The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 518: Sugar and Shadows (End)

"Next?" she growled, glancing up, fiery hair lashing across her cheek.

Another kidnapper answered her, hefting a spiked mace as heavy as a millstone. He roared—a bull's bellow—and charged. Cerys's eyes narrowed. She waited until the last instant, then folded at the waist. The mace whooshed overhead, wind whistling off its studs. Momentum yanked the brute forward; his balance faltered. Cerys's right boot shot upward, burying itself beneath his ribs with a sharp CRACK! The man's roar became a strangled gurgle. The mace clanged away, denting a pillar.

While battle raged, Mikhailis slipped like ink along the courtyard's crumbled edge. He was a blur of dark fabric and silver flash. Every time a thug turned to face Serelith's flames or Cerys's blade, he appeared elsewhere—cutting a belt, slashing a hamstring, always moving. One burly attacker noticed him too late, swinging a makeshift club. Mikhailis ducked low, cloak sweeping dust, and his sword parted the man's wrist with surgical neatness. Schlick. Blood sprayed, dark against lantern glow, and the scream that tore free almost drowned the festival drums echoing beyond the walls.

The lead thug—sweat slicking his shaved scalp—hugged the useless heart-stone trigger like it might still save him. His gaze flicked from Serelith's floating prisoner to Cerys stomping over bodies, to Mikhailis drifting as though untouched by gravity. "Stay away!" he barked, voice cracking. In a panic he fumbled at his boot, producing a slim parrying knife. Desperation made him clumsy; the blade wavered between targets with no conviction.

At his feet something small skittered—a dark, chitinous shape no bigger than a kitten but infinitely more terrible. A Scurabon, its obsidian shell dappled with faint violet runes, darted over his toes. Before he could even yelp, it scurried up the slope of his boot and clamped down on his forearm. Its mandibles locked with a sound like splitting greenwood. Pain shot up his arm; bone gave way with an audible snap! The knife slipped from numb fingers, clattering across the cobbles.

He fell to his knees, howling. Tears mixed with sweat on his grimy cheeks. The Scurabon released and vanished back into rubble, duty done.

Mikhailis stepped forward, dust motes swirling around polished boots. He looked almost casual, sword tip angled down yet ready, cloak now torn but flowing behind him like ink in water. The chilling calm in his eyes froze the thug mid-sob.

"This is your last chance. Surrender."

The thug's surrender seemed final—until a low whistle split the night.

From behind toppled crates and shattered stalls shapes stirred: half-a-dozen more cloaked figures who had lain belly-flat in the debris, hiding while their vanguard fell. Their hoods peeled back to reveal glinting magitek goggles; each one raised a peculiar apparatus—brass flutes fitted with runestones, ruby-caged orbs, crystal prisms mounted to crossbow stocks. Mana crackled as they primed the devices.

Serelith's head snapped toward the sound, hair lashing like a violet banner. "Oh, you brought friends." Her grin returned, sharper than broken glass. Cerys angled herself between Serelith and the newcomers, sword sliding into guard, eyes narrowing. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

Mikhailis took in the new threat—how the barrels had been stacked just so, how torn market awnings made perfect camouflage. Clever rats. He raised a calming hand toward the women. "Watch carefully."

He inhaled, then clapped once, loud and ringing.

Dust leapt from the cobbles—and with it, shadows. From window ledges, roof gutters, even sewer grates, black shapes poured. Hundreds of Chimera Ant soldiers emerged, carapaces gleaming like wet obsidian. Scurabons formed the front line, their thick claws clicking in perfect rhythm. Lithe Worker scouts flanked, antennae twitching. At the rear, two Fire-Scarabs unfurled wings that shimmered with ember-red veins, ready to spit napalm flame.

The sudden tide of chitin encircled the courtyard in a living wall. Lantern light flickered off countless compound eyes. The hidden thugs froze mid-spell, fingers still poised on rune triggers.

Mikhailis's voice rang clear. "Ants—attack."

The air filled with a choral hiss. Scurabons surged first, diving for ankles, severing tendons with surgical bites. One thug shrieked as his prism-crossbow fired skyward, harmless. A Worker Ant leapt, snatching the orb-flute from another conspirator's grip; its mandibles sheared wood and brass with a crunch.

A robed mage tried to chant, palm glowing, but a Fire-Scarab spat a bead of orange light that burst at his feet—whump!—in a gout of sticky flame. He toppled, robes ablaze, howling and rolling.

Serelith's eyes sparkled like amethysts in lightning. "They dance even better than my fire." She raised both hands, ready to add more chaos, but paused at Mikhailis's subtle shake of the head.

"Let them handle it," he murmured. Still, a pulse of pride warmed his chest at her eager grin.

Cerys watched an Ant vault off a crate, slice a rune-flute's tubing, then scuttle away before the wielder could blink. "Efficient little beasts," she admitted, voice grudging but impressed. She kicked a struggling thug back into Ant jaws. "And tidy. Lira might approve."

Within heartbeats the ambushers lay disarmed, moaning beneath chitin guards. A Hypnoveil Variant drifted over them, misty wings beating slow spirals. Soft silver vapor cascaded onto the prisoners; their eyelids fluttered, aggression replaced by pliant stupor.

Rodion's chassis rotated, optics flashing. "Perimeter secure. Hostiles neutralised. Minimal collateral damage."

Mikhailis strolled to the nearest thug, nudged a shattered magitek flute with his boot. "Nice toys. Shame you never learned to play."

The man only babbled—silver haze already fogging his thoughts.

Serelith sauntered up beside Mikhailis, sparks dancing lazily across her knuckles. "Mmm, I give their performance three points for surprise, minus ten for execution."

Cerys snorted, wiping gore from her vambrace. "Generous."

Mikhailis turned to the women, expression softening. "You wanted fair warning." He swept an arm at the encircling insects, who now stood statue-still, awaiting orders. "Behold: full parade."

Serelith's laughter came easy, bright. "They're magnificent… and terrifying." She knelt, studying a Scurabon that clicked curiously at her boots. "Hello, handsome. Are you single?"

The Ant tilted its head. Mikhailis cleared his throat. "Careful—if he proposes, you're joining the colony."

Cerys chuckled, tension finally draining from her shoulders. She crouched to stroke a Worker's glossy shell. "Armor's solid. Plates overlap like high-end scale mail."

"Thank you." Pride slipped into his voice before he could stop it. "They grow stronger each moult."

A gentle cough—Rodion hovering close. "Recommendation: relocate hostiles to city cells before Hypnoveil trance fades. Also, Lady Serelith's vine victim appears concussed."

"Oh, he'll live," she said breezily, but her fingers flicked; the unconscious man drifted down under a cushion of gentle force rather than hit stone.

Mikhailis strode back to the original leader, still cowering, clutching his limp arm. "One thing puzzles me," he said lightly. "Who sent so many of you to kidnap two extraordinary women in the same night?" He knelt, letting steel eyes bore into the thug's fear-glazed ones. "Answer honestly, and you might avoid a private chat with my Necrolord."

The thug's lips trembled. "An-anonymous buyer… crimson seal… southern docks…" He spewed fragments: code words, rendezvous, promise of gold. Rodion recorded every syllable.

When the quivering husk had nothing left, Mikhailis tapped his cheek twice. "Good lad. Rodion, log and forward to palace intelligence."

<Logged. Forwarded.>

Serelith brushed ash from her skirts, sidling close. "That crimson seal could be Serewyn's Shadow Merchants."

"Or a copycat." Cerys hoisted a bound prisoner over one shoulder with ease. "Either way, we have names to coax from tongues."

Mikhailis nodded, a tired but satisfied smile lifting his mouth. He whistled a short tri-note. Instantly the Ant army broke formation. Scouts vanished into cracks; Fire-Scarabs lifted on smoky drafts, banking away toward sewer entrances. Scurabons herded trussed thugs into neat rows, ready for city patrols to collect.

Rodion hovered nearer, projecting soft blue spotlights to illuminate evidence piles. "Threat level reduced to negligible. Initiating containment." Lines of text scrolled across the air—damage tallies, captured weapons, heart-stone status.

Cerys prodded Rodion's padded arm again. "He's… adorable and terrifying."

"This chassis is optimized for assistance." Rodion turned a palm; holographic diagnostics spun like translucent gears. "Combat remains a secondary feature, though occasionally necessary."

He pivoted, lenses brightening politely toward the ladies. "Pleasure to finally meet you, Lady Serelith, Dame Cerys." The floating construct executed a flawless mid-air bow.

Mikhailis exhaled at length, the anxiety knot in his chest uncoiling into something like relief—laced with a twinge of embarrassment. "There are many things I've kept hidden," he admitted quietly. "But no more."

Serelith stepped into his space, palm warm against his cheek. Her earlier ferocity melted into gentle fondness. "Good. I prefer the truth." The violet sparks at her fingertips faded, replaced by a tender heat that whispered of trust regained.

Cerys wiped her blade clean on a fallen cloak, then tapped his shoulder with the flat in mock scold. "Next time your insect platoon joins the field, warn me." She tried for severity, but relief softened her amber gaze.

He mustered a sheepish grin. "Cross my heart. The next secret army will send you an invitation card."

Rodion's optical eyes flickered with playful light. "I will draft a disclosure schedule. High-priority secrets will be color-coded for your convenience."

Mikhailis groaned, rolling his eyes toward the stars. "Ignore him. He's still refining humor subroutines."

<Apology registered. Sarcasm module will update,> Rodion intoned with the faintest hint of smugness.

Serelith laughed, clear as chimes struck in spring wind. For a heartbeat the shattered square felt less a battleground and more a bizarre midnight theater. Lanterns beyond the alley swayed, sprinkling gold across shattered roof tiles and cracked stone.

Mikhailis surveyed the aftermath: thugs strewn like discarded dolls, rune lines dead, the heart-stone's angry glow faded to a dull ember. Just outside the alley's mouth, festival drums resumed their steady rhythm, oblivious to how close joy had come to catastrophe. He squeezed Serelith's hand and met Cerys's steady gaze. In Rodion's floating presence he felt an anchoring calm: this was family, improvised but real.

"We should fetch the city guard," he murmured. "And maybe call Lira. She'll flay me alive for letting my cloak rip."

Cerys sheathed her sword with a soft metallic sigh. "And she'll make us tea while scolding you."

Serelith smirked, brushing dust from her singed sleeves. "She'll scold him for ruining her neat schedule, then fuss over us until dawn."

Mikhailis groaned louder. "I'll take a dozen bandits over Lira's patience. It's terrifying."

A distant firework blossomed crimson above rooftops, reflecting in Rodion's blue eyes. The soft pop echoed, followed by cheers far away. Life, unaware, carried on. He slipped an arm around Serelith's waist; Cerys fell into step opposite, sword resting on her shoulder like a protective wing. Rodion hovered behind, a silent sentinel.

Lantern light stretched ahead, painting the cobbles orange and gold. "Let's go home," Mikhailis said, voice thick with relief and something gentler.

They walked together out of the shattered dark—three humans and one AI—toward music, light, and whatever dawn might dare bring.