The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 500: Sudden Training With Serelith (2)

Serelith's staff glimmered in her hand, the green shoots circling it now blooming tiny violet petals that matched the candle-flames. Her long purple hair shifted with the motion, a silken veil rippling past soft shoulders. When she spoke, her voice carried the hush of midnight gardens.

"Begin, darling."

Mikhailis planted both feet, inhaled deeply, and felt the polished floor grow cool beneath his soles. He pictured the heart-tree of Silvarion: ancient trunk luminous with emerald light, roots drinking star-water. A thread of that colour answered his call, rising through his chest, tingling behind his sternum. He raised a hand, willing the energy to pool in his palm.

A spark blossomed—bright green, leaf-shaped, hopeful. Before he could form the sapling, cold pressure surged along his wrist. The Mist Mark stirred like a snake awakened. Silver fog flooded the spark, hissing as it devoured colour.

Snap!

Serelith tapped the butt of her staff to the floor. A ring of ivy flared around his feet, drinking the fog until nothing remained. The beauty of the spell stole his breath: each ivy leaf glowed with dew-bright runes, then faded back to plain green.

"Mist Mana dominant," she murmured, almost praising. "Again."

She moved to stand behind him, almost—but not quite—pressing her chest to his back. Though she was modestly endowed, every subtle shift rubbed soft fabric against his shoulder blades, sending distracting warmth through tired muscles. Her breath brushed his ear. "Diaphragm, not lungs. Slow. Imagine Glimmerroot's spiral, coax the stream through your heart meridian."

He tried. The minutes crawled. Emerald returned—slimmer strand, trembling. Serelith's slender fingers floated beside his arm, guiding but never touching, trailing streamers of mint-scented light. For a glorious heartbeat the strand held steady.

Then the Mist surged a second time—stronger, colder, like winter spilling over the rim of a cup. The green winked out.

Snap. Another ivy flare, another elegant extinguish. Serelith's smirk brushed his peripheral vision. "Faster, darling."

Hours blurred. The candles seemed to multiply, their violet flames bending each time he lost the thread, bowing to silver fog before Serelith snuffed it. His robe stuck to his spine. Green sparks came and died, again and again. Each failure earned a note of velvet critique.

"Keep the root-rhythm… no, chin up… shoulders back. We use posture as anchor…"

Cerys watched from the doorway, eyes narrowed. Every time Serelith drifted too close—her hip brushing Mikhailis's thigh, her hair sliding across his nape—the knight's fingers clenched. Yet she could offer nothing but silent vigilance; every attempt to speak was cut short by Serelith's gentle, mocking shush.

When Mikhailis finally staggered, knees trembling, Serelith's lips parted in amused surprise. A monstrous growl escaped his stomach. He was empty, wrung out, and the Mist Mark still pulsed defiantly under his skin.

Serelith laughed, the sound airy as falling blossoms. "Hungry already, my prince?" With a twirl of her staff the violet flames vanished. She clapped twice; the staff dissolved into motes that drifted upward like fireflies, painting shifting constellations on the domed ceiling.

"Break," she declared.

She glided from the room, skirts barely whispering. A minute later the door nudged open and she returned pushing a low trolley. Lacquered boxes crowded the shelves—rice folded in lotus leaves, slices of honeyed root, crystal dishes of pickled moon-plum.

Cerys stepped forward to help. "Allow me—"

But Serelith only smiled and lifted the largest plate herself. Then, with the smooth confidence of a dancer, she swung one knee across Mikhailis's lap and settled, straddling him. Robes parted at the slit, revealing pale thigh faintly dusted with rune-ink. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, brushing his cheeks with lavender scent.

"Open," she whispered.

He obeyed. Sticky tuber met his lips, sweet and soothing after bitter hours of mana-work. Her fingertip lingered at the corner of his mouth, sliding slowly across to his jaw before retreating. A tiny smear of honey glistened on her nail; she sucked it off with a theatrical purr that turned his pulse molten.

Cerys bristled. "Give him space."

Serelith turned, hips shifting so their bodies aligned closer. In candle-glow her violet eyes gleamed. "He needs fuel," she said lightly. "Unless you'd like to come lick the plate clean?"

Cerys's jaw flexed. She shut her mouth before retort could escape, nostrils flaring. Her knuckles whitened on the back of a nearby chair.

Mikhailis tried humour. "Serelith… tray on table?" He forced an easy smile, but inside every nerve fired from her weight, her warmth, her subtle press of chest.

A pout curved her lips, yet she slid gracefully off, robes whispering. She placed the tray within arm's reach, then tugged another plate free and handed it to Cerys—an offering wrapped in green leaves.

"Eat, wolf-girl," she said. "Or you might faint before him." The words should have sounded kind; coming from Serelith they felt edged.

Cerys accepted with tight nod, eyes never leaving the mage.

Serelith leaned close to Mikhailis again, but kept one knee on the rug. "While you eat," she breathed, "maintain the spark. Let's see if you can chew and channel."

He inhaled through his nose, grounding himself. A soft green flame flickered above his palm. It wavered but held as he lifted chopsticks. The balance demanded raw concentration—each bite risked breaking posture. Serelith hovered, observing every twitch, offering pointers in a murmur that skimmed his ear.

Halfway through the meal he risked a glance at Cerys. She chewed absent-mindedly, brows knotted. In her cup steamed a pale tonic Serelith had given her—"burstberry tea, good for nerves." Cerys lifted it, drank in two determined swallows, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Moments later she swayed.

Mikhailis's green spark dipped. He reached out instinctively, catching Cerys's elbow as her knees buckled. Her pupils were huge, shimmering amber pools. "I— just dizzy," she whispered, voice muffled.

Serelith's staff re-formed in an instant. She slid between them, pressing a gentle palm to Cerys's forehead. "Heat exhaustion," she pronounced, tone silky. "Stand aside, Your Highness. Focus."

Mikhailis's protest lodged in his throat. The green spark sputtered dangerously; silver mist nipped its edges. Serelith's eyes flicked to his hand—a pointed reminder. He forced attention back inside, coaxing emerald to full brightness again.

"Good boy," Serelith purred. She guided Cerys to the chair at the wall. The knight resisted at first, but her limbs felt filled with sand. She collapsed into the cushions, blinking hard.

"Sleep," Serelith whispered, brushing Cerys's hair from her brow. The motion looked affectionate, yet something too satisfied shimmered behind her smile. A heartbeat later Cerys's lashes fell; slow, even breaths replaced tension.

Mikhailis felt cold anger kindle beneath his ribs. "What did you give her?"

"Only herbs." Serelith stroked his arm soothingly. "Relaxation tonic. She'll wake rested."

He didn't quite believe her, but the flicker in his palm brightened under the flare of emotion. Green filled the room, spilling across floor-sigils. For the first time it outshone the Mist.

Serelith clapped once, delight sparkling. "There! That's the strength I want." She approached, skirts swaying. Hair framed her face like lit amethyst. With every step her intention radiated: teacher, tempter, tormentor at once.

"Again," she whispered, positioning herself behind him. Her fingertips brushed the inside of his elbows, nudging them up, adjusting stance. "Hold that river steady. Breathe through the crown."

He exhaled, and the green widened into tendrils, weaving tiny leaves of light that floated upward, brushing the hanging ivy. The living vines glowed in response, veins pulsing emerald. A fragrance of spring rain filled the chamber.

Serelith hummed approval, then—without warning—pressed her chest lightly to his back, arms sliding around to guide his wrists. The contact jolted through him; the green faltered.

Focus, fool. He pulled breath lower, anchored in his toes, visualised roots descending into bedrock. The emerald brightened once more.

Time slid. He didn't know if minutes or hours passed. Every now and then Serelith would glide out of sight, circling him like a comet, purple hair swishing his robe, whispering corrections. When muscles trembled she'd press her palm to his spine, transferring cool mana that soothed aches yet teased other sensations awake.

At one point she guided his fingers together, coaxing the leaf-light into a tiny rotating seed. It spun above his palm, emitting chimes like distant bells. He felt wonder flicker—then icy mist slithered along his wrist, trying to crack the seed.

"Not today," he growled. He poured breath into the green, imagining Elowen's smile, Lira's sarcasm, Cerys's steadfast loyalty. The seed burst in a spray of jade sparks that chased the mist away for good five counts.

Serelith gasped softly, genuine admiration glimmering. "Beautiful."

Sweat stung his eyes. His lungs burned. Yet inside, exhilaration bloomed: he was winning.

"Enough," she declared at last, voice husky. She dismissed the crystals; sigils sank into stone with a sigh. The violet candles re-lit themselves, casting gentle dusk across piled pillows. She flicked her wrist, and the trolley rolled in again, this time bearing bowls of steaming porridge laced with amber fruit.

Mikhailis sagged onto the edge of the bed, arms limp. His robe clung, translucent with sweat. Serelith retrieved a cloth, dabbed his brow with deliberate slowness, each stroke trailing heat down his cheeks.

"You did well,"