The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Was this the right choice? Could I have done it better?

He voiced the questions softly, almost unconsciously.

Rodion answered immediately, with clinical precision and perhaps just a hint of acerbic tone in his mechanical voice.

<Analyzing. Outcome trajectory modeling: Your intervention averted a Tier III regional collapse. Humanitarian loss prevented: 83%. Infrastructure salvage rate: 57%. Emotional burden: irrelevant to optimization metrics.>

The response was as logical and emotionless as always, but it did little to soothe the ache that gnawed at his chest. Mikhailis exhaled slowly, shaking his head in quiet disagreement.

"But it matters," he murmured, voice thick with emotion, "even if the numbers say otherwise."

He closed his eyes briefly, forcing the cold sting of self-reproach away, knowing he couldn't dwell there. As much as Rodion preferred equations and data, human souls rarely balanced so neatly.

Then, abruptly, he felt it—a subtle yet undeniable pressure at the back of his mind, like a breeze rustling leaves in the stillness, or footsteps softly approaching through mist. The sensation was familiar, and a faint smirk touched his lips.

"I've been waiting," he said aloud, not turning, his voice low but clear, tinged with calm anticipation.

The sound of boots echoed gently up the stone stairwell behind him, slow and heavy, as though each step bore an unbearable weight. A moment later, Prince Laethor emerged into the morning light, flanked by two close aides whose eyes darted anxiously between their prince and Mikhailis, wary and watchful.

Laethor looked tired, worn beyond his years. The pristine white tunic he wore had lost some of its elegance, now crumpled from sleepless nights and tense council meetings. Today, he wasn't merely a prince or ruler; he was simply a man who bore the unbearable weight of a broken city, its hopes and despair pressing visibly upon his shoulders.

"You helped us recover our soil," Laethor began, his voice carefully controlled yet carrying an unmistakable undertone of weariness and sincerity. "Now we fulfill our part."

Rodion's visual interface sprang into life, overlaying Mikhailis's lenses with vibrant streams of information—text, diagrams, and schematics unfolding with flawless precision. Each detail flashed quickly, brilliant yet neatly organized, as the AI quickly and methodically outlined the true significance of Laethor's offer.

<Healing Potions: Mist-based, capable of reversing internal hemorrhaging within 23 seconds. Combat Serums: Increase magical response rate by 37%, effect duration of 12 minutes. Stimulant Drafts: Induce adrenaline spike and sensory elevation, effective in high-intensity combat situations. Truth Elixirs: Near-necromantic in intensity, capable of bypassing standard mental shields; caution advised. Additional notable products: Regenerative Paste (limb and severe injury restoration within 48 hours), Breath of Glass (temporary gill formation for underwater breathing, duration 1 hour per dose), Nightroot Scent (enhances stealth by masking aura and presence for 3 hours), Arcflare Vials (short-term mana combustion, significantly boosting spell power at risk of self-harm).>

Rodion paused briefly, almost theatrically, before concluding:

<Status: Highly controlled trade items. Strategic value assessment: Exceptional. Recommend immediate acceptance.>

Mikhailis managed to keep his face neutral, despite the excitement bubbling quietly beneath the surface. These weren't merely potions—they represented strategic leverage, power, and protection that Silvarion Thalor could scarcely replicate alone.

Laethor extended his hand, offering a sealed document adorned with the royal seal of Serewyn, the wax freshly pressed, the parchment still warm beneath his fingers. "We will open our western gate trade routes. And issue a research permit—for you alone."

Mikhailis accepted it casually, as though the entire offer was expected, barely glancing down as he felt the weight of its significance in his grasp. He couldn't suppress a sly grin, allowing it to curve gently onto his face.

"I thought you'd forgotten," he teased lightly, watching Laethor closely, searching for any reaction.

The prince's expression didn't falter, though his tired eyes held sincerity. "I don't break my promises."

They moved together towards a stone table that had stood for decades, weathered and sturdy, a silent witness to countless diplomatic exchanges. They sat, facing each other with quiet formality, yet neither felt the need to posture. Silence hung comfortably between them for a moment, broken only by the rustle of parchment and the faint scrape of quills being prepared.

As they reviewed the agreement, Laethor's eyes repeatedly flicked towards Mikhailis, thoughtful and curious. Eventually, he broke the silence, his voice low yet open.

"You're... passive today. No demands. No leverage talk. Just repair."

Mikhailis shrugged easily, lifting his gaze to meet the prince's questioning eyes directly. "Sometimes you don't need a sword to fix a broken vase."

Laethor shook his head slowly, an odd mix of amusement and confusion coloring his features. "You're odd."

"I've been told," Mikhailis replied, smiling faintly as he dipped his quill into the ink. He paused, allowing the moment of quiet reflection to settle. "Leverage is for negotiations, not for rebuilding trust. Today, what matters is the recovery—your people's lives and futures. When trust returns, so too will strength."

Laethor watched him closely, clearly weighing his words, then nodded with quiet respect. There was sincerity in his eyes now, the guarded mistrust fading away, replaced by cautious admiration. For the first time since they had met, Mikhailis felt a genuine bridge of understanding forming between them.

Mikhailis glanced downward once more at the courtyard, noticing a small child receiving a glowing loaf of enchanted bread, eyes wide in wonder, momentarily forgetting hardship. A pang of quiet satisfaction filled his chest, knowing that their actions today held real meaning.

With a final, decisive movement, both men pressed their seals onto the parchment, the wax cooling rapidly under the morning sun, a testament of new understanding and cautious hope forged amid ruins.

They signed it in silence.

Then Laethor noticed his gaze.

Mikhailis stood at the stone railing, eyes transfixed upon the scene below. The city of Serewyn sprawled outward, a tapestry of suffering, resilience, and fading grandeur. Small columns of smoke rose in spirals from scattered points in the city, lazily twisting upward as if trying to escape the broken streets below. A toppled cart lay abandoned near the edge of a marketplace, its wooden wheels cracked and splintered, the goods scattered and trampled. Further away, the skeletal remains of a barn smoldered slowly, charred beams jutting out like broken bones from the earth.

"It's not your fault," Laethor spoke quietly, gently breaking the silence. His voice was subdued, carrying a heaviness that made it clear he felt the weight of responsibility pressing deeply into him. "It was mine. My carelessness."

Mikhailis did not immediately respond. He remained still, his gaze lingering over the battered cityscape as if trying to read some hidden message in the ruins. The prince's words washed over him, settling like dust stirred by a gentle breeze. It wasn't blame or accusation in Laethor's voice—just honest self-reproach, the admission of a man facing the stark consequences of his decisions.

Eventually, Mikhailis sighed, a breath so soft it seemed nearly lost amid the sounds of distant commotion and quiet sobs rising from the streets below.

"Your brother," he finally murmured, eyes still fixed upon the troubled horizon. "Were you close?"

Laethor's posture tightened instantly, his spine stiffening as though Mikhailis had unintentionally pressed upon a wound still raw and throbbing beneath layers of carefully crafted composure. A subtle twitch rippled through the muscles of his jaw, and his eyes darkened, the warmth draining like sunlight fading beneath gathering clouds. The shift in atmosphere was palpable, immediate—an invisible veil drawn abruptly over the intimate space between them. The prince's two aides sensed it keenly, stepping backward silently, heads bowed slightly in discreet acknowledgment of boundaries being crossed, leaving only the faint echo of their footsteps against stone, drifting into respectful silence.

Laethor exhaled slowly, a deliberate action meant to calm his racing thoughts, though his breath shuddered faintly as if fighting to break free of its restraints. The calm exterior he wore so meticulously cracked subtly, revealing glimpses of the turmoil brewing just beneath the surface—a storm confined within a bottle of fine glass, straining desperately against its confinement.

Mikhailis noticed these things—these tiny, nearly imperceptible fractures—and felt an immediate pang of guilt mixed with curiosity. It was not cruelty that drove his question, but rather an instinctual search for understanding, for a shared humanity in a world where power so often stripped away tenderness, leaving only sharp edges and cold, hard responsibilities.

The silence between the two men stretched, becoming profound in its weight. It wasn't merely quietness; it was a void, a chasm filled with all the unspoken words of regret, longing, and loss. Below them, the distant city continued its slow, painful struggle toward normality, oblivious to the quiet exchange unfolding atop this worn terrace. The cries of weary citizens reached their ears faintly, accompanied by the occasional creak of a damaged wagon or the muted voices of families struggling to find comfort amid ruin. These sounds drifted upward like whispers from ghosts—a gentle, mournful backdrop to their troubled contemplation.

Laethor finally spoke, the words drawn out of him like a reluctant confession, each syllable carved carefully, painfully. "Yes," he admitted, his voice strained with the weight of emotions long suppressed. "We were. We are."