The Enforcer's rough timbre broke into his thoughts. "Her strength and potential are considerable." There was no inflection in his voice, no sympathy nor cruelty—just a dispassionate observation. "She'd be a perfect asset, properly harnessed."

"Properly harnessed," Mikhailis echoed internally, his lips parting in a shaky exhale. He felt a quiver travel down his arms, his hands curling at his sides. They're calling her a tool, he realized with a mix of horror and disgust. These bastards.

<Mikhailis?>

came Rodion's whisper in his ear, gentler than usual yet taut with urgency.

"Do you know what mistake they just made, Rodion?" Mikhailis asked, but the usual tone of humor is devoid from his tone.

He could swear that he heard Rodion letting out a sigh before replying.

<They have made the biggest mistake: to anger the Ruslanian Prince.>