The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"My team cross-checked this with the historical records of ancient elf-ruled kingdoms who suffered under mist-plagued lands. The process we're employing here mirrors the methods they used—albeit updated for our current environment."

A whisper of tension left the room, replaced by a flicker of hope. The mention of the ancient elves and their known prowess at dealing with arcane disasters carried weight. Even those who treated modern science and logic with suspicion could not easily dismiss the echo of ancient precedent.

He turned to Elowen, who nodded in a fluid, almost rehearsed motion. Her posture was regal as she stepped forward, the gentle sweep of her gown making a soft susurration across the polished floor. She had always possessed an unearthly grace, and the hush in the chamber seemed to bow in deference to her presence.

"We propose a recovery trade agreement," she said, her voice resonating with calm authority. The words were measured, each one carefully chosen, as though she knew the impact they would have. "Silvarion Thalor will provide fungal inoculants derived from our agricultural development chamber."

In the slight pause that followed, some individuals in the room visibly stiffened at the idea of forging new agreements. There was a legacy of caution and mistrust among these factions—alliances that had wavered and broken, old feuds that were not so easily forgotten. But Elowen's tone allowed no space for open dissent. She was the queen, after all, and a subtle but unyielding confidence radiated from her. She did not even mention that this agricultural development chamber was something more akin to a living laboratory, where ant colonies and carefully curated magic conspired to grow these remarkable fungi. The specifics, she had decided, would only complicate matters for those who needed quick reassurance.

Although she didn't reveal the deeper intricacies behind the creation of these fungal strains, her voice carried a certain gravity that made the solution feel all the more credible. Hers was a power rooted not just in magic but in pragmatism. She knew the land's survival depended on forging a path forward, one that involved science, magic, and political alliances in equal measure.

"Under the name," she added, letting a thin, confident smile graze her lips, "Elowen's Soil Remedy."

Her final words hung in the atmosphere, resonating like the first notes of a clarion call. And though it was only a name, the possibilities bound up in that simple announcement stirred something in everyone who heard it. The room seemed to hold its collective breath, suspended between the weight of old doubts and the spark of new hope.

Mikhailis resisted the urge to snort at the implied skepticism in Laethor's voice. The slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth threatened to betray his amusement; after all, here they were, discussing a monumental solution that could reshape Serewyn's fate, and still, questions of trust lingered like a shadow in the lamplit chamber. But he remained composed, reminding himself that from Laethor's perspective, any proposal carrying the weight of arcane manipulation could resemble a threat. History had taught them all that good intentions sometimes morphed into disasters when meddling with forces only half understood.

"In return," Elowen continued, her tone impeccably diplomatic, "Serewyn will classify Silvarion as a strategic agricultural partner. Open the southern trade routes to us. Grant research permits to study the ruins related to the mist brand."

Standing at her side, Mikhailis became acutely aware of the shift in the room's temperature. It was subtle—maybe just his own heightened senses—but he could feel a ripple of tension settle in, a heaviness in the air that always followed talk of new accords. Old alliances and rivalries were seldom discarded without a tangle of scrutiny, and Serewyn's recent misfortunes only made its people more apprehensive. He cast a sidelong glance at Elowen, recalling the hours they had spent strategizing how to present this proposal. She had insisted on confidence—no matter the misgivings, no matter the friction. They needed Laethor to see that their plan was not only possible but essential.

Laethor frowned, and the expression carved deeper lines into his already tense features. "This is a lot of faith to ask for," he said slowly, punctuating each word with a gravity that suggested the weight of his own doubts. "How do I know this isn't another engineered plague?" There was genuine concern in his tone, a caution that came from bearing witness to the kingdom's repeated struggles against blight and betrayal. The notion of an artificially designed fungus that could revitalize the land might just as easily seem like something that could turn on them.

Mikhailis lifted his chin, choosing his words with care. He had expected this question. "Because I've already tested it," he replied, his voice steady. "Three pilot sites."

He circled one location on the sprawling map of Serewyn spread across the central table. The parchment crackled beneath his fingertip, and the flickering glow of the wall sconces highlighted faded ink lines denoting territories, rivers, and wards. "One of them is here," he went on, tapping the spot. "Beneath your feet."

Laethor's gaze dropped toward the floor, as if he could somehow see the microbial life teeming below. The shock of it stilled him. To test something so radical beneath the very ground on which they now stood—without any sign of imminent disaster—hinted at thorough planning, almost brazen confidence. Curiosity sharpened the prince's eyes, but his posture remained wary, an unspoken demand for further proof.

Elowen stepped into the silence, her presence as composed as a gentle breeze stirring through tall grass. She had the air of someone who understood the gravity of the moment yet refused to be overtaken by it. "Neutral druids can verify the results," she said, folding her hands in front of her. Her eyes swept across the chamber, meeting the gazes of several individuals who had lingered at the periphery. These onlookers were a mix of advisors, guards, and regional envoys. Some looked openly intrigued; others displayed cautious optimism. "We've already invited them to survey the soil. Their reports will confirm what we're telling you."

Mikhailis, feeling Rodion's insistent nudge at the corner of his consciousness, adjusted his glasses once more. The subtle brush of his fingertip against the lens revealed a cascade of new data, updated in real-time. Rodion pushed more information into his field of vision, lines of text and blinking icons that only he could see. Each dataset was a testament to months of grueling work, of clandestine experimentation carried out far from prying eyes. He scanned the figures quickly, verifying the numbers he was about to share.

Clearing his throat, Mikhailis drew a neatly folded paper from the inside pocket of his coat. Although it appeared to be a simple, ink-stained document, it represented something far greater—proof of concept, tangible evidence that their solution wasn't just a theoretical fancy. "Soil core sample one," he read aloud, pausing to let the words settle over the room. "Nutrient level recovery: 64%. Decay rate down by 45%. Microbial density restored to 78% of baseline."

He lowered the paper, letting his gaze roam across the faces gathered around the table. "You can send your own mages," he offered. "The land is already healing."

Laethor seemed to weigh these revelations in silence. His focus flicked from Elowen—her serene confidence unwavering—to Mikhailis, whose firm stare allowed no hint of deceit. In that moment, the look on Laethor's face struck Mikhailis. The prince, so often stoic and distant, looked inexplicably young, as though the burdens of leadership momentarily lifted to reveal the boy he might have been long ago. He'd no doubt grown up hearing stories of Serewyn's prosperity before the mist corruption seeped into the soil. Perhaps those tales rang in his memory now, urging him to believe that renewal was possible.

He took a long, deliberate breath, and his hand curled slightly over the hilt of a decorative dagger strapped to his belt. It was more a reflexive action than an intentional threat—an old habit, maybe, from times when he had to be prepared for sudden confrontations in the royal court. But here, in this moment, with Elowen and Mikhailis waiting on his response, that breath and that gesture signaled an internal battle: trust weighed against caution, hope weighed against fear.

Finally, he nodded, a slight dip of his head that carried the weight of a kingdom's possible resurgence. There was no grand fanfare, no triumphant cry. Yet in the hush of the chamber, the simple motion felt seismic, as though it echoed in every corner, dissipating the last vestiges of apprehension like a clearing mist.

"Then let us forge a new path through the mists,"