The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 575: Whispers Among Wardrobes (1)

Mikhailis pressed a palm to the cold stone and eased the secret panel shut, the mechanism sliding into place with a kiss-soft click. A thin ribbon of dust fluttered down, erased almost instantly by the humid draft that forever lingered in the servant passages. Good. If even a fastidious maid poked her head here tonight, she would see nothing but an unbroken wall and an unremarkable tapestry depicting a boar hunt.

The prince exhaled a breath he felt he had been holding since the ant tunnels. In the hush he could hear his own pulse, quick but controlled, like a drummer testing a new beat. He rolled his shoulders, letting tension seep into the stones. Beside him, Rodion’s plush form gave a gentle wobble—almost an encouraging nudge—before the AI orb’s serene voice sounded in a polite murmur only he could hear.

<Environmental scan complete. No hostiles within a ten-meter radius. You may, for the moment, breathe normally.>

Mikhailis’s lips quirked. "Breathing is permitted? How kind of you."

He took two steps, adjusting the leather strap of his utility pouch, then paused under a sconce whose candle had long since burned out. Shadows pooled thickly in the crannies here; even his sharp eyes took an extra second to resolve shapes. Above, faint voices drifted down the intersecting corridor—two guards, male, relaxed cadence. He caught a whiff of pipe smoke mixed with the cedar polish used on morning rounds. Better listen.

He raised one finger to Rodion; the orb bobbed in acknowledgement. They edged closer to a bend where a cracked door stood ajar. Through the gap, torchlight painted flickering stripes across the passage. Mikhailis flattened himself against the wall, Rodion mimicking the motion and squishing slightly against his thigh like a living cushion.

"—swear it, Ernan," one guard was saying, tone conspiratorial. "Lady Serelith’s been stormin’ about all afternoon. Said if she catches His Highness sneakin’ ’round again, she’ll blackmail him into a month of... what’d she call ’em? Personal favors."

The other guard snorted. "A month? Poor sap. Prince oughta pick his hidein’ spots with more sense."

Both chuckled, boots scuffing as they resumed patrol. Their laughter echoed for a few heartbeats, then dwindled into the distance.

Mikhailis let out a fragile sigh. Of all people, why Serelith? A month of "favors" from her and I’ll be stirring mana potions until my hair turns pink.

Rodion’s optical slit brightened. <New threat identified. Lady Serelith’s pursuit probability: seventy-nine percent and rising. Tactical retreat highly advisable.>

"We are not retreating," he whispered, careful to keep his voice beneath the candle’s dead wick. "We are strategically advancing somewhere she isn’t."

He pressed two fingers to his brow, mapping corridors from memory: back staircases, supply alcoves, even that broken dumb-waiter shaft near the music hall. Side halls after dusk were usually deserted, and nighttime laundry runs provided convenient, rolling cover.

"Operation No-Apron commences," he muttered. "Objective: maintain princely dignity—and avoid frilly lace."

Rodion’s voice hummed in amused compliance. <Acknowledged. Mission priority: prevent apron-related humiliation.>

They ghosted down the narrow corridor, Mikhailis matching footfalls to the rhythm of dripping water so each step vanished under natural noise. Whenever distant chatter echoed, he ducked into shadowed alcoves, one hand steadying Rodion who—despite plush silence—had the unfortunate habit of squeaking ever so faintly if jostled.

At a crossing, a maid pushing a cart of silverware rounded the corner too abruptly. Mikhailis inhaled sharp, grabbed a curtain, and swept himself behind its folds. Rodion executed a theatrical flop, landing facedown atop a heap of folded tablecloths on the maid’s cart. The maid paused, puzzled by the sudden addition of a large white plushie, but after a quick shrug she continued trundling along, humming off-key. Mikhailis peeked through the curtain slit, mouthing a grateful good save as Rodion rode past, unmoving.

Once clear, Rodion hopped from the cart with surprising grace and waddled back to his master. <Infiltration score improving,> he reported, voice tinged with a smug static.

"Show-off," Mikhailis whispered, yet his grin betrayed approval.

They advanced again, weaving through half-lit hallways until the scent of mothballs and aged cedar announced their destination: the Old Servants’ Wardrobe Vault. A gentle push on the warped oak door let them into a chamber frozen in the castle’s memory. Rows of towering wooden lockers lined the walls, each carved with faded crests and floral motifs—storage for ceremonial armor that hadn’t graced a parade in decades. Dust motes drifted like lazy snowflakes in the lantern gloom.

Mikhailis shut the door, heart finally easing. "Safe zone. Patrols rarely bother with antique wardrobes."

He let himself breathe deep. The air carried hints of old beeswax polish and long-stale lavender sachets. Yet before he could finish his exhale, the floor quivered—like a giant exhaling beneath the stones. From the joins between flagstones, slender roots sprouted, writhing up the walls in snakelike coils. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel-com

"Oh shit, oh shit—roots!"

Within seconds, thick vines barred the door, knotting themselves into a living padlock. Other tendrils slithered across ceiling beams, showering dust. One root brushed his ankle; he hopped back, knife already in hand.

"No kidding," he hissed to Rodion. He fished out a tiny vial of glimmering gray powder—glyph dust—and flicked it along the vine-locked doorframe. Steel-pointed knife traced sigils swift and sure: disrupt, unbind, hush. Pale light sparked where blade met powder; the vines twitched, puzzled, then loosened like sleepy serpents. Mikhailis pushed the door ajar a finger’s width—just enough to fool a pursuer that he’d bolted.

If she sees the door open, she’ll assume I ran, he reasoned. Better she hunts phantom corridors while I’m right under her nose.

He eased the door back until only a hairline crack remained, then scanned the room for hiding spots. His gaze landed on a massive locker carved with gryphon wings—the sort used for ancestor festival armor, roomy enough for an entire breastplate, shield, and standard. Perfect.

He padded across the creaking planks and swung the locker door open. A faint groan of hinges echoed like a sigh of relief. Inside, dust-covered pauldrons hung from wooden pegs, leaving a man-shaped cavity just waiting to be occupied.

Mikhailis slipped inside, tucking himself between a faded parade tunic and a moth-eaten cloak. The scent of cedar punched his nostrils; he wrinkled his nose, resisting a sneeze. He pulled the door nearly shut, leaving a sliver for air and vision.

"Rodion, hide in that crate," he whispered, pointing to a sturdily built chest labeled Festival Banners—retired. The lid stood ajar, blankets spilling over.

<Understood. Silent mode activated.>

Rodion tottered toward the stack of storage crates and executed a careful hop, disappearing beneath a cascade of musty festival banners. The plush white shell made only the faintest fwump as it settled, fabric swallowing his form until he resembled an overstuffed cushion abandoned by careless servants. The lone slit of blue light across his faceplate blinked twice, then dimmed completely. It was as if the AI had evaporated, leaving only forgotten linens behind.

A hush blanketed the vault, so complete that Mikhailis could hear dust settling on the floorboards. He held his breath, pressing his back against the locker wall. Wood bit into his shoulder blades, ancient cedar exuding a ghost of aromatic oil that stung his nostrils. Stay calm, he told himself, heart thudding like distant drums beneath heavy velvet. Serelith tracks energy signatures, not nerves.

Outside the locker, the roots he’d tricked into thinking he’d fled gave one last creak, then fell still. For a moment, nothing moved—only the groan of aging timber somewhere deep in the rafters and the soft, regular drip of condensation from a cracked ceiling tile above an empty suit of armor.

Then it began: a whisper like leaves brushing velvet. Light pooled in the room’s center, emerald and gold threads weaving themselves into a spinning whirl. Twisting branches coiled from thin air, knitting a doorway out of living wood. The portal unfurled with the elegance of a blooming rose, releasing the subtle scent of rosehips and burnt cinnamon.

Lady Serelith stepped through, and the portal closed behind her as politely as a hostess shutting a door against a late-night chill. She was every inch the predator in satin—hips swaying, pink hair sliding over her shoulders like liquid silk. A single lock had escaped her braid, curling at her temple in defiance. The ornate monocle, rimmed in moon-silver, glimmered against one amethyst eye.

"Hm-hm-hm," she hummed, a tune that walked a line between lullaby and threat. Her heels tapped a deliberate cadence, too slow for an innocent stroll, too rhythmic for chance. She ran a fingertip across one locker door and inspected the dust that clung to her glove. "Old wardrobes," she murmured, voice dripping amusement, "delightful for hiding... secrets."

Mikhailis felt a bead of sweat trace down the back of his neck. He adjusted his breathing—shallow, rhythmic, matching the slow swing of the locker door still cracked a sliver. Through that thread of space, he watched her glide past rows of carved griffins and lion rampant emblems.

Serelith raised the monocle to her eye. A faint click sounded—Rodion’s relay crystal activating. "See anything, little one?" she cooed.

Inside the blankets, Rodion’s optic slit sparked, a single pixel of teal, then went dark again.

<No visual anomalies detected, Lady Serelith.>

The AI’s voice, piped through the monocle, was a perfect replica of clinical calm.

That’s my genius marshmallow, Mikhailis praised silently, forcing himself not to chuckle. The motion of laughter would surely betray him; the cedar walls felt thin as parchment.

Serelith’s ruby lips pursed. "So obedient. But remember," she said to the monocle, her tone syrup-sweet, "loyalty to one master doesn’t preclude... extracurricular cooperation." She let the sentence dangle like a noose in the air.

Mikhailis’s pulse spiked. Extracurricular cooperation my ass, he thought, biting the inside of his cheek. He slid one hand to his belt, fingers grazing his last vial of glyph dust in case he needed a diversion.

Serelith moved again, flipping open a locker with a flourish. Empty save for a threadbare festival tabard and a broken plume. She tsked softly, letting the door swing shut. The hinges squealed—he winced, half-expecting the noise to echo straight to his hiding place, but her gaze skated past.

She worked methodically, opening lockers in a meandering pattern designed to confuse prey: first one to the left, two to the right, then a sudden pivot to the back row, humming that same low tune. Dust motes swirled around her in the lantern glow, turning each pirouette into a miniature snowfall.

Every locker door became a percussion hit in Mikhailis’s chest. With each click, he counted his heartbeats—one, two, three—anticipating the moment hers would align with his. As she drew closer, his world shrank to the smell of cedar, the brush of moth-eaten cloth against his cheek, and the silent warning of his racing pulse.

Rodion’s optic slit blinked from inside the crate. Was the AI...smiling? Impossible, yet the single flicker radiated amusement.

Outside, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "Where are you, Your Highness?" She dragged his title into three languid syllables, each one braiding equal parts promise and threat.

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