The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

There it was.

The ridge, blanketed in emerald moss and dew‑beaded ferns, seemed to bow aside, unveiling the vast horizon. The Tree of Life rose like a living continent beyond the gap—too immense, too ancient, too uncompromisingly alive to be captured in any tapestry or tavern tale. From their vantage, its colossal trunk resembled a range of soft‑barked cliffs streaked with rivers of sap that glinted pale gold. Roots as thick as city avenues tunneled through the valley floor, some plunging back into the soil, others arching skyward to form natural bridges draped in orchids. Every breath of wind set loose silver motes from the moss, so the air itself shimmered.

Sunlight spilled through the high canopies in great, cathedral‑like shafts, and the whole capital seemed to rest within those branches as comfortably as birds in a nest. Tiny silhouettes—houses, shrines, merchant platforms—perched among leaves the size of sailcloths. At intervals, aerial walkways stretched like spider silk, their wood polished by centuries of footfalls. Lanterns dangled from the boughs, glass globes catching the dawn and scattering rainbow prisms onto lofted roofs.

Mikhailis's lungs tightened with a mixture of awe and nostalgia. He tasted the familiar tang of tree‑sap on the breeze, sweet and earthy. "There it is…" The words slipped out in a hush, more reverent than he expected. "I'm home."

Only then did he notice he'd halted. Boots planted, cloak forgotten, he stared as though afraid the vision might vanish. Elowen stepped quietly to his side. Without her crown and formal collar she looked almost like the girl who once sneaked out to study alchemy texts, yet the silver in her hair—and the subtle confidence in her bearing—reminded him of how far they'd come. She followed his gaze, letting the stillness linger.

A heartbeat later her shoulders lifted, chin setting in that poised line he'd seen in courtrooms and on battlefields. "We descend from here," she said, the gentle lilt of wonder giving way to crisp command. "Escort guard will meet us on the mid‑root ramp."

Duty tugged at him like a cloak clasp. "Right," he answered, forcing his eyes from the glowing skyline. The image printed itself behind his eyelids—the moss lit gold, the city cradled like an infant of stone and wood. He vowed to keep it, at least through the hours of ceremony to come.

They began the descent along a spiraling ramp half grown, half carved from braided root. Each turn revealed new details. On the next tier, he spied a baker's stall wedged into a gentle curve of trunk, its chimney puffing cinnamon steam. Farther down, tiers of terraced gardens burst with rainbow blossoms, and irrigation streams trickled through bark‑hewn channels, singing over tiny waterfalls. He inhaled and caught notes of star‑fruit and warm crusty bread mingling with cedar resin.

The pathway widened onto a bridge where tradesfolk in beetle‑shaped carts trundled along, their shells lacquered in bright guild colors. A pair of glider‑lizards flitted overhead, messages tied to their ankles, wings leaving eddies in the mist. Somewhere below, a bell rang—a school summons, he remembered—and children's laughter floated up, pure and piercing.

Energy flooded Mikhailis's limbs. His stride lengthened; his mind leapt forward to the lab buried in the Heart‑Root district. "I need to check the stasis capsule," he muttered, half to himself, excitement rising. "If the dreamwater extractor's safe, the crystallization curve might finally—"

"You're not sneaking off to your lab," Elowen interrupted, warmth underlying her firmness. Ahead, an archway of intertwined silverwood roots beckoned them onto the grand concourse. "You're prince consort, and we're back. That means protocol."

He slowed as though wading into syrup. Below the arch, heralds waited in polished leaf‑mail, ready to trumpet announcements. Banners of every noble house lined the concourse balustrade, snapping in the updraft. All the trappings of ceremony lay in plain sight—he could almost feel speeches coalescing in the humid air.

"Ceremonies. Speeches." He grimaced theatrically. "Social battery death."

"Tradition," she corrected, smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. Sunlight winked on the ceremonial pin at her throat—tiny, but an entire kingdom's weight pressed into its design.

A flock of sky‑finches burst from a high bough, scattering blue feathers like confetti. Mikhailis watched them soar, envy flickering behind his grin. High overhead, he saw a pair of apprentices setting glowing glass orbs along a new bridge rail—evidence that innovation still thrived, even under the old rituals. That comforted him, but not enough to dull the edge of looming etiquette.

They reached a landing where braided vines formed natural steps. Below, squads of royal guards in glimmerleaf armor converged, ready to escort. He eased a step slower, hoping to delay the inevitable tide of bows, titles, and rehearsed platitudes.

Elowen noticed. She brushed her fingers briefly over his sleeve, grounding him. "One day of ceremony," she promised. "Then you can bury yourself in tonic fumes as long as you like."

He sighed, feigning great sorrow. "I miss when I could run from tradition in sandals," he sighed.

Behind them, a pair of horses arrived, their hooves soft against the moss-lined stone. Vyrelda led first, her silver cloak trailing behind her like mist pulled by the wind. Her armor glinted sharply, cold and pristine, every edge etched with delicate frost-like patterns that caught the sunlight and scattered it in faint, dazzling sparks. She sat straight in the saddle, posture unbending, like she was carved from winter steel. Her expression, as always, was unreadable—focused, precise, just on the edge of irritation, as if punctuality itself had a sword at her back.

Lira followed close behind. She was the exact opposite in presence. She rode sidesaddle with effortless grace, her indigo dress rippling with each trot, her long black ponytail gleaming under the sun like polished obsidian. When she dismounted, it wasn't just movement—it was a performance, a gliding drop to the earth that made even the guards along the archway momentarily glance her way. The soft jingle of jewelry at her wrist punctuated her steps like faint wind chimes.

She didn't hesitate. With practiced familiarity, Lira walked straight to Mikhailis and set her hands gently on his shoulders from behind, fingers spreading out like she meant to knead out the ceremonial tension.

"Poor thing," she murmured, her voice silk wrapped around steel. "All those eyes on you. All those nobles whispering about your posture and hair and… whatever that smell is."

Mikhailis didn't even blink. "Lavender and trauma," he deadpanned, lifting a brow. "A delicate blend."

Her hands gave a light squeeze. "How tragic," she sighed, leaning closer to his ear like she might share a scandal. "If only you had someone beautiful and competent nearby to deflect attention."

He glanced at her sidelong. "Oh? Planning to start juggling swords and declaring false scandals again?"

"If necessary," she whispered. "Or maybe I'll trip and fall dramatically right as you're introduced—collapse into your arms. Big tears. Loud wailing. I can sell a swoon like no one else."

Elowen turned her head sharply, raising a brow in a warning arc that suggested royalty had limits—even for mischief.

Lira met the gaze without faltering. If anything, her hand slid a bit farther down Mikhailis's shoulder with playful defiance.

"If the crown's too heavy," she continued in that mock-sweet voice, "I'll carry it for you. Or at least distract everyone while you bolt into the woods."

From the edge of the formation, a velvety voice slid in like perfume laced with poison.

"That maid's either fearless or mad," came Serelith's comment, her tone like silk brushing the edge of a dagger.

Lira didn't turn. "Oh, it's madness," she answered lightly, smile curling as she stared forward. "The type that bites back."

The air shifted again. Serelith didn't walk—she appeared, sliding into view like the shadow of a full moon through mist. Her robes were layered black and violet, so dark they seemed to absorb the gold of the canopy light. Her long silver-lavender hair swayed as if reacting to unseen energy, and her steps made no sound at all. She looked amused, though her gaze—sharp and unreadable—shifted between Mikhailis and Lira like a mathematician reviewing variables she couldn't solve.

"And yet," Serelith purred, "here I thought you were just obsessed."

"With excellence," Lira replied immediately, not bothering to look at her. "Can't help it if he radiates potential."

"I was talking about Elowen," Serelith added in a lilting voice, though there was something coy in her smile.

"Were you?" Lira murmured, finally turning slightly, lips still curled in that maddeningly serene expression.

Mikhailis glanced between them. Not this again. Every encounter between the two women felt like standing between two smiling archers waiting for a reason to draw. He wasn't even sure which of them enjoyed the duel more.

"If you two start throwing hexes," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck, "I'd like to be on higher ground. Somewhere far. With shielding."

"Tempting," Serelith said, eyes flicking toward him with a glint of mischief. "Would you scream, I wonder?"

"Only theatrically," he replied.

They passed beneath the carved arch, a tangle of silverwood and woven vines overhead. Ceremonial guards flanked either side, their armor enchanted to shift hues with the light—gold in the sun, violet in the shadow. As the group walked under, harp strings played overhead—not from visible instruments, but from strands of mana threaded through the canopy. Music hummed through the air like drifting pollen.

The scent changed too.

From the clean, fresh smell of open forest to the richer, more layered fragrance of ceremonial incense, crushed flower petals, and tree oil. Magic pulsed gently beneath their feet. The roots themselves were alive, not just in biology, but in memory. Each footstep echoed faintly like it was being recorded.

They stepped onto the Crownroot tier.

And there it was.

The amphitheatre unfolded like a breath held for centuries and finally released.