The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Is this… me?

The mist tightened. Accept it. There is no other path.

A sharp pain lanced through his skull. The voice, the mist, the power—they were consuming him, sinking talons of dread into the corners of his thoughts. He could swear he felt them rummaging through his memories, dredging up old fears he'd kept buried. It struck him, oddly enough, that he recognized some of these images—nightmares from his childhood, half-remembered anxieties about failing as a prince. A swirl of panic wrestled with curiosity in his chest. Was the mist truly showing him these things, or was he just imagining it?

Then—

"Hey, Your Highness!"

Rhea's voice crashed into the mental fog like a thunderous wave. A hand grabbed his collar, shaking him hard. The abrupt jolt snapped his focus back to the world around him, and his vision cleared, though dark spots still danced at the edges. Dust clung to Rhea's hair; a thin trail of blood trickled from a cut above her eye. She looked battered, but her gaze was firm—almost protective. Despite the exhaustion pulling at her features, she held onto him with surprising strength.

"You are not some lost king," she ground out, her tone rigid yet respectful. "You are Mikhailis Volkov—so fight this… this damn thing before it consumes you!"

The use of his full name felt jarring, but something in the way Rhea's voice shook lit a spark in him. It reminded him that he wasn't a lone soul weighed down by some cosmic destiny—he was also a person with allies at his back, allies who believed in him. And maybe that was enough to fight off the worst of these illusions.

A presence moved behind Rhea. Lira stepped forward, black ponytail swaying, expression calm despite the chaos swirling around them. She hovered protectively, like she wanted to shield him but recognized her blade would do little against intangible horror. "Your Highness," she said softly, her eyes meeting his. "Please… don't let it decide for you."

He felt a warm flicker in his chest at Lira's gentleness—an echo of the times she'd quietly fussed over his well-being when no one else noticed. Though she never raised her voice in anger or let her composure slip, he could sense genuine concern. Almost an unspoken plea.

Cerys and Vyrelda flanked them, forging a temporary ring of defense. They lunged at any swirling tendril of mist that dared come near. Each slash only scattered the creature momentarily, but it bought Mikhailis the seconds he needed. The weight of the Mist Fragment remained in his grip like a clumsy secret longing to be understood.
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He exhaled sharply. Control, not surrender.

Drawing a shaky breath, he channeled all his frantic thoughts into a single burst of determination. Instead of rejecting the mist or letting it overtake him, he forced himself to shape it—pulling it into the runic carvings that laced the chamber's floor. He pressed the Fragment down onto a raised symbol, feeling the ancient lines respond with a soft glow. Somewhere in the corners of his mind, he felt Rodion's voice pipe in:

<Your Highness, might I suggest you expedite this maneuver? The structural integrity of the catacombs is at 27% and falling.>

Mikhailis had no time to reply. He guided the mist through the runes. It was as if each line along the floor was a channel, a route for the rampant power. The entity hissed, trying to coil back and strike, but the runes blazed with renewed force as they captured each wayward tendril. Energy crackled, and the temperature in the room rose by degrees. Lira shielded her face from the sudden glow, while Rhea's grip tightened on her sword.

At first, the mist fought tooth and nail. He felt its fury like a living, breathing thing—a swirling monster that refused to be tamed. Memories battered his skull again: frantic images of devastation, of robed figures chanting as the sky turned black. He saw glimpses of some old battleground where the ground itself breathed mist, and men in battered armor clutched broken swords. Who were they? he wondered. Previous wielders… or just victims?

"You can do this, Your Highness," Rhea murmured next to him, wincing from the throbbing ache in her injured leg. The respectful note in her voice gave him a strange reassurance. Sometimes she teased him or snarked at him, but she was always loyal. Even in her battered state, she was here, trusting him to end this madness.

Mikhailis ground his teeth. He refused to let the entity slip free. "No more… illusions," he gasped. "No more… nightmares." With one last surge of will, he forced the bulk of the mist into the runic circuit. The swirling lines glowed white-hot, devouring that monstrous presence in a flash of brilliance. The whole chamber seemed to vibrate, ancient walls groaning as if sharing the mist's final wail of protest.

Then came silence, heavy and profound. The mist vanished, leaving behind only faint swirls of greyish smoke that dissipated within seconds. Mikhailis sank to one knee, sweat streaming down his forehead. He was vaguely aware of Lira letting out a soft breath of relief, and Rhea sagging against a broken column. The threat had receded, but the catacombs themselves were far from safe.

In his hand, the Fragment looked different. A dark, twisting mark now curled around his forearm, just above his wrist—like a brand, etched in lines reminiscent of serpentine mist. He shuddered involuntarily, an odd mixture of awe and dread filling his chest. Something of that entity remained. A piece of it had fused to him, or maybe the catacombs had recorded its presence in his flesh.

Lira knelt beside him, eyes wide and worried as she examined the new sigil. "It left something behind," she whispered, voice trembling in that rare show of emotion. She normally carried herself with icy grace, but right now, she looked sincerely frightened.

He swallowed back a bitter laugh that came out more like a ragged cough. "Great. Free souvenirs," he muttered, trying to smirk. But the attempt at humor felt forced. His heart hammered too fast, and the brand on his arm pulsed with a subtle warmth he couldn't ignore.

Rhea's gaze flickered between his face and the brand, her lips thinning. "You nearly got consumed by an ancient mist horror, Your Highness. And… all you have to say is that?"

Mikhailis managed a half-grin. "What else do you expect, Rhea? An apology? A poem about the beauty of near-death experiences?" He tried to push himself up, but a wave of dizziness hit. He settled for leaning heavily on one knee, chest heaving.

Before anyone could offer a retort, a low rumble rippled through the chamber. Dust and pebbles rained down from the cracked ceiling. The shrieks and groans of stone echoed in every direction. Vyrelda hissed out something rude about "unfinished battles," glancing around like she expected the entire room to collapse.

"We can't stay here," Cerys barked, voice firm. She grabbed Rhea by the arm, helping the other woman balance. "Your Highness, can you stand?"

Mikhailis suppressed a groan and forced himself upright, ignoring the dull ache in his ribs. "I'll manage," he said, sliding his arm around Rhea's waist to help her move. She grimaced, but let him support her weight.

A fresh fissure tore across the floor, splitting one of the runic carvings in half. The catacombs, already unstable, had become a lethal maze of collapsing passages. Every breath tasted of stale dirt and ancient ruin.

Lira cast a wide-eyed glance at the newly formed gap. "I recall seeing a corridor that might lead to an upper level. If we hurry—"

Vyrelda spun toward them, her expression harsh. "Yes, well, we better hurry. This place is seconds from burying us alive." She paused, looking Mikhailis straight in the eye with a bold, steely glare. "You better not pull any more dramatic stunts until we're out, Your Highness."

His lips quirked in a wry grin. "No promises, Vyrelda. Drama tends to follow me." He drew a breath, ignoring the dryness in his throat. "But I'll do my best."

They moved out as a unit, Lira leading, Rhea limping along with Mikhailis's help, and Cerys hovering on the flank. Vyrelda—nerves frayed—guarded the rear. The tunnel they chose was half-choked with rubble, forcing them to climb over chunks of fallen pillars. The catacombs trembled again, and Mikhailis nearly lost his footing. The brand on his arm burned hot for a moment, and he bit back a curse.

Rhea noticed. "Your Highness… are you all right?" There was a quiet softness in her voice that felt almost out of place, but she kept her respectful tone. She was worried despite her own injuries, which made him want to reassure her more than anything.

He coughed away a swirl of dust. "I'll… I'll manage. Don't worry. I've dealt with more complicated pests than a mystic brand." A short laugh escaped him, though it lacked his usual levity. "At least insects can be squashed."

Her lips twitched, maybe an attempt at a tiny smile. "If you say so, Your Highness."

They skirted a corner where the wall had caved in. Lira gestured for them to hurry, throwing anxious glances at the cracks webbing across the ceiling. The air felt thinner here. Possibly an indication they were moving upward, or it could be that the structure was collapsing so quickly that the dust was thickening to a smothering haze.

Every step jarred Rhea's bad leg, but she refused to let out more than a hiss of pain. Mikhailis wished he had time to admire her strength—her unwavering loyalty despite the half-teasing, half-exasperated banter they always shared. But the catacombs roared again, another quake threatening to send them all tumbling into darkness.

They emerged into a cramped chamber that branched into multiple corridors. Half of it had collapsed, leaving only two possible routes. One looked blocked by debris that might shift at any second. The other sloped upward in a shaky ramp of broken stones. Without hesitation, Lira picked the second route. "If I remember correctly, there was an archway with partial carvings on it—maybe that leads closer to the exit," she said, voice tight with forced calm.

Cerys didn't question the logic. "Lead on, Miss Lira," she said in clipped tones, scanning for threats. "And everyone, keep your eyes open. The next quake might be the last straw."