The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 495: Lone Wolf and Swordsmanship (End)

She clapped once—sharp as flint on steel. "That's enough. If you keep batting at him like kittens he'll drift off right here."

The little knot of knights eased back, good-natured groans filling the ring as swords were shouldered and aching wrists flexed. Dust clung to their greaves, and more than one man rubbed the budding bruise on his forearm with a sheepish grin. A trio of raw recruits whispered in a huddle, eyes darting between their toppled comrades and the Prince-Consort who looked as if he'd merely finished a stroll through the garden.

Mikhailis let out a long breath, rolling his shoulders until the joints popped. Limber… still limber, he noted, pleased that weeks of missed drills hadn't stolen the spring from his muscles. He balanced the ash blade across his palms, weighing the faint sting that thrummed through his fingers. It felt good—honest, uncomplicated, a reminder that not every battle happened behind a council table.

"Did I pass?" His voice carried just enough volume to reach the closest spectators, and a ripple of relieved chuckles answered him.

"Pass?" Cerys's lips tipped in a sly curve as she stepped forward. She swept a thumb along the edge of her practice sword, as though stropping it to a keener point even though the weapon was blunt. "That was the entrance exam."

Around them, soldiers sensed something better than drill-practice brewing and formed a loose ring—seasoned sergeants shoulder-to-shoulder with bright-eyed squires. A few perched on railings, boots dangling. Above, a squire on the ramparts leaned over so far a comrade had to yank him back by the collar.

Cerys's boots whispered across the sand. She closed the remaining distance, blade held one-handed in a guard that looked casual to the untrained eye—but Mikhailis saw the coil of power hiding in her stance. The sure set of her hips, the tiny twitch of her leading foot testing footing. Heat shimmered around her armor in the high sun, and a single bead of sweat rolled from her temple to vanish beneath the collar of her gambeson.

Mikhailis mirrored her, raising his own sword, but his gaze sharpened, a subtle intensity settling over his features. His dark eyes traced every detail—her stance, the way her fingers curled around the hilt, the shift of her weight from heel to toe. He wasn't just looking at her; he was dissecting her form, measuring every breath, every twitch of muscle beneath her gambeson. A gentle breeze stirred the copper strand clinging to her cheek, and she brushed it aside, but Mikhailis saw more. Her calves were taut—ready to spring. Her shoulders, though relaxed, held a coiled tension, the promise of force behind every strike. She felt his gaze, that piercing scrutiny, like a touch across her skin. A faint shiver traced her spine—thrill mixed with awareness. He was watching her, not just with affection, but with the mind of a strategist, of a hunter. Remember her reach, her tempo. His heartbeat thudded twice—equal measures anticipation and affection. He loved sparring anyone; sparring Cerys was art, puzzle, and flirtation bound together.

A silent pulse passed between them—begin—and Cerys struck first. A blur of wood shot for his ribs, but Mikhailis slipped half a pace sideways, parried, then retreated before she rolled the cut into a tight backhand aimed at his elbow. The crack of impact snapped the air; a hiss of dust fanned outward.

He pivoted, letting the blow glance off, and brought his blade up just in time to catch her descending overhead slash. Force thrummed through his arms down to his boots. She was testing strength now—seeing how much weight he could carry. The bright bark of wood-on-wood rang over the yard.

Gasps fluttered in the circle. A lance corporal muttered, "She's not going easy."

"She never does," another replied, eyes wide.

Cerys stepped in, follow-up thrust straight to his shoulder. Mikhailis caught it on the flat, twisted, and slid his blade down along hers until their guards locked, hilts grinding. Faces inches apart. He felt her breath—warm, quickening—and the faint, familiar citrus-and-steel scent of her buckles warmed by sun.

"Still holding back, Scholar?" Her voice was soft enough only he heard, lips barely moving.

"Do you want me to?" He arched a brow, letting the tip of his blade dip just enough to show he could break contact any time.

"Never." She shoved with sudden power. He let the momentum carry him two steps, then dug a heel, swung around in a low arc, and the fight re-ignited.

Sand sprayed as they traded blows—her crisp, economical cuts against his flowing redirections. Each meeting of blades sent little spirals of grit swirling. Mikhailis's tunic clung to his back; sweat trickled along his spine. He felt alive, mind laser-focused on angles, timing, the micro-expressions that telegraphed her next feint. Left hip loads… high slash incoming—block, roll shoulder, counter thrust—

The crowd began to murmur in appreciation. They watched the way Mikhailis's feet painted half-circles, never tangling, how Cerys's attacks stitched a pattern too quick for most eyes. Two senior knights traded a look of stunned acknowledgement: this was no playful display.

Cerys advanced with a flurry—high-high-low. Her movements were crisp, no wasted effort—each strike precise, each transition fluid. It was the dance of a lone wolf—fierce, unrelenting, and yet graceful. He parried high, high, dropped elbow to catch low, and slid sideways under her guard. She fought alone, even when surrounded—no reliance on allies, only pure instinct and honed skill. It was the style of someone who trusted no one but herself.

Mikhailis read that solitude in her strikes, the slight overreach meant to end a fight quickly, the way she never left her back exposed. His mind raced, breaking down her rhythm, calculating the milliseconds between each step, each breath. His gaze caught the faint twitch of her wrist before she shifted angles—a tell for her next move.

He rolled across a shoulder, came up behind her with a tap aimed at the small of her back. She spun, blade already intercepting. Their swords scraped, locked again, and for a breath, they were eye to eye—predator meeting predator.

Sweat darkened the neck of her gambeson, a single strand of red hair stuck to her cheek. She grinned, eyes glittering like sunstruck amber. Her smile was not just a sign of enjoyment—it was a promise, a challenge.

Mikhailis felt an answering grin tug at his lips despite the strain in his arms, heat rushing through his veins. In that moment, they weren't just sparring—they were speaking, each strike a sentence, each counter a reply.

A corporal on the edge whispered, "I swear she's smiling."

"That's her kill smile," someone answered, but it was more than that. It was the smile of a woman who thrived in the chaos of combat, who felt most alive when blades sang.

Mikhailis gave ground deliberately, drawing her in. He feinted a stumble—left foot sliding half-inch too far. She pounced, thrust aimed at his sternum. At the last heartbeat he rotated, letting her momentum zip past, blade whipping up to tag her ribs. She twisted just enough that wood thunked against her cuirass instead of flesh.

Close—but she was learning his tricks. Good.

The pace quickened; breaths came louder, mingling with the rhythmic clap of wood. Small clouds of dust rose around their feet. Sun hammered down; heat shimmered off steel helms of the watchers. Not a soul moved away.

Cerys angled a cut at his thigh—deceptive, dragging. He dropped low to parry; she used the bind to lever into a knee strike that would have crushed a lesser opponent's ribs. He caught the knee with his off arm, pivoted, and ducked under her following elbow strike. The crowd gasped.

He cartwheeled out of distance, landing light. Heart still steady, he noted, though lungs burned.

"Show-off," she called, breathing hard.

"Flatterer," he shot back.

They closed again. He tested her left flank; she answered with a cross-parry and a snap kick. He hopped back, blade flicking. She's weighting that ankle—right side tiring. Time to end this before she injures. He changed rhythm—two quick jabs to her guard, then a looping overhead that reversed halfway, driving down on her grip. Wood clacked; her sword jolted, loosened. He twisted wrists, felt her hilt slip. Her blade sailed skyward, turning end over end before thunking into the sand a body-length away.

A hush snatched the yard silent. Even the gull circling overhead seemed to pause mid-cry.

Mikhailis's practice sword hovered an inch from the hollow of her throat. Both were breathless, chests heaving, sweat shining on forearms and temples. fгeewebnovёl.com

For a moment, they simply stared—two predators locked in mutual admiration. Heat radiated between them stronger than the noonday sun.

But then, just as the world seemed to narrow to the pulse in their veins and the glint of sunlight off their sweat, Mikhailis shifted his weight—too quick, too eager. His heel caught on a loose patch of sand. Balance faltered—he stumbled, his sword's tip dipping. Reflexive instinct took over—Cerys surged forward, her shoulder bumping his, and his sword slipped sideways, clattering against her gambeson harmlessly.

A ripple of gasps swept the gathered knights. Mikhailis, flustered but grinning, steadied himself just in time to feel the flat of Cerys's practice sword tap against his chest.

"Got you," she panted, voice tinged with laughter and triumph.

He blinked, then laughed, the sound full of relief and admiration. "You really did."

Then Cerys laughed—full-throated, joyous, unconcerned by defeat. She tossed sweat-damp hair from her eyes, bronzed cheeks flushed. "Maybe I'm the one who needs the lesson."

Mikhailis leaned in, voice a velvet murmur, only for her. "Only if you promise to keep teaching me." The point of his sword lowered, tapping the sand.

But just as the cheers erupted, Cerys's eyes flicked with a mischievous spark. Her foot struck the sand, sending up a sudden, swirling veil of dust between them. Without warning, her hand shot out, catching his jaw, and her lips crashed against his—rough, desperate, and hungry. Her tongue surged past his lips, meeting his own with fierce intensity. Mikhailis's instincts responded instantly—one hand wrapped around her waist, the other slipping lower, boldly cupping a handful of her firm, toned rear, fingers pressing against the warm, smooth leather. Cerys gasped into his mouth, a sound swallowed by the heat of their kiss, but it was laced with approval rather than protest. Her own hand tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her body pressing against his, heat and adrenaline mingling in their breaths. The kiss was a battle of its own—teeth grazing, tongues dancing, a clash of passion that stole the air from their lungs. Just as abruptly, she broke away, her breath hot and ragged against his lips. "You lost on purpose, you lovely bastard."

Around them, soldiers exhaled at last, cheers erupting. Helmets lifted, gauntlets clapped. Recruits whooped, and one bold squire punched the air, nearly braining his friend.

Yet in the din, Cerys's world had narrowed to the man an arm's length away. His dark eyes held that infuriating spark of humor, but beneath it she saw steadfast respect—no gloating, no condescension. Just pride in her skill and delight in matching it.

Her shoulders relaxed. Adrenaline melted into warm satisfaction. She stepped close enough that their breaths mingled again, and laid a hand over his pounding heart through the gambeson. Rough fabric rasped her palm; the pulse beneath was steady, strong.

"Promise to keep on always teaching me?" Mikhailis asked.

Her eyes softened, voice low but clear.

"Always."