The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 465: The Queen’s Surprise and Date (2)

"That's the dream," he murmured.

She glanced up. "Do the ants realize how extraordinary they are?"

"They don't think in ego," he said. "They just… do."

"Perhaps we could learn from that."

His smile softened. "You already do. Most days." freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

Color rose to her cheeks at the compliment. She turned quickly back to the feed, pretending to study shield angles, but her voice wavered with quiet gratitude. "Then let's not waste their gift."

Monkey chirped, rotating the viewpoint. Fresh tunnels filled the panorama—new angles, new wonders waiting.

Now Rodion appeared onscreen, trekking carefully up a steep incline of broken earth and coiled roots. His profile filled the projection like a traveling hero in a moving mural—each step measured, armor joints whisper-smooth. Around him, Scarab units buzzed in tight scout diamonds, etching faint turquoise glyphs in the air to mark safe footholds and unstable shale.

Elowen tucked her slippered feet under herself and snuggled into the couch's corner, pulling a velvet throw to her lap. Monkey, ever attentive, placed a fresh-steaming mug of cocoa into her waiting hands. The cinnamon-spiced aroma curled upward and fogged the lower edge of the projection, making the whole scene feel cozy, like campfire stories told by hologram.

"Best date ever," she declared, eyes still tracking Rodion's ascent while she tested the mug with a tiny sip. "Strategic nesting and chocolate. Who needs ballroom music?"

Mikhailis laughed under his breath, delight flickering behind half-lidded eyes. "I'll have the bards compose a love ballad about fungal tunnels and coco beans. Guaranteed chart-topper."

Monkey responded with an I know I'm adorable trill, then reappeared with a low platter held aloft: candied almonds glistening in caramel glaze and miniature bread twists folded into rose-petal spirals. It presented the tray with a formal dip, servos whirring like a polite throat-clear.

Mikhailis ruffled its bronze head, pretending to inspect the snack arrangement critically. "You're spoiling her," he scolded—but the grin betrayed how much he enjoyed seeing Elowen pamp­ered.

Rodion's voice drifted through the feed, calm and almost smug.

<Correction: Spoiling individuals critical to mission success is statistically advantageous. Optimized morale increases decision accuracy by sixteen percent.>

Mikhailis raised the bread-twist like a toast toward the projection. "Hear that, my queen? You're an operational asset."

Elowen tried to sip regally, failed, and giggled behind the rim. Tiny marshmallows bobbed on a cocoa tide. "Then by all means, continue the morale operations."

A sudden rap on the door—three quick knocks, hesitant—pierced the comfortable bubble. Both of them froze, ears straining.

"Your Majesty?" A muffled voice quavered. "Would you like evening assistance?"

Instant tension. Elowen's shoulders drew back into queenly lines, but her mouth flattened in annoyance. She exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Mikhailis. His raised brow said, Do you want me to handle it? Her answering tilt of the chin said, Watch me.

She rose with fluid grace, set the mug down on a side table, and smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from her dress—an elegant midnight-blue lounge gown edged with quiet silver thread. The transformation from cocoa-cuddler to sovereign happened in three strides.

At the door she cracked it just enough to show one cool green eye and the suggestion of a polite smile. "You are all dismissed tonight," she said, voice honeyed steel.

The two handmaids outside—wide-eyed, balancing folded linens—resembled startled pheasants. They bobbed curtseys so deep their chins brushed their knees and all but sprinted away, slippers skidding on polished tiles.

Elowen closed the door with a delicate click, sighed like a long-suffering heroine, and returned. Halfway across the rug she dropped the royal façade and flopped—truly flopped—into Mikhailis's side, knocking a pillow to the floor.

"Our time," she growled into his shoulder, though she was smiling.

He steadied the cocoa mug with one hand and looped the other arm around her waist, thumb tracing slow circles through the velvet blanket. "Only invaders left are chocolate crumbs."

Monkey gave an approving beep, then skittered to the projector stand and tapped a control rune. The courtyard evaporated; the image deepened to night-shade blues and emerald glows—new corridors unfurling like a storybook's fold-out page.

They found themselves gazing into the Slime Nurturing Chambers. Bioluminescent pools shimmered turquoise; translucent embryonic variants drifted inside like lazy jellyfish, their nascent wings or claws faint suggestions under gelatin membranes. Silver mist hovered above the water, carrying heat away in ethereal threads.

Elowen leaned forward, breath fogging the projection's lower edge. "Are those temperature sigils on the pool rims?"

"Correct," Mikhailis nodded. "Glowcap-fused porcelain. Keeps the soup at exactly thirty-three-point-two degrees. Too cold and the larvae crystallize; too hot and they burst." His voice softened with paternal pride. "The Workers learned the margin the hard way centuries ago—genetic memory saves repeats."

She hummed, fascinated, fingertip sketching circles in the air where a pair of soldier nurses fanned warm vapor over one particularly chubby larva. "And those floating threads at the ceiling? I see spores clinging."

"Spore webs. Think of them as living air filters. They grab excess ammonia, convert it to nutrient gel that drips back down." He popped an almond into his mouth, cheeks puffing slightly as he chewed. "Circular economy. Ants would put court treasurers to shame."

Elowen pressed her lips together, amused. "You're likely right. Torveth still thinks profit grows on ledger trees."

The scene glided sideways—Monkey tracking her gaze. The Egg Vaults appeared like twilight catacombs, each alcove glowing dim amber. Soldier Ants glided between rows carrying what looked like crystal lanterns but were actually temperature regulators carved from fused Glowcap husks.

Elowen's eyes widened. "So they're not simply heaters? They contain rune-etched quartz rods."

"Precisely." Mikhailis gestured with a bread-twist. "When quartz meets Glowcap husk, you get stable mana compression. They can raise or lower ambient magic, not just temperature."

She glanced up, keen. "Could that tech scale to surface granaries?"

"In theory," he said, shrugging. "But we'd need a disguise for the glow. People panic when their wheat bins pulse like dragon eggs."

"Tinted glass, maybe," she mused.

Rodion's disembodied voice offered resource estimates—

<Material requirement for surface adaptation: two hundred seventy Glowcap husks, eighty-seven rune-grade quartz rods, projected labor four Worker shifts.>

"See?" Mikhailis laughed softly. "He already filed the requisition."

Elowen shook her head in wonder. "And what are those long molds?" She pointed to a row of bronze casts where molten resin slowly cooled into segmented bars.

"Weapon cores. Hardened chitin-steel hybrids. Lighter than iron, tougher than dwarven plate." Pride glimmered in his eyes. "They'll become halberd spines for the elite units."

She whistled, low and impressed. "And we still pretend our smiths in the lower ward pound these out with hammers."

Mikhailis tapped his heart theatrically. "Craft secrets keep kingdoms safe."

Elowen exhaled, a warm mist of admiration and awe. "How do they cool the hatchery?" she asked, drinking in every detail she hadn't catalogued yet.

"See those dancers?" He indicated a column of Worker Ants weaving around a central spire, their antennae sparking. "They ventilate mana heat into that spire, then the spire channels it through spectral conduits upward. Heat disperses into an old magma vent two miles east."

Rodion added a footnote.

<Energy waste capture at eighty-four percent. Excess powers auxiliary forges. Sustainable system operational.>

Elowen's tongue ran over her teeth as she processed. Then she let out a little laugh of disbelief. "It's like watching an entire city function inside a beehive."

She reclined again, gaze dreamy, nibbling on a bread-twist. "If anyone told little-girl me I'd one day rule a kingdom while sipping cocoa and watching ants build super-reactors, I'd have declared them mad."

Mikhailis brushed a crumb from her lower lip with a thumb. "And yet here you are—mad in the best way."

Heat flushed her cheeks. She caught his hand, squeezed once. "Promise me," she said quietly, "if I start making demands too wild, you'll pull me back to earth."

"I promise," he answered, serious now, thumb tracing her knuckle. "And when I dive too deep into impossible science, you'll remind me why we build it."

"To protect," she echoed, soft.