The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 515: Sugar and Shadows (2)
A drunk sailor lurched from a doorway, glassy grin spreading as he raised a mug. Mikhailis ducked beneath the man's swaying arm, never breaking stride. A startled "hey!" chased him, fading as fast as it came.
Uneven paving threatened to trip him; he let instinct guide his feet, hopping a cracked stone here, sliding along a damp plank bridge there. Somewhere above, fireworks cracked—red sparks blossomed, reflecting briefly in puddles at his feet. The gunpowder tang tightened his chest. If fireworks mask cries for help, any passer-by could miss them.
Ahead, the main boulevard forked. The left branch glowed with torchlight and stalls; the right dipped into narrower back lanes. Drag marks they went west. He veered right.
Woven mats muffled his steps as he slalomed between stacks of sleeping fruit crates. An alley cat hissed, leaping from a barrel he grazed with his cloak. The animal's eyes flashed green before disappearing into shadow.
<Mikhailis, heart-rate elevated to one-hundred-fifty. Recommend regulated breathing to maintain speed.>
He inhaled to a four-count, exhaled to four—an old fencing drill to steady the blade hand. It slowed the frantic hammer in his chest but did nothing to cool the fire under his ribs.
The alleys thinned the crowds. Now only the occasional porter hurried by, hunched under burdens, giving the cloaked noble barreling past a wide-eyed stare. One tripped, nearly spilling a sack of rice. Mikhailis righted the sack mid-stride, murmured an absent apology, then was gone before the man could reply.
Wooden shingles creaked overhead. Mikhailis risked a glance skyward—two beetle scouts etched against the lantern glow, wings beating fast. Their paths converged, then darted west. Confirmation.
He rounded the final corner and skidded to a halt, boots scraping grit. The alley where he had left Serelith and Cerys gaped before him, strangely silent. Color drained from his face.
The tent was no longer a cheerful splash of purple and gold. It hung in tatters, like a giant claw had ripped straight through the canvas. Lantern oil pooled in muddy streaks, reflecting the ruin. A single paper lantern lay crushed, its delicate frame broken as a bird's bones.
Mikhailis's stomach tightened into a knot of ice. He stepped forward slowly, every detail slamming into his brain. A stand of incense had been kicked over—amber ash smeared in half-moon arcs across the ground. Tarot cards were strewn like fallen leaves, many sliced clean in half. Someone cut them rather than let them burn… deliberate, controlled.
And then he saw it—a glint of violet among the debris. He crouched, fingers trembling, and plucked a small, ornate hairpin. Silver and amethyst, shaped like a crescent moon wrapped in ivy. Serelith never removed it except to sleep.
He swallowed hard. Just beside it lay a snapped leather strap, embroidered with the wolf's-head motif Cerys favored. The threads were frayed, edges crusted with what he hoped was only dust. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom
"Rodion! Get the Chimera Ant soldiers here, now!" The words tore out harsher than intended, echoing against the walls.
<Command acknowledged. Scurabon platoons converging on sector West-Nine. Riftborne Necrolord en route via sub-tunnel. ETA ninety seconds.>
Ninety seconds felt like ninety years. Mikhailis dropped to one knee in the grit and let his eyes narrow to razor focus. The scene spoke if you listened: a deep gouge on the stone where Cerys's boot likely slid. Smaller scratches—Serelith's heels dragged while spells fizzled? No scorch marks, so warded silence held. Footprints overlapped; he counted six men's sizes, heavy heels. One set wider—perhaps the brute who carried Cerys. The pattern angled away—and there, faint but clear, parallel grooves: a body hauled over shoulder height, heels tapping stone every third step.
West. They took the narrow merchant lanes. He visualized the grid—west meant derelict spice warehouses, canal bridges seldom patrolled after sundown, perfect for smuggling unwilling cargo.
His pulse hammered, breath misting in the cooler air pooling here. Jaw clenched hard enough to creak. "They went west."
<Confirmed. Adjusting Chimera Ant surveillance pattern. Sector West-Ten through West-Twelve prioritized.>
He rose in one fluid surge and bolted. Now every sensation turned sharper, edges glowing in lantern light. The almonds rattled against his chest; he ignored them. Cobwebs of mana tickled his skin as he cut down a side corridor—old wards, cheaply laid, trying to veil tracks. He smelled the lingering sharpness of mintroot powder used to cloak scent from detection dogs. But it cannot blind ants, he thought grimly.
Ahead, an elderly lamp-lighter tottered on a stool, reaching a pole up to snuff a lamp for a new candle. Mikhailis flashed past, the wind of his passage making the flame flutter. "Sorry, friend," he muttered—but urgency dragged him onward.
Shoeless children played knucklebones on the corner; their heads whipped up at the thunder of his boots. One boy yelped; Mikhailis dodged their chalked circle with feline agility, a hand raised in silent apology.
A row of laundry lines forced him to dip; damp sheets slapped his cheeks, leaving cold kisses. He tasted soap and copper in the same breath.
Torches thinned. The festive glow fell behind, replaced by the dull orange wink of faraway furnaces. Buildings leaned inward here, upper floors nearly kissing across the lane, wooden beams blackened by age. Dogs barked at his approach, then whined as he flew past.
Mikhailis cleared the last cramped lane and spilled into a forgotten square where moonlight struggled against broken roof-tiles. A half-crumbled shrine squatted at its center—old cedar pillars split by rot, stone fox statues blind with moss. The courtyard was abandoned save for one guttering torch jammed into a cracked urn, its flame clawing at the dark like a trapped bird.
Shadows bled along the edges of collapsed market stalls, but Mikhailis's gaze locked instantly on three pale forms kneeling beside the shrine steps. Serelith, Cerys, and the hunched fortune-teller were bound ankle-to-wrist, gagged with spell-woven silk that glowed a sickly turquoise. Arcane manacles linked them, cuffs pulsing with runes that siphoned strength. Serelith's violet hair stuck to her damp cheek; her chest rose in shallow, rattling breaths. Cerys fought her bonds, shoulders bulging, but every flex made the sigils flare brighter, draining more of her mana. Even from ten paces Mikhailis saw the exhaustion hollowing their eyes.
Around them loitered five cloaked men, blades half-drawn, another two perched on the shrine roof holding crossbows. One closer thug leaned down, backhanding a stray lock from Serelith's face with a grin that turned Mikhailis's blood to liquid iron.
<Limited forces present. Two Scurabon squads and the Riftborne Necrolord within engagement radius. Remaining assets twenty seconds distant.>
Twenty seconds? They don't get twenty. His vision tunneled onto that grinning thug, every heartbeat ringing like a war-gong.
"Rodion," he whispered, voice flat as winter steel, "we act now."
No further orders were needed. Eight beetle-sized Scurabons poured from cracks in the wall, their carapaces blending into shadow. They skittered across the cobbles, positioning behind crates, under broken carts—silent sentries ready to snap traps or sever bowstrings. High above, a deeper blot of darkness uncurled from the roofline: the Riftborne Necrolord, skeletal wings folded, eyes burning violet.
Mikhailis inhaled, tasting dust and rusted prayer coins. Time to break their teeth.
His right hand flipped a wooden token—the painted imp from earlier—through his fingers. Mana threads pulsed; the token dissolved, revealing the Entomancer Talisman hidden beneath. At his mental command, four Scurabons unfolded, scurried up his sleeves, and fused into midnight-black gauntlets. A second quartet wrapped his boots, jointing to his calves like living armor. Power thrummed—muscles tightened, tendons sang.
The Necrolord's ragged cloak billowed down, draping his shoulders. Shadow Warp ignited, the world's colors draining until only outlines remained. He stepped—and vanished.
Half a heartbeat later a brick clattered from the shrine roof where a Scurabon "accidentally" nudged it over the edge. Heads snapped up; one crossbowman cursed.
Mikhailis materialized behind the nearest thug like a nightmare snapping awake. For a heartbeat the world seemed to hold its breath—the stench of sweat and lamp-oil, the creak of old timbers, Serelith's strangled wheeze—then his sword whispered through tendon. A wet click, and the man crumpled, eyes wide with the surprise of dying silently.
One.
Before the corpse hit gravel he was moving, vaulting the toppled pillar that lay shattered across the shrine floor. His boots—alive with Scurabon plates—dug into plaster, launching him in a blur toward the second guard. Steel shrieked as the thug's short-sword tried to meet him; Mikhailis lifted one gauntleted forearm, caught the blow, sparks arcing like fireflies. He felt the impact tingle up bone, but momentum was his ally. He trapped the blade against his vambrace, twisted his hips, and drove a knee—reinforced by chitin and fury—into the man's ribs. The crunch was audible.
"Gah—!" The thug spat blood, folding like cloth.
Two.
Above, crossbows snapped. He didn't look; he trusted the Necrolord. Violet shadows unfurled like tattered sails, snaring ankle and wrist. The first archer fired, bolt veering as tendrils jerked his leg sideways. The shot pinged off shrine stone and disappeared into the dark. The second archer tried to leap clear, but the shadow rope tightened. He toppled, thudding atop a decaying cart roof, wheels protesting.
"Demon magic!"
