The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 600: The Secret Lab is Home (2)

"Cerys?" he began, voice low so it wouldn’t bounce off the copper pipes.

She lifted a hand—just two fingers raised—and shook her head once. No words. Not now. The gesture was curt but not hostile, like a wolf warning a companion to tread carefully over thin ice.

He respected the signal, pressing his lips together. She needs space, he thought, watching her boots turn toward the spiral stair. The fine dust of pastry sugar still clung to the leather where Serelith had tried to "accidentally" flick a crumb earlier. He considered brushing it off for her, decided against it. The red-haired knight hated fuss.

She walked slowly, each step deliberate, as if mapping the lab anew in this quieter hour. Her gloved fingertips drifted across objects—steady, searching touches that reminded Mikhailis of patrol checks after curfew: the back of a wooden chair, the cool brass frame of an inactive holo-screen, the curved rim of an empty tea cup. Small things, but each seemed to anchor her in the room, feeding silent memories into whatever private ledger she kept behind that visor.

Halfway to the stair she paused beside his workbench. A loose cartridge—one of his sillier prototypes labeled "Chibi Chimera Kart Racing"—had slid halfway off the edge during the game frenzy. She pushed it back into line, squared it with the other cases, and rested her palm on top for a long breath. The motion was so gentle it surprised him, a warrior’s hand used to steel now treating a plastic toy like porcelain.

The lab’s low lighting painted shifting amber stripes across the floor. A single glowstone flickered near the ceiling, casting a slow dance of shadows over the rows of beakers and stacked notebooks. Rodion stayed silent; even the AI seemed to sense the fragile stillness clinging to Cerys’s silhouette.

She never thought she would find a place where she could lower her guard—certainly not in a hidden chamber stuffed with buzzing crystals and cartoon ants. Yet here she was, unarmored, visor half-opaque, breathing in the faint perfume of mint tea and solder smoke. She flexed her right hand, feeling the slight tremor left over from hours of gripping a game controller instead of a sword. I laughed tonight, she acknowledged, half proud, half unsettled. I laughed like a child.

Her gaze slipped toward the far wall where Elowen’s cup still rested, a smear of berry jam on its rim. Queen and knight, sharing pastries, trading taunts over holographic lava pits—what would her father say to that? Lord Gaius Wynne Arundel prized formality the way a smith prized tempered steel. He would call this entire evening frivolous, a waste of discipline.

But discipline alone had never warmed Cerys’s blood. Tonight had. Each cheer from Serelith, each wry remark from Lira, Elowen’s quiet giggle when she mis-timed a jump—those moments stitched into her like bright new thread across battle-scarred cloth. She lined her shoulders straighter, as though feeling the weight of those threads settle into place.

Across the room Mikhailis busied himself, wiping the tea rings off the workstation even slower than usual, giving her time. He pretended to study a smudge on the glass until the knight’s footsteps carried her to the foot of the stair. The mechanism waited, silent gears coiled beneath sandstone.

She set one boot on the first step, then paused again. The hush pressed in, a gentle hand on her back urging her upward, another invisible hand tugging her to stay. The two impulses tangled, tightening something in her chest. If I stay longer, she reasoned, I’ll only grow softer. If I leave too soon, I might never come back.

The visor’s glass reflected the glowstones—small gold moons drifting across its surface. Beneath the lenses her eyes closed for a heartbeat, steadying. Then, without turning, she spoke, voice pitched hardly above the hum of the rune fans.

"Tell Her Majesty the tea was perfect," she said. Her tone held no tremor, but Mikhailis heard the gratitude coiled inside.

"I will," he promised gently. "And next time I’ll save you the top score screen. Lira’s already polishing her trophy speech."

A faint breath that might have been a laugh slipped from her. The visor hid any smile, yet he felt one bloom anyway. She lifted her chin a fraction. "She earned it," she admitted, grudging pride in her voice. "But I plan to reclaim it."

He saluted with his cleaning rag. "Consider it a royal decree: champion’s rematch."

The visor clicked again, its tint lightening so he caught a glimpse of green—bright, clear, hopeful—and the corner of his chest tightened. In that sliver of eye contact lay a promise louder than any oath: she would return.

No further words passed between them. She took the steps in measured strides, each footfall a muted thud swallowed by stone. The low whirr of the mechanism followed, gears engaging to draw her upward. Mikhailis waited until the last echo faded, until the shelf above rolled back into place with a sigh that sounded almost like the lab exhaling.

The lab suddenly felt quiet again, not empty, but calmer.

He let the silence settle, wiping the last smudge from the holotable surface. The circuits beneath flickered in idle patterns, echoing the gentle beat of his heart. In the center of the room the teapot still steamed faintly, raising scrolls of warmth that curled through the lamplight before dissolving into the rafters.

He reached for the cups, stacking them one by one, but paused at Cerys’s untouched saucer—only a crescent bite missing from the pastry. He brushed a thumb across the flaky crumbs, smiling. She always left something behind, a small mark to prove she had let her guard drop. A token trust.

Rodion’s text appeared, bright but subdued:

<Observation: Knight Arundel exhibits adaptive bonding behavior. Probability of permanent allegiance to laboratory collective rising. Recommend reinforcing positive association with additional pastry incentives.>

Mikhailis shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping. "She’s not a stray cat, Rodion."

<Incorrect. She shares multiple behavioral markers with cautious felines. Data: heightened territorial awareness, occasional purring when addressed by Prince.>

He rolled his eyes, though the warmth in his chest grew. Let her think it through, he told himself, returning the pastry to its plate so she could finish it next time. She’ll come in her own rhythm.

Elowen’s lips twitched in amusement, her golden-rimmed glasses catching the holographic glow as she sipped her tea. "Let’s do another round tomorrow night. I rather like these games."

Mikhailis turned his gaze toward her. Something about Elowen lately seemed brighter. Her face, once always carefully controlled, now warmed in small smiles, her laughter coming more often and more easily.

Maybe she had needed this as much as he did.

The lab had gradually become their hangout place, ever since that evening Elowen quietly invited the girls to join her for nightly teas. What started as a polite gathering soon turned into a habit none of them wanted to break. Mikhailis never thought he’d see the day Elowen would sneak back into his lab just to play hologram games.

Rodion flicked a new line into his view.

<Master Mikhailis. Your current expression indicates contentment exceeding baseline levels. Possible causes: increased social attachment, successful territory sharing, or excellent pastry. Data inconclusive.>

Probably all of the above, Mikhailis mused, watching as Serelith pouted dramatically, Cerys scowled at a replay screen, and Lira smirked while polishing her puzzle high score.

"And yet," Serelith whispered, resting her chin in her palm, "the most precious part of this lab is still off-limits after a certain hour."

Cerys threw her a dry look. "The sacred royal slot."

Elowen’s cheeks pinked, but she didn’t deny it. Instead, she let a playful grin slip as she adjusted her glasses. "Well, surely a prince consort should spend some evenings with his queen."

"Certainly," Lira added with a calm nod, "but it’s a bit suspicious how you always kick us out at precisely the same time."

Mikhailis feigned shock. "I would never! Besides, you all leave willingly. I simply escort you to the door with great enthusiasm." freeweɓnovel-cøm

Elowen, setting her cup down, met his gaze with a knowing softness. "It’s alright, Mikhailis. I’ve told them. They are always welcome here."

His heart gave a quiet, unexpected squeeze. "You... really don’t mind?"

She tilted her head, gold hair catching the lamplight. "It makes me happy to see everyone laugh here."

<Notice: Heart rate elevated. Suggest calming tea. Preferably with less sugar.>

Mikhailis let his grin linger. Rodion, shut up.

As the evening wore on, the girls began to pack up their things, their chatter slowly fading into quiet hums. Cerys lingered, watching them. Serelith stuffed her bag with loose puzzle chips she "accidentally" borrowed. Lira gracefully helped Elowen fold the tea cloths.

Mikhailis caught Cerys’s eyes for a heartbeat. She gave him a nod—one of those rare, steady looks she reserved for moments that mattered. But she didn’t follow the others out.

Instead, as the others disappeared down the hidden stairwell, Cerys stayed behind, her visor sliding down over her eyes with a soft click. The air shifted.

The lab suddenly felt quiet again, not empty, but calmer.

She walked slowly, her boots making soft sounds on the stone floor. One gloved hand brushed the back of a chair, the edge of the console, the surface of a loose game cartridge.

It was strange.

She never thought she would find a place where she could lower her guard. Never thought she’d feel this comfortable... or this vulnerable.

This is my pack now.

The thought was both comforting and terrifying.

The stoic and lonely Lone Wolf is now gone.

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