The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 602: The Family of Wolves (1)

Cerys leaned her back against the moon-washed pillar, letting the cold marble leech some of the frustration still buzzing under her skin. The banquet hall behind her pulsed with muffled strings and clinking goblets, but out here the arched corridor felt cavernous and still, broken only by the distant hush of ornamental fountains. She rolled tense shoulders, wishing formal attire allowed plate armor; at least steel breathed honesty.

Footsteps approached—deliberate yet unhurried. Lucien emerged from the gloom, auburn hair escaping its ribbon, his emerald doublet slightly askew as if he’d tugged at the collar all night. In his hands, two crystal tumblers glimmered amber.

"Stole Father’s best rye," he whispered, settling beside her on the wide balustrade. "Figured you’d need the sharper brew."

She accepted the glass, the cut facets skating cool against her gauntlet. "You could earn a flogging pilfering that cask."

"I’d call it redistribution." He tapped his tumbler to hers, then drank. The burn ignited down her throat, grounding, steadying. Lucien watched her over the rim, candlelight softening his usually earnest face. "You didn’t flinch when Father unleashed the history lesson," he said, voice low to keep the echoes gentle. "The way Viscountess Maren was eyeing you, I thought she’d faint from second-hand outrage."

Cerys snorted, swirling the rye. "I’ve had more practice ignoring pointed stares than I care to count." Images flickered—her father’s cool reprimand, Aldric Calderon’s smug smirk two tables away, a handful of simpering cousins whispering about lapdogs and chimera princes. "Still feels like drowning in a velvet pond."

Lucien’s laugh was a short puff of air. "Meanwhile I nearly bit clean through my tongue. If I’d spoken, Father would have executed me in front of the soufflés."

"You exaggerate." She nudged his shoulder. "Father prefers discreet killings."

A huff of amusement. Lucien’s eyes, greener than Arundel banners, searched her face. "I envy you, you know." He rested his elbows on his knees, crystal glass dangling. "You walk where you choose—even if it drags half the salons into scandal."

The corridor lanterns painted warm stripes over his profile. Cerys studied the worry lines beginning at the corners of his eyes—lines a younger brother should not wear. "You carry the pieces I leave behind," she admitted softly. "When I cut a thread, you’re the one who stitches it so the tapestry still looks whole."

He shrugged one shoulder. "I don’t mind mending seams. I just... wish I could choose the pattern once in a while." His gaze tipped upward, following the vaulted ceiling to a slice of night sky beyond an open arch. "Freedom looks different when you’ve never tasted it."

Her throat tightened. She remembered Lucien at ten years old, sneaking into the yard while she sparred, trying to copy her footwork with a wooden spoon. He’d wanted to fight, to travel, but duty carved another path for him. "You can still forge your own road," she murmured.

Lucien’s smile was sad but resolute. "Maybe. But tonight, sister, walk yours. Even if it leaves shadows across the family crest."

They fell silent, sipping rye, sharing the hush. Somewhere beyond the garden wall a night-heron cried, its lonely call echoing.

_____

Back in her bedchamber, the hush felt almost artificial—an uneasy silence woven of velvet drapes, polished oak, and perfume meant for finer evenings than this. One guttering candle perched on a silver stand and flung jittery shadows across the carved wardrobe doors. Wolf-head sconces along the walls gave no light tonight; it was easier not to see history staring at her from a dozen snarling maws. Cerys slipped the latch on her visor, the servos sighing as dark glass lifted from her face. She placed the device on her writing desk with exaggerated care, as if it might howl if dropped. Beneath it, her blotter still held last week’s neat drills—perfect sword-stroke diagrams, ink strokes disciplined and straight. Tonight those lines felt like strangers.

She reached for the narrow ribbon at her throat. Satin rasped free, the knot loosening with a whisper. One layer of banquet lace slid off her shoulders, then another, white frills collapsing in soft ruin around combat-tough boots that didn’t belong at any gala. Yet the steel band of tension around her ribs refused to go. An urge to pace struck her—wolf restlessness—so she crossed the room twice, fingers brushing the chill marble of the mantel, then the frame of an old family portrait. Ancestors looked down, judging, their painted armor immaculate. Her own breastplate waited beside the wardrobe, scored from last month’s wyvern sortie. The smell of oiled leather drifted up, oddly comforting.

A pale envelope lay perched atop her pillow, its wax seal crisp and ostentatious. The Calderon falcon spread proud wings in blood-red lacquer. She felt her pulse stutter, then steadied it with three measured breaths learned on winter patrols. Thumb under flap—crack—the letter was open. Sir Aldric’s handwriting unfurled across thick parchment, every loop self-congratulatory. Dearest Lady Cerys... He praised her "radiant grace," then pivoted to chastise her "rebellious interlude with that peculiar royal," as though Mikhailis were a circus act instead of a prince. Lines dripped entitlement: "Your future shines brightest at my side... propriety restored... our engagement will delight the court." She read to the end where ink bragged, "I eagerly anticipate claiming what was always promised."

Heat climbed her neck; her vision rimmed crimson. The parchment crumpled under her gauntlet with a crackle like frost under boots. She squeezed until the wax flakes bit her palm. A heartbeat later she unfolded the mess just enough to see words warp and fracture—tiny victories, but they helped.

Across the room, the visor chimed—Rodion’s polite timbre made strange outside the lab.

<External agitation detected. Ready to suggest escalation paths. I’ve included arson among fifty-three solutions.>

The absurdity tugged a rueful sound from her, halfway between a laugh and a growl. She stalked to the dresser, palms flattening against mahogany so polished it reflected candlelight in trembling ribbons. "No fires," she said, voice low yet steady, eyes fixed on her own reflection: flushed cheeks, lips a hard line, red hair frizzing where pins had slipped. "We settle this within the code."

<Understood. Archiving incendiary options under ’Future Considerations.’>

The cool intellect of the AI almost soothed her, like icy streamwater on a bruise.

She forced herself to breathe. Four counts in—air tasted of lavender sachets; six counts out—anger bled a fraction. On the dresser lay small keepsakes: a rookie tourney medal, a cracked wolf-tooth charm from her first border skirmish, a folded scrap of parchment bearing Serelith’s playful ink doodle of chimera ants in frilly aprons. She thumbed that scrap now; the silliness steadied her more than any meditation mantra.

Decision sparked. She snatched Aldric’s letter, tore it into deliberate ribbons, and fed them one by one to the candle flame. Curling edges blackened; arrogant loops of ink shriveled to ash. When the last shred turned to ember, she tapped it into a brass tray. No servant would find evidence.

Rodion spoke again, quieter.

<Projected father-daughter tension index rising. Would you like strategic talking points for tomorrow’s confrontation?>

She considered, then shook her head. "Not tonight. I know what to say." Her voice surprised her—calm, almost gentle. She reached for the mirror latch on the wardrobe and opened both doors. Inside hung two sets of armor: ceremonial wolf-steel polished to parade gleam, and the simpler field cuirass scarred by real claws. She ran fingertips along each dent, recalling the hiss of wyvern breath, the jolt of blocking a giant’s hammer. Those memories steadied her spine.

Under the armor lay her sparring gear—padded gambeson, grip-reworked practice blade. She pulled the blade free, feeling the balance settle into her palm like an old friend. Tomorrow, if Aldric or her father demanded proof of worth, she would give it blade-tip first. No borrowed runes, no court pageantry—just skill honed under honest sweat.

She set the sword across her bedcovers, the metal’s cold line a promise. Nearby, moonlight slipped between heavy curtains, pooling on the floorboards in pale stripes. She toed off one boot, then the other, letting bare feet find that moon-cool wood. The chill grounded her more firmly than any speech.

A soft chime from the visor—Rodion again, but now the tone carried a note she’d come to interpret as sympathetic curiosity.

<If code duel is chosen, probability of Calderon concession climbs to 81 %. Shall I prepare an evidence packet of Aldric’s rune violations for the High Marshal?>

She allowed herself a small smile. "Yes. And include the tracking glyph we planted on his blade tonight. Proof speaks louder than pedigrees." Her gaze flicked to the crumpled pins on her vanity—tiny pieces of metal that had held her hair in a prim coil all evening. She gathered them, felt their sharp points bite skin, then dropped them into a porcelain dish. Red strands tumbled free, brushing her shoulders with airy softness she rarely permitted.

In the mirror, storm eyes stared back—wolf grey ringed in green. Beneath them determination solidified. She flexed once, shoulders squaring, and felt lace seams tear where they still clung. Good. One less mask. "Rodion," she murmured, patting stray hair behind her ear, "remind me at first light: thirty push-ups, twenty minutes visor-off footwork. We can’t let honey evenings dull the edge."

<Task scheduled. Also, note: your friends’ trust metrics peaked tonight at 97 %. Emotional resilience improves with camaraderie.>

Cerys reached for her practice gauntlets, sliding one on just to feel the weighted reassurance. Leather creaked softly. The candle flickered, casting light over the ward-etched walls where generations of Arundel weaponry hung. She imagined her ancestors watching—a silent council. "You liked vows?" she addressed their shadows. "Here’s mine: I protect my pack—castle, lab, and all within. Aldric’s claim ends now."

Somewhere outside, a night-sparrow trilled, a delicate counterpoint to her fierce vow. She listened, let the high note settle in her chest like cooled steel. Calm washed in at last, steady as tide rolling beneath ice.

She replaced the sword in its rack, nose catching leather-oil and iron tang. When she turned, visor lights winked on—Rodion entering rest mode. The room felt oddly balanced: one corner swirling with ash, another with moonlight, center stage held by disciplined resolve.

Cerys strode back to the mirror. Lace still ringed her waist in stubborn knots; she sliced them away with a penknife, watching ribbons flutter like defeated pennons. Underneath, muscles rippled, marked by faint bruises from tonight’s spar. Proof of life, proof of fight.

The mirrored surface reflected a warrior reborn from taffeta ruins. Hair pins skewed like crooked daggers across the vanity—she gathered them, slipped one behind her ear in informal defiance, and let the rest stay strewn as reminder: elegance can be sharp.

Breathing deep, she pressed both palms to the glass. The chill seeped skin-deep, cooling anger into intent. In the pane she saw not only herself but flickers of companions: Elowen’s gentle smile, Lira’s calculating calm, Serelith’s wild spark, Mikhailis’s earnest grin. For them, too, she would stand.

A last glance at the embers in the tray—nothing left of Aldric’s arrogance but gray dust. She brushed it aside, closed the curtains, and snuffed the candle with two fingers, smoke curling in lazy ribbons. In the darkness, hearth coals glowed faint, offering a solitary red-gold heartbeat.

Cerys straightened, shoulders thrown back. The mirrored wardrobe reflected a woman with storm in her eyes, banquet hairpins skewed like crooked daggers. She tugged them free, red strands falling loose. "We fight," she whispered—to Rodion, to her ancestors, to every sneering noble—"and we win."

Updat𝒆d fr𝒐m freew𝒆bnov𝒆l.c(o)m