The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 604: The Family of Wolves (3)

Cerys limped back into the chalk ring, fingers still tingling from the earlier bout. She wiped a sleeve across her brow; sweat smeared with the faint smear of blood where a feedback rune had split the skin. The barracks smelled different now—less of pine-pitch, more of hot metal and her own ragged breath. Somewhere water dripped, a slow metronome that reminded her heart to keep beating.

"Rodion, mismatched combat trial," she ordered, forcing her voice to steady. The syllables echoed off stone like thrown pebbles.

<Parameters accepted. Generating five unsporting combatants based on historic battlefield irregulars. Difficulty: extreme.>

Light bled outward, gathering grit and color until five hulking shapes solidified. No polished breastplates here—just rag-stitched tunics, spiked clubs, blades chipped like shark teeth. Their faces were half animal: snarling lips, nervous eyes, the kind of men who fought for coin and cruelty, not honor.

Cerys braced. Her structured stance felt suddenly too formal, like a ball gown in a mud pit.

The first brute lunged with a howl, club already mid-swing. She met him, sliding inside the arc and cutting low across his belly. The hologram flickered red but didn’t fall—dirty fighters rarely respected killing blows. He tried to grab her hair; she ducked, drove her pommel into his chin, ripped free just as the second thug barreled in.

Two more joined—one punching, the other swinging a jagged cleaver. Cerys’s sword flashed, but footwork faltered on loose dust. She twisted, felt the cleaver kiss her pauldron. Pain bit through the rune feedback, hot and jagged. Anger answered it.

She slammed her boot onto a club-wielder’s knee; joints cracked, illusionary flesh swiveling sideways. The brute shrieked, but another grabbed her sword arm, trapping her elbow against its ribs. Panic flared—she slammed her brow into his nose, heard the satisfying crunch even through phantom code. He staggered; she wrenched free, blade flipping into an awkward reverse grip. Another strike—flat of steel meeting temple—dropping him like a sack.

Chaos swallowed form. Her training—three clean cuts, pause, measure, realign—meant nothing. Here there was only pressure and dirt and the stink of desperation. She pivoted, parried two weapons at once, felt wrists burn. A third fist rocketed toward her gut; she twisted, letting it graze leather, then punched into soft ribs. Somebody swore. She tasted blood—her own, from a split lip.

Breath rasped in her ears. Torchlight blurred at edges, turning the room into a furnace.

She backed up, boots skidding. The last two brutes circled, flanking like wolves that understood numbers. She forced her breathing slower, bent her knees. Stop dancing court steps. Think alleyway.

When the one on the right lunged, she didn’t block. She sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, used his momentum to sling him into his partner. They collided in a tangle of limbs. Before they could untangle, she plunged her blade through both sets of ribs in a brutal thrust. Ghost-blood sprayed neon sparks. Figures dissolved, leaving only the glitter of dying code.

Silence collapsed over the barracks, thick and ringing.

Cerys’s sword tip dropped. Shoulders heaved. Sweat dripped from her chin, pattered onto stone. She tasted iron, smelled torch smoke, felt the raw tremor of her pulse in every joint.

<Controlled style failure detected. Recommendation: adapt to unstructured combat scenarios.>

Rodion’s calm light scrolled above her visor. She answered with a ragged laugh. "I know," she breathed, half amusement, half self-reproach.

Her heart still hammered when new glyphs flickered across the air. Not combat data—political. Rodion stitched together a floating diorama: an oak-paneled chamber somewhere in the palace, silhouettes of nobles leaning over a map. Calderon crest at the center, two other banners flanking: House Wrenfall’s silver swan, House Halvenna’s coiled asp. Hushed voices rendered into captions.

Calderon envoy: "If Arundel yields the girl, we seal the triad."

Wrenfall matron: "Exile her or wed her; either eliminates the queen’s little wolf."

Halvenna: "Cerys’s loyalty is brittle. I can snap it with the right pressure."

A cold knot formed behind Cerys’s sternum.

<Alliance probability with Calderon: sixty-eight percent. House Arundel response window: seventy-two hours. Lady Halvenna’s bribe offer detected: political favor in exchange for testimony.>

The scene zoomed, highlighting Halvenna’s smirk, the outline of a ruby ring tapping the table. Childhood memories pricked: two girls racing ponies across frost-silver meadows, laughing breath steaming. Now that laugh threatened knives.

Cerys wiped her mouth, tasted rust. "I choose wolves," she whispered. The chamber image bled away. Rodion dimmed projections until only torchlight remained.

Sword still in hand, she scanned the empty barracks. Gouges scarred the chalk ring where brute clubs had struck. Dust swirled in lazy spirals through orange beams. Somewhere high in the rafters, a droplet fell—plink—echoing like a warning bell.

Footsteps? No. Only her heart.

She walked to the weapon rack, slid the sword back into its sheath with deliberate slowness. Steel kissed leather; the hiss reminded her of closing a cage. Her fingers lingered on the cross-guard, feeling faint tremors—aftershocks of adrenaline.

Rodion’s soft glow hovered at shoulder height.

<Warning: alliance break may trigger inter-house conflict. Estimated casualties: high.>

Cerys turned off the projections with a curt gesture. Darkness reclaimed the far walls. Only flickering torches kept shadows at bay.

She stood in that half-light, breaths coming slower now. The ache in her arms told her the bruises would bloom violet by dawn. She welcomed the pain; it was proof she was still choosing, still alive.

Her gaze fell on a splintered staff from an earlier drill, forgotten near the wall. She crossed the floor, picked it up, weighed it in both hands. Rough, uneven, nothing like the balanced blades nobles favored. Perfect.

She set her stance again, staff low. Imagined Aldric’s smirk in front of her, imagined Halvenna’s sly eyes behind him, imagined her father’s silent disappointment lingering like smoke. One by one, she struck wild at the air—horizontal swipe, overhead crash, low jab. The staff cracked the stillness, hitting nothing but passing through figures only she could see.

"I will not dance to their tune," she muttered between strikes. "I will not beg safety."

Wood whistled. Sweat sprayed from her hair. In her mind the council chamber splintered, maps tearing, smug faces recoiling. The staff broke mid-swing—ragged edges jarring her palms. She let the pieces fall.

Silence flooded back, but it felt different—charged, determined.

She walked to her canteen, poured water over her head. Cold rivulets raced down her neck, soaking gambeson, carrying heat away. She sucked a lungful of damp air, tasted dust and cedar.

Rodion waited. Its next line flickered gentle.

<Alternative path: discreet consultation with Prince Mikhailis. Probability of success rises to seventy-two percent. Emotional cost: low.>

Cerys blew water from her lips, straightened. "No." She wiped her face on her sleeve. "If I run to him now, they’ll say the wolf hides behind the cheeky prince." Her shoulders squared. "I’ll show them teeth."

She crossed to the storage chest, threw the lid. Inside lay practice daggers, weighted cuffs, an old leather cloak she used for night patrols. Beneath, her mother’s battered buckler—wolf crest half scratched away. She lifted it, thumb tracing the faded engraving.

"Mother faced worse odds at the village palisade," she said softly. "She died free." Resolve coiled tight in her gut. She slid her arm through the straps, tested the weight. It felt right, like a hug from the past.

She walked back to the torch, let flame glint off dented steel. "Rodion."

<Awaiting command.>

"Run every duel code Aldric used in the last five years. I want patterns, illegal rune boosts, anything."

<Compiling. Estimated time: twenty-three minutes.>

She nodded, then added, "And cross-reference Halvenna’s merchant ledgers. Hidden transfers, off-book shipments."

<Understood. This may require remote node infiltration. Risk: moderate.>

"Take it." She flexed her bruised knuckles. "Information is a blade sharper than any sword."

Rodion’s glow pulsed, busy.

She turned, surveying the arena one last time. Chalk had smudged into gray smears, proof of struggle. The smell of ozone lingered where holograms died. It looked like ruin—and victory.

She slid the buckler onto her back, fingers brushing the hilt of her sword. Lantern flames popped, sending sparks that spiraled upward then faded. Her breath felt steady now, her mind cool.

Rodion’s progress bar crept in the corner of her visor, numbers ticking like distant drums. She would wait, then strike. Not tomorrow’s polite duel—they would never see the blade coming.

Outside, winter wind howled through arrow slits, low and wolf-like.

Cerys sheathed her sword. "Then let them come."

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