The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

After Mikhailis's confident line, "I have news," the room fell silent. The calm hush that fell over everyone felt like the soft ripple of wind stirring through a chamber just after a thunderclap. All eyes turned toward him, some expectant, some guarded, and some on the verge of suspicion. In a space that had just been alive with the hum of earlier discussions, there was now a palpable tension, a sense that the very air itself was anticipating what Mikhailis would say next.

Elowen, poised at his side, seemed almost carved from marble—elegant, composed, an unwavering pillar of calm. Even so, there was something in her eyes that flickered with excitement: a glimmer that hinted at secrets shared and a hidden confidence. She allowed a small smile to grace her lips, one that spoke of readiness and unwavering support. Anyone who knew her well could sense it was far more than just a gesture of a queen acknowledging her court; it was the smile of someone who already knew the next move, who had played the game in her mind and seen how the pieces would fall.

There was no need for words from Elowen at that moment. She had already spoken with Mikhailis in private. They had run the scenarios, weighed the consequences, and decided on the gamble they were about to make. Her presence beside him was a statement, one that spoke volumes without any additional language required: whatever he was about to declare, she stood behind it wholeheartedly. She was, after all, not just the queen he served, but the partner who had walked this perilous road at his side.

At a table several paces away, Laethor stirred. He sat with a posture that was straight-backed, as though he were preparing to leap out of his chair at any second. His gaze swept across the room before finally resting on Mikhailis. There was no animosity there—no immediate sign of anger or hostility. Instead, there was caution and perhaps a touch of curiosity. His fingers curled around the hilt of a small quill he had been using to jot down notes, now forgotten in his grip. He was bracing himself, expecting these words to change everything he understood about the fragile alliances binding the region. The tension in his shoulders suggested that he was not one to shy away from conflict, but he did not relish it either.

Mikhailis rose slowly, the soft whisper of his cloak brushing against the chair behind him. He placed a hand to steady himself, not out of any physical weakness, but as a deliberate motion meant to draw everyone's attention. His eyes narrowed with focus. He wore a subtle expression of calm, and yet an undercurrent of pride danced in his gaze. There was a precision to his movements, as if he were a performer in a high-stakes play. Before he spoke, he tapped the frame of his glasses—a gesture that might have seemed idle to onlookers, but was in fact the signal for something far more intricate.

At that faint touch, the edges of his vision lit up with a subtle, pale-blue glow—an interface only he could see. The ghostly icons blossomed in front of his sight, ephemeral scripts detailing everything from the chemical breakdown of the soil to the swirling patterns of magical residue. These luminous symbols, graphs, and reams of simulation data formed a private constellation only he and Rodion, his personal AI-like entity, could navigate. He suppressed a knowing smirk at the sense of wonder that could have filled the room had they all been able to see what he saw.

Rodion's presence lingered at the periphery of his consciousness like a silent sentinel, ready to advise or interject. Mikhailis could practically feel the AI brimming with readiness to display more data if needed—chemical compositions, geologic scans, probable solutions. He felt the hum of the device in the back of his mind, a gentle nudge reassuring him that everything they had worked on would be revealed at the perfect moment.

Elowen stepped closer. She made no grand gesture, nor offered any commanding decree. She simply moved so that she stood a hair's breadth closer to Mikhailis, wordlessly lending her presence and weight to his words. It was the most powerful show of solidarity: the queen had chosen her side, and it was right beside him. The soft swish of her gown against the marble floor was all the announcement she needed to make.

In the silence, Mikhailis could sense the currents of emotion rippling through the room. Some gathered at the perimeter of the chamber, pressing forward in a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Others hung back, arms crossed, expressions guarded. This was a meeting of powerful minds and necessary alliances, each participant crucial to the survival of the land they called home. And yet, none of them had a clear idea of what Mikhailis had planned.

He took one more steadying breath and then cleared his throat. He gestured toward the large wooden table in the center of the room, upon which a detailed map of Serewyn was spread. The parchment crinkled with age, edges curling slightly from years of reference and revision. With a charcoal stick, he began to circle several areas on the map. They were regions many here knew well—fertile in centuries past, but now barren or riddled with blight.

"What I'm about to explain," Mikhailis began, his voice carrying the unshakable confidence of someone who had spent countless nights poring over research, "is why your land is dying, and how we can bring it back."

A small stir went through the group. Some parted lips in surprise; others nodded, as if they had suspected something dire but hadn't been able to piece together the cause themselves. Laethor was among those who tensed. His jaw tightened slightly, and for a brief moment, his eyes flickered in confusion or doubt. But he remained silent, choosing to listen rather than speak. Elowen's smile grew almost imperceptibly wider, though she still said nothing.

Mikhailis's steady gaze darted to the data streams only he could see. Rodion was there, indicating graphs of microbial activity, projections of harvest yields, and the chain reactions of magical toxins that seeped deeper into Serewyn's fragile ecosystem. He suppressed a sigh of relief, knowing that each piece of information corroborated his hypothesis. Sometimes, in the secrecy of late-night studies, he had wondered if his theory might be only half-right—or if he were missing an invisible factor that would unravel his entire plan. But the data now glowed with confirmation.

"Serewyn's soil," he continued, "is infected. Not by plague, and not by any ordinary poison, but by the residue of old magic—what we've come to call residual ethereal compounds. It's a spiritual pollution that was triggered by ancient mist magic, the kind that saturates the land at the boundaries of powerful wards."

He leaned over the map, the charcoal squeaking lightly as he made another mark. Each circled region represented a place where growth had stalled or where the crops had withered. The silence in the room was absolute. Even those who were not typically inclined to scientific discussions seemed enthralled, pulled in by the gravity of his words.

When Mikhailis said "mist magic," he could almost sense the shift in the room's energy. There was a ripple of acknowledgement, as if everyone recalled old tales of roiling supernatural vapors, swirling energies that had once been used to fortify kingdoms and topple armies. Magic this old came with a price, and apparently, it was time for Serewyn to pay.

He pressed the charcoal to the center of the map, where the kingdom's heartland lay. "The mist magic binds to the molecular structure of the soil," he said, speaking plainly but with quiet intensity. "It behaves much like the combination of heavy metal toxicity and salt stress in more mundane contexts. Only these aren't ordinary elements. They're arcane-bound lead and mercury-like compounds that flood the soil's nutrient zones. Osmotic pressure in the root systems spikes, preventing water absorption. Growth stagnates. And that's only the first step."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. Laethor watched him with rapt attention, the quill in his hand forgotten. Around them, a few individuals whispered among themselves, but no one spoke loud enough to disrupt Mikhailis.

Elowen's gaze flicked from the map to Mikhailis's profile. In her own silent way, she seemed to be urging him onward. She had heard this explanation before, in a private briefing where they had delved deeper into the complexities of the contamination. Yet hearing him share it now, before an audience that desperately needed a solution, reawakened her sense of hope.

Mikhailis raised his hand as if to point at an unseen diagram in the air. Only he could see the mirrored images of molecular breakdowns that Rodion had displayed. Arcane structures appeared in the ghostly overlay of his glasses, swirling like a miniature galaxy of cursed compounds.

"Worse still," he continued, his voice low but steady, "there's necroactive fungal corruption in play. These necro-fungi produce binding proteins that effectively transform vital nutrients into toxic dead zones. Regular crops stand no chance of survival, and even those that are moderately enchanted wither under the combined assault of the residual magic and these fungal expansions."