The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 603: The Family of Wolves (2)

Cerys stood alone in the hush of the Arundel underground barracks. The air smelled of old iron and pine-pitch torch oil, a scent that always reminded her of first light inspections and blistered palms on training swords. Orange-blue flames twitched in their sconces, scattering restless shadows over polished stone. Above, the curved ceiling vanished into darkness, making the hall feel like the throat of some leviathan—huge, silent, and waiting.

She stepped forward, boots echoing softly. Every tap sounded too loud in the emptiness, so she traded heel strikes for the softer pads of her soles, like a wolf stalking prey. When she reached the chalk ring in the center of the floor, she unsheathed her sword. Steel whispered out, cold and sure, and the faint ring bounced off the walls before fading.

Rodion’s crystalline nodes, set like tiny constellations along the rafters, winked awake.

<Initializing Arundel Grandmaster Archive.> <Five simulacra loading... stand by.>

A breath fogged past Cerys’s lips; the hall was cool enough that each exhale showed. She tried to tame the jitter in her fingers—half from anticipation, half from the rye she’d shared with Lucien earlier—and slid into her guard stance. Blade forward, shoulders low, eyes level.

Across the ring, five silhouettes pulsed into being, light coalescing around shimmering bones of energy until they solidified into armored forms. Old crests gleamed on tabards: crossed wolves, crescent moons, and the twin spears of an Arundel shield-wall lost to time. Even knowing they were made of light and clever rune projection, Cerys’s pulse kicked higher. These were the heroes of her childhood bedtime stories—now opponents.

Sir Elric the Valiant materialized first. He raised his sword in a formal salute, then lunged with a bark like a rooster’s crow, boots hammering stone. Cerys felt her own body answer on pure drilling: parry right, disengage, thrust. Their blades met—steel on simulated steel—and sparks leapt, then died in midair.

Elric pressed, sweeping in grand arcs that took advantage of his longer reach. She countered each one, but the force vibrated up her arms, jarring her elbows. Her muscles weren’t fully warm, but he left no time for gentle warm-ups. She forced her breathing into a steady cadence—count four in, four out. With a precise riposte she slipped under his guard, punched her pommel into his ribs, and pivoted away. The hologram flickered, "wounded," yet did not falter; legendary fortitude, even in code.

Two minutes bled by. Her shoulders trembled under the repeated impacts, yet she kept her stance narrow, footwork tight. On her next parry she saw an opening—Elric’s left flank exposed for a blink—and drove the tip in. Light cracked and the knight disintegrated into motes, drifting like dying embers.

One down.

Before she could draw a full breath, Dame Maribel the Swift emerged. Half her size, dagger in one hand, short-blade in the other. Cerys barely settled when Maribel blurred forward. Blade flashes everywhere—high, low, inner line, outer. Cerys’s wrists already ached; now they started to scream as she deflected strike after strike. Maribel’s grin—programmed but unnerving—kept sliding into view, daring Cerys to lose footing.

A slip cost her: Maribel’s dagger sliced a shallow line along her pauldron seam. The simulation had no true edge, but the feedback rune beneath her breastplate sent a stinging pulse across skin. Cerys hissed.

"Adjusting difficulty to maintain seventy percent efficacy," Rodion announced from above.

<Shall I reduce enemy speed?>

Cerys spat on the stone, eyes burning. "No." Her voice cracked raw. "All or nothing."

Maribel came for her neck. Cerys ducked, pivoted inside, drove her elbow into the hologram’s sternum. The simulacrum stumbled; Cerys seized that heartbeat—slid her sword up under Maribel’s chin in a single, brutal thrust. Light shattered into flying shards that evaporated before hitting the ground.

The torchlight felt hotter now. Sweat ran down her spine, soaked the collar of her gambeson. She sucked a breath, iron tang coating her tongue.

Lord Garran the Unbroken loomed next—towering mace already spinning. He swung. The first blow slammed into her guard like a siege ram. Her knees buckled—dust skittered under her greaves—but she stayed on her feet. Garran bellowed a challenge, voice low and booming even through Rodion’s modulator. Another swing. She dodged, felt the rush of displaced air graze her cheek. A third swing caught her sword’s crossguard, forced her sideways. Bruises would bloom by dawn.

She let the giant overcommit. When the mace hurtled past, she stepped under Garran’s extended arm and slashed his hamstring. The hologram staggered. She spun, reversed her blade, drove it into his back between the shoulder plates. Light fractured, exploded. Garran vanished in a silent thunder.

Her lungs burned now. Sweat dripped off her chin. Two more duelists remained. Her heart hammered so loud she almost missed Rodion’s calm metric:

<Physical output ninety-three percent. Pulse at one-hundred-eighty beats per minute. Psychological endurance threshold approaching redline.>

"This—this is nothing like polite courtyard sparring," she muttered, wiping her brow with a trembling wrist.

Knight-Commander Irelle the Cruel appeared—chain-whip uncoiling with a hiss. The first crack tore a line of pain across Cerys’s thigh. She shouted, more anger than hurt, and rushed inside the whip’s range before Irelle could spool back. The chain whipped again, scraping sparks off her breastplate. She ignored it, barreled forward, shoulder-checking the hologram. They crashed to the floor. She jammed her sword point into Irelle’s throat and twisted. Light ripped apart.

Cerys rolled away, came up on one knee. The final hologram rose from swirling sparks: Lady Seraphine the Resolute. No weapon—just a shield the size of a door and a spear gleaming pewter. Seraphine advanced without hurry, each step measured, as if certain of victory. Cerys scrambled upright, pain lancing her thigh. She set her weight anyway.

Seraphine thrust; Cerys deflected, but the impact rattled her knuckles. Again. Again. The spear’s rhythm was relentless—tap, crash, tap, crash—shield absorbing any counterstrike. Cerys’s breath hitched. She felt her technique fray. Then memory stirred: Seraphine’s legend that she never lowered her shield if pressed from two sides. Cerys feinted right, then hurled a training dagger from her belt left-handed. The blade thunked into the shield—pointless—yet Seraphine twisted to block. Opening. Cerys dove low, slid under the shield rim, and thrust upward into the hologram’s gut. The illusion erupted into brilliant splinters.

Silence crashed down, broken only by her ragged breathing.

<Trial complete. Historical accuracy: ninety-four percent. Emotional stress levels: elevated. Recommend rest or mental recalibration.>

Cerys’s sword tip kissed the stone as her shoulders sagged. "Rest is for the dead," she rasped, though her arm trembled so hard she could barely lift the blade again.

But something prickled at her chest—an old, familiar emptiness that tasted of smoke and mourning. She looked up as a new shape coalesced. This hologram carried no tabard. Instead, it bore a simple sash stitched with the silver-blue knotwork her mother used to sew onto Cerys’s childhood tunics. The stance—feet angled, guard high—was her mother’s exact form, a posture Cerys hadn’t seen since the day bandits razed their village.

Her lungs locked. The torches dimmed in her vision, everything narrowing to that spectral figure.

<Special subject trial activated. Subject: Lady Cerys’s maternal combat archetype. This may cause psychological strain.>

The ghost raised its sword in silent salute. Cerys’s fingers went numb. Memories poured in: warm hands guiding hers around a wooden practice sword; laughter echoing beneath oak trees; the smell of fresh-baked loaves cooling on a windowsill. All gone in a night of fire.

"Mother," she whispered, voice cracking. The ghost did not answer—only shifted into attack. Reflex overrode grief. Blade met blade; sparks flew. Each impact yanked a memory free. Ghost-Mother parried her favorite feint. Ghost-Mother pivoted in the same light step she’d praised when Cerys finally mastered it at twelve. Tears blurred Cerys’s vision, but she refused to blink.

They circled. Cerys’s breath tore out in sob-ragged gasps. An inside cut slipped past her guard—feedback rune jabbed her ribs. Pain flared, yet grounded her. She dragged air into her lungs. "You taught me better than this," she growled—and countered with a rising slash, the one move her mother never expected because no child could manage its reach. Blade cut through holographic flesh; light burst. The ghost stilled, eyes softening into calm approval before dissolving into sparks.

"Simulation destabilizing. Shall I terminate this subject?"

Her voice was steel. "No. Grief must fuel me, not break me."

When the last shimmer vanished, Cerys stood shaking, knuckles white on her sword hilt. She whispered, "I am your daughter." The words tasted of iron and tears.

Torches seemed colder now. She wiped her brow—blood from a shallow cut mixed with sweat. She stumbled to a bench, dropped onto it, shoulders sagging. I will not be undone by ghosts. But her heart thudded a staccato of longing.

A soft rustle drew her gaze to a side table where a parchment envelope lay—Calderon wax seal glaring crimson in torchlight. Her pulse spiked anew. She tore it open; formal words spilled like icy water. Court review. Unlady-like reputation. Proposed annulment if she didn’t comply. Her father silent. His silence might as well be consent.

Rodion’s neutral tone slid through the air.

<Incoming private correspondence: Lord Arundel’s reply to Calderon request. Tone: acquiescent. Probability of House yielding: high.>

Cerys’s jaw tightened until pain threatened to crack molars. She crushed the letter in her fist, parchment crackling like brittle leaves. Shame twisted, then flared into hot rage. She shredded the paper into strips and flung them, watched crimson wax fragments skitter across stone like beetles.

Breathing fire, she rose. Sword glittered in the torchlight—eager, as if sensing her fury.

"If they want a duel of honor, they shall have it." Her voice carried down the empty hall, bounced off pillars, returned to her like a wolf’s distant howl.

<Statistical disadvantage of unsanctioned duel: eighty-seven percent.>

"Then let the wolves howl," she spat back.

This content is taken from (f)reewe(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦