The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 606: The Family of Wolves (5)

Cerys stopped midway up the passage, palms braced on her knees, chest still hitching from the archive’s stale air. Sweat rolled along her temples, stinging the cut above her brow. When Rodion’s announcement vibrated through the visor’s audio grille, the words sank like stones into water she was already struggling to keep her head above.

<Next trial: internal archetypes—maskless. Initiating.>

There was no friendly chime, no countdown. The torches lining the corridor guttered out as though snuffed by invisible fingers, plunging her into velvet-dark. Cold slid beneath her tunic; for a sliver of a second she almost called the test off. Then she straightened, let her heartbeat steady to a marching cadence, and gave a single nod the AI could log.

"Begin."

A hush swallowed the word. In the pitch dark, four pinpricks of fox-fire green flickered to life. They spread into thin lattices of light, weaving skin, cloth, steel—until four versions of herself stood in a crescent. Each wore her face but warped by some hidden hand.

Fear was first—armor dull, eyes wide hollows of moonlit water. Its sword shook like a breath held too long.

Doubt leaned on its blade like a crutch, shoulders sagging, visor cracked down the center.

Duty gleamed blindingly, every plate buffed mirror-bright, tabard perfectly pressed. Its voice—her father’s voice—rippled from behind the helm. "You waste our legacy, girl."

Rage towered at the end, crimson hair a wildfire, sword dripping a viscous black that steamed when it kissed the flagstones.

A heartbeat later, they moved as one.

Cerys’s stance snapped wide, steel sliding into a guard over her brow. Fear reached her first. She felt its panic before the blades met: a tremor that ran up her own arms, echoing years of tiny sleepless moments when she’d wondered if she truly deserved her sigil. She forced her feet still and let Fear strike. Metal rang; sparks flew, bright as fireflies in the gloom. She pivoted, guiding the panicked blow past her hip, then drove her pommel into Fear’s hollow helm. The figure burst into shards of grey glass that melted on the ground with a hiss.

Her lungs expanded—to her surprise, the next breath came easier.

Doubt lunged from her blind side, quick despite its slumped posture. It wasn’t aiming to kill; it aimed to trip, to sap footing. When their swords crossed, every vibration through the steel whispered You’re never enough. She ground her teeth until enamel protested and pushed forward, forcing Doubt to retreat step by grudging step. At the fifth parry she changed rhythm—half-beat feint, low thrust—and drove her edge through its cracked visor. Doubt collapsed like smoke in wind. The whispered taunts faded with it.

Sweat beaded on her lip; the visor inside display pulsed a warning about elevated heart rate, but she barely registered.

Duty advanced. Armor perfect, strikes textbook. Each swing felt like sparring with her father on the practice yard, every blow accompanied by that booming, disappointed baritone.

"You missed the opening."

"Grip too loose."

"An Arundel does not rely on tricks."

She parried, disengaged, cut to the wrist—but Duty adapted, binding her blade in a perfect quillon lock. Pain flared up her forearm. The voice hammered again: "You shame your blood."

Her feet slid on grit. He’s not here. It’s just a ghost—one of mine. She breathed out and let the admonishment wash past. Then she broke the lock the same way Mikhailis had taught her in the lab—an unorthodox twist, wrist rotating the opposite of traditional manuals. Duty’s sword whipped wide; her point hammered into its breastplate. The shining knight staggered. She pressed, quick as lightning, battering plate with a flurry of short-angle cuts designed for close quarters. Metal cracked like thin ice, and Duty shattered into silver dust.

Only Rage remained, and the corridor seemed to shrink as it stepped forward. Black droplets hissed where the dripping sword touched stone, leaving scorch marks. Its grin was hers—but feral, lips peeled from teeth.

It came in hard. No measure, no guard—just raw aggression. Cerys braced, but the first impact numbed her arm clear to the shoulder. She bit back a cry. Rage’s sword wheeled again, carving sizzling arcs. Sparks fell like meteors around them.

<Emotional trial escalation detected. Heart rate critical.>

Rodion’s calm overlay glimmered on the visor, but she ignored it. She ducked a slashing horizontal cut, felt heat as the blade skimmed a lock of her hair. She lunged in low, slamming her shoulder into Rage’s ribs. The copy roared, stumbling. She capitalized—blade tip under the chin, a rising thrust that would have killed a living man. Rage caught the thrust with gauntleted palm, black ichor seeping between spectral fingers.

Its voice—her own, twisted—whispered, "You cannot erase me."

Her muscles trembled. For a heartbeat she considered calling for a simulation abort. Not because she couldn’t win—but because she recognized that wild gleam; it lived in her every time she fought too long, every time she thought about Aldric’s letter, about court whispers. Destroying this reflection meant owning it.

She shifted her grip, turned the blade flat into a binding grind, locking arm to arm so close she smelled hot metal. "I don’t want you gone," she rasped. "I want you leashed."

With a guttural shout, she wrenched right, collapsing Rage’s guard and driving a boot into its knee. The copy buckled. She pivoted, trailing steel. The final strike cleaved through shadow-armor and heart alike. Rage dissolved in a howl that sounded oddly like a released breath.

Silence slammed down. Torches rekindled with a low foomp, revealing dust motes spiraling where the archetypes had vanished.

She stood shaking, sword hanging at her side, tip almost touching stone. Sweat streamed down the bridge of her nose. Each gulp of air burned like cold water.

<I know my duty. It’s not yours.>

The words echoed in the new stillness, and she realized they were hers, not the AI’s. They hovered around her like a fresh oath.

The visor’s lower edge flared with a crimson alert.

<Alert: Aldric Calderon publicly dueled Viscountess Maren and won by dishonor. Noble sympathy shifts +22 % toward Calderon bloc.>

A burst of rage tried to claw its way back, but she pressed it down. Rage was defeated; she would not let it ride her again.

"Show proof," she said, voice raw.

A translucent window opened before her eyes: Maren’s limp form on a dueling dais, Aldric turning away before the referee finished counting. His sword crackled with banned runic sigils, a clear violation. Yet the crowd cheered, coins tossed at his feet.

Her fist clenched until her knuckles blanched. She sheathed her sword with a hard snick that echoed like a gauntlet slap.

"Compile every frame," she ordered, "highlight illegal runes, annotate crowd bribes."

<Routine initiated. Estimated completion: nine minutes.>

She wiped a forearm across her eyes, smudging sweat and tears alike. The corridor around her seemed narrower now—not oppressive, but focused, like the barrel of a cannon pointing her toward next steps.

While Rodion processed, she slid down the wall to sit on the cool flagstones. She unbuckled her left gauntlet, flexing aching fingers. The hairs along her arms stood on end, still feeling the ghost warmth of Rage’s blade.

Her gaze fell on the visor readout: a silent hymn of graphs—heart rate, cortisol spike, adrenaline taper. She gave a humorless laugh. "Look at that, Rodion. I’m still breathing."

<Respiratory function adequate. Victory margin: 12 %. Psychological resilience improved.> freewēbnoveℓ.com

"Small mercies."

A minute later, the AI flashed a dossier icon: Calderon_Violations. She tapped to preview. Footage angles. Rune overlays. Crowd payout ledgers Rodion had siphoned from hidden House accounts. Enough dirt to bury a duke.

Yet simply dumping this on the court wouldn’t shift hearts. Noble houses thrived on rumor dressed as revelation. She needed timing—a strike that undercut Aldric’s momentum, not a scatter of facts.

"Prepare a drip strategy," she murmured. "Start with whispers—anonymous—but traceable enough that people believe. One document tonight to the Herald Guild. Two more tomorrow, to Viscountess Maren’s allies. Let gossip chew the bones first."

<Understood. Compiling release schedule. Advisory: risk of trace-back rises 4 % per document.>

"I’ll accept the risk."

An idea sparked. She tilted her head back against the stone, eyes on the timber ceiling beams. A house crest banner hung torn across one joist, moth-eaten. Symbolism, she thought. Calderon valued spectacle—so she would turn his own stage lights against him.

"Cross-reference those rune patterns with any duel Aldric fought in the last decade," she said quietly. "If he reused them, we snowball evidence."

<Seven matches flagged. Two with fatal outcomes.>

"Good." Her throat bobbed. Maren lived—barely. Others had not. Anger threatened again, but she breathed slow until it slipped back under.

The corridor air cooled as sweat evaporated; she shivered. Fatigue seeped across her shoulders, but she pushed to her feet. Her joints clicked—a reminder that even wolves need rest.

Yet Rodion’s interface brightened.

<Final simulation available: allies at risk. Continuing?>

She froze. That scenario. The one stored deep in her nightmares: choices that demanded sacrifice. Breath hitched, memories of a border raid years ago flaring—she’d saved villagers but lost two squires under her command. Untended guilt lanced bright as fresh steel.

Her hand drifted to the sword hilt. She swallowed.

"Run it," she whispered.

Light fell away again. A broad courtyard resolved—cobbles cracked, banners smoking. Opposite her: a dozen armored hostiles, unknown crests, blades wet. Between them and her stood holographic versions of Lira, Serelith, and—twist of the heart—Lucien, mail rent, fear on their faces. They didn’t move, just waited. The enemies raised swords.

Her pulse thundered. The simulation’s heat smelled of real blood. For three long heartbeats she could not move. Old failure yawned beneath her feet.

"Stop it," she croaked.

<Warning: legacy trauma detected. Resuming full simulation unless canceled.>

The hostiles advanced. Lira-simulacrum cried out, stumbling. Something in Cerys snapped—not breaking, but reforging. She inhaled, long and cold, tasting iron.

"No," she said, voice ironclad.

She sprang. Blade sang free, streaking silver through smoky light. She didn’t rush to shield the three illusions; instead, she struck at the enemy wedge’s throat, remembering Mikhailis’s off-beat counters and Serelith’s rune feints. Steel met steel. Sparks burst.

An axe hummed past; she stepped inside, broke the wielder’s elbow, pivoted. Two down. A spear thrust at Lucien-image—she hurled her dagger, pinning the shaft to the ground. Three more fell beneath rapid cuts. Her muscles burned, lungs shredding, but fury was a forge; she hammered herself into something sharper with every blow.

Soon the courtyard lay empty save for one final figure: a mirror of herself, armor scorched, eyes unblinking. It raised its blade in silent dare.

Torches sputtered out, leaving them under a single pale glow from the visor HUD. The copy stepped left; she mirrored right. Thunder of her heart and clatter of distant banners the only sounds.

She lifted her sword in salute.

"Let’s finish this."

And with that, Cerys lunged.

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