The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

The moment Mikhailis stepped out of the ruined catacombs and into the open air, a sharp, acrid scent hit his nose. Smoke. The thick, eye-watering kind that clung to his tongue when he swallowed, forcing a sour taste down his throat. Burnt wood, charred stone, and the unmistakable metallic tinge of blood in the air. He paused on a ragged slab of stone that jutted out from the half-collapsed courtyard floor, letting his gaze wander around what had once been a lively meeting spot for merchants and travelers.

Just yesterday—had it really only been a day?—he would've seen children playing here, old vendors bantering with customers, and travelers gossiping about the latest royal scandal. Now it was eerily silent, filled with the aftermath of destruction: smoldering ruins, collapsed stalls, a few abandoned carts scattered haphazardly among shattered cobblestones. A battered sign lay face-down by a collapsed arch, its letters scorched beyond recognition. The faint smell of stale spices and ash mingled together, adding another layer to the grim atmosphere.

He exhaled heavily, muscles protesting with each breath. His entire body ached from the ordeal underground, and a dull throb pulsed behind his left temple. Every inch of him felt coated in dirt, dust, or dried blood—some of it his, some possibly from that monstrous fight with the mist entity. The swirling memory of that last encounter still clung to him, a haunting swirl of half-remembered illusions and cold, alien whispers. If someone didn't know better, they might've assumed he was a troublemaking drunk who'd been tossed out of a tavern after losing one bet too many. That was something he might have joked about under different circumstances. But not now.

His gaze drifted to the black brand curling along his forearm, still pulsing with a subtle, eerie glow. It looked like an intricate tattoo, except it moved, shifting with his pulse. He pressed his lips together in a thin line. It felt like it was breathing against his skin—alive, in a sinister sort of way. He wondered if it was feeding on his fear, or maybe just reminding him that he was no longer quite himself.

Great. I look like a man possessed. The thought wasn't entirely comedic, though he tried to force a half-smile. No one laughed, and no one teased him. They all saw the brand, too, and they knew there was something about it that spelled danger.

A flicker of pain shot through his arm, as though the brand wanted to punish him for his sarcasm. He let out a quiet hiss, rubbing the spot with his other hand to soothe the sting. The mist wasn't completely gone—he could still feel it lurking in the background of his mind, whispering half-formed words that never quite reached his consciousness. Like a patient parasite, it waited for him to drop his guard. He grit his teeth. Not happening today, he told it silently.

<Your Highness, you appear to be experiencing irregular biofeedback patterns. Might I remind you that your current state suggests a 46% likelihood of neurological influence from an external force?>

He almost groaned out loud. Perfect. Now even his secret AI companion was reading him like a broken device. Oh, great. Now I have Rodion diagnosing me like I'm some malfunctioning machine. The dryness of his mental remark didn't mask his worry. Despite his usual flippant attitude, he knew better than to ignore such a warning. If Rodion was picking up on changes in his vitals, it meant something was truly off.

An exhausted figure bumped his shoulder—Rhea, leaning against him for support. She was breathing heavily, trying to mask her pain, but he could see a nasty slash just below her hip. Blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage they'd applied in a hurry. It was no wonder she was unsteady. He turned his head, meeting her gaze.

She offered him a small frown, the corners of her lips twitching like she wanted to grimace but refused to show weakness. "Your face looks weird," she muttered, her voice low and a bit raspy from all the dust and smoke.

He blinked, forcing a half-grin. "Define 'weird.'"

"You look like someone debating whether to pass out or start laughing," she said, lifting one brow in a show of mild annoyance. There was concern underlying her sarcasm, though. He could see it in the set of her jaw.

"Can't I do both?" he shot back, trying to keep his tone playful.

She rolled her eyes. The movement made her wince, probably tugging at some stiff muscle in her neck. Despite the bravado, she was barely staying upright. The slump in her shoulders revealed just how drained she was, but the fierce stubbornness in her eyes wouldn't let her simply collapse. Find adventures at My Virtual Library Empire

They were all battered. Lira stood a few steps away, patting dust from her fine coat with that effortlessly poised air she never lost. Even streaked with grime, she managed to look composed, her long black ponytail still hanging neatly behind her. Only a few stray wisps of hair escaped to frame her face. There was a calm, refined elegance in everything she did, as though the entire world could be crumbling and she'd still serve tea with a graceful bow if duty required it. But the tightness in her expression betrayed her worry.

"Luthadel is in chaos," she said softly, her gaze traveling to the destroyed stalls and half-sunken walls around them. Smoke curled into the sky far in the distance, painting the horizon a hazy gray mixed with streaks of black. Every so often, the distant clash of steel cut through the moaning wind, accompanied by the faint echo of screams or yelling. It was like the city itself was crying out in pain.

Cerys, with her red ponytail swaying slightly, walked a slow circle around them, sword in hand, scanning the perimeter. The "Lone Wolf" knight seldom let her guard down, and these circumstances made her even more tense. "Something's off," she murmured, her voice low, yet carrying that crisp authority. "This destruction… it's too precise. The collapse should've been random if it was just from the catacombs. But certain areas look like they were hit worse than others. More… intentional."

Vyrelda, arms crossed over her chest, scoffed. "So what you're saying is someone used our little catacomb disaster as a convenient excuse to start tearing the city apart?" Her voice carried a mix of anger and grudging admiration for whoever planned such a daring move.

A headache pounded at Mikhailis's temples. He lifted a hand and rubbed the side of his head, trying to ease the ache. "And I thought I was the master of chaos. Looks like someone beat me to it," he said in a wry attempt at humor. Usually, that line might've drawn a snort from Rhea or a roll of the eyes from Lira, but right now, no one seemed in the mood.

His joke fell flat. They all knew the truth—it wasn't coincidence. The Crownless House had been waiting for this.

____

The streets weren't just in disarray; they were eerily empty in certain sections. It was unsettling to see roads that once bustled with merchants, street performers, and gossiping neighbors turn as silent as a graveyard. Even the wind seemed reluctant to stir, as if it feared drawing attention to itself. Through the drifting haze of smoke and dust, faint silhouettes of old arches and abandoned carts loomed like ghosts in a half-forsaken city. Usually, one would expect to see survivors darting between ruins, scavenging supplies, or searching for lost loved ones, but here there was almost no one around.

Either they fled beforehand, Mikhailis thought grimly, or they knew something was coming. That unsettling realization pricked at the back of his mind. He tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword, feeling the brand on his forearm pulse once more. It was a persistent reminder that nothing about this situation was normal.

Just ahead, Cerys walked in measured steps, scanning each side street with the relentless focus of a seasoned warrior. Her red ponytail swayed across her back, the ends matted with dirt from the recent chaos. Despite the fatigue etched on her face, her eyes remained sharp—two narrow slits of concentration as she watched for threats. Rhea, limping slightly, kept pace near Mikhailis, refusing to let him see how much pain her leg caused her. She clung to him only when absolutely necessary, more out of pride than anything else. Still, he could feel the occasional tremor in her body whenever she had to shift weight onto the injured limb.

Lira walked beside him, posture flawless, no matter how much soot stained her elegant attire. Her hair—long and black, drawn into a sleek ponytail—had somehow managed to remain mostly intact, though a few stray strands curled around her cheeks. Every so often, she'd glance down a side alley or peer into a broken window, as if searching for signs of life or hidden enemies. She rarely spoke, but her eyes gleamed with quiet worry.

Vyrelda followed close behind, occasionally kicking a loose stone in frustration. Her frustration wasn't directed at anyone in particular, but the tension radiating off her was palpable. At one point, she sent a chunk of rubble skittering across the pavement, letting out a low growl. "This place was supposed to be crowded," she muttered, voice taut. "Where is everyone?"

Mikhailis swallowed a grimace. "They're either in hiding or worse," he murmured back. "Not everyone has the luxury of being a traveling prince… or a knight… or a crazy warrior woman like you."