The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort
Chapter 531 - 531: Secret Beneath The Lens (End)

The grand double doors of Elowen's private suite slid apart with a soft, breath-like chime, almost as if the room itself sighed in welcome. She crossed the threshold slowly, taking a heartbeat to drink in the hush that lived here—no hurried footsteps, no advisers waiting with scrolls. Only the gentle perfume of lavender and clary sage drifted through the air, carried by an invisible current from crystal vents set high in the walls. Moonlight streamed through tall windows, spilling over silver curtains that pooled on the marble floor like quicksilver. Enchanted crystal sconces along the walls glowed a muted rose-gold, their light adjusting the moment she stepped inside, softening until the shadows melted into calming gradients.

Rodion glided forward from a corner niche, his new body floating just an inch above the floor. The construct's surface resembled liquid porcelain, curved and flawless, yet when he paused the faint outlines of segmented plates caught the light—proof he could unfold into something far more functional when needed. Smooth rings of azure lit where eyes should be, and their glow brightened the moment they located Elowen. He offered no words, only a silent bow formed by a graceful tilt of his torso. The hum of his core thrummed at a steady, comforting pitch.

Elowen exhaled, feeling tension slip from her shoulders like a shawl sliding off. She reached down and slipped off her silver heels, enjoying the spring of the thick, hand-woven carpet under her bare toes. Its fibers were warm—Rodion had already nudged the floor runes to raise the temperature a few degrees. The little detail coaxed a private smile from her. Only an AI but he notices everything.

Rodion drifted to the settee, his limbs extending into delicately curved arms that fluffed each cushion with painter-like precision. Another arm folded back the snowy throw blanket so the velvet would not wrinkle. A separate panel in his torso rotated, releasing a hidden compartment that produced her favorite twilight-blue nightgown. He laid the silken garment across the armrest so that the fabric caught the light, highlighting the constellation embroidery at the collar.

"Thank you," Elowen murmured, not even sure if she had spoken aloud. The construct responded with a subtle dip of his luminous gaze.

She loosened the pearl pins in her hair, letting pale-gold waves tumble free, then padded toward the low table where a single crystal decanter waited. Rodion must have anticipated she would want water first—inside, thin slices of starfruit floated, sparkling under the lamp. She poured, savoring the cool taste.

A gentle chuff of displaced air told her Rodion had taken position near the wall display. Tiny motes danced out from a projector lens beneath his chest, weaving together until a faint starfield shimmered in mid-air.

"Shall I select a suitable film for you, Your Majesty?" The voice emanated from within his chassis, smooth and deep, yet softer than any human servant would dare pitch at her.

Elowen curled onto the settee, tucking one leg beneath her. "Something light," she said, lifting a strand of hair from her cheek. "A classic romance, but not tragic. I don't wish to cry tonight."

<Understood. Querying database for romantic titles with positive endings, runtime under one hundred twenty minutes, comedic sub-themes present.>

Rows of glowing posters bloomed across the starfield—painted lovers beneath cherry blossoms, dancing silhouettes on bridges of light, whimsical floating islands. Each title rippled when she hovered a finger close. She chose a vintage work she'd watched often in childhood, about two dream-walkers meeting between worlds. As soon as her fingertip lingered, the poster expanded, then dissolved into drifting petals as the room lights dimmed two notches. The wide wall opposite the settee faded from silver to a living screen, the first notes of harp and flute filling the suite.

Rodion receded to the sideboard, arms flowing into new shapes. A small tray rose from a concealed shelf—on it sat a crystal flute, already chilled by a ring of frost runes. He uncorked a slender bottle of rose-honey ambrosia, viscous and glimmering, and filled the glass with practiced slowness so the bubbles aligned in tidy spirals. Another limb lifted one end of the blanket, fluttering it outward before draping it over Elowen's lap. She gave a contented hum, gathering the plush fabric to her waist.

The opening scene of the film painted the walls golden: sunlit hills rolling under watercolor clouds. Elowen took a sip—floral, sweet, soothing—and let her head rest against the cushion, eyelids drooping. For once, she permitted Rodion to handle every small worry. He dimmed the sconces a shade more, dull enough that the only glow came from the screen, reflecting in the crystal glass like molten sunrise.

Minutes passed in gentle silence broken only by the film's lilting music. Elowen's thoughts drifted, lighter than they had felt in weeks—no negotiations, no saintess warnings, only fields of painted heather and two actors embarking on innocent folly. Her smile lingered, soft and unguarded.

A subtle chime sounded just as a scene transitioned to starlit rooftops. The doors parted, and Mikhailis slipped inside with a theatrical tiptoe that made Elowen giggle. His silver-blond hair—slightly tousled, perhaps from running—caught the screen's glow, each strand rimmed with gold. He wore a loose collared shirt and charcoal trousers, comfortable but well-tailored, the kind of outfit he favored when he wanted to lounge yet still look princely.

"Is this a private screening," he whispered, placing a hand dramatically over his heart, "or may a humble prince consort intrude?"

"You're late," Elowen teased, but her smile said she was pleased. She patted the cushion beside her.

Mikhailis crossed the rug in three quiet strides, sinking down with a soft grunt of satisfaction. The settee dipped, tilting her gently toward him. His arm curved around her shoulders without hesitation, fingertips brushing the bare skin at her upper arm. Warmth radiated from his body like sunlight after rain. She let her head fall naturally against his chest, hearing the steady thump of his heart under the thin fabric.

"You know," he murmured, voice low so as not to obscure the dialogue on-screen, "if you keep picking romances, I might get jealous."

Elowen rolled her eyes. "Jealous of fictional characters?"

"Fictional, yes, but look at him." He pointed with his chin at the hero declaring love under a cascade of rainbow lanterns. "Flowing poetry, dramatic gestures—how am I to compete?"

She hid a laugh behind her glass. "Perhaps you should practice grand romantic speeches."

"Speeches are easy," he replied, pressing his cheek against her hair. "It's the letter writing. Thousand letters in a thousand days? I'd need a palace-full of scribes."

"You could ask Rodion." Her voice was light; the idea amused her.

Mikhailis lifted his gaze toward the floating construct. "Rodion, how many love letters can you draft before morning?"

<At standard sincerity level? Approximately forty-two thousand.> The AI paused, then added with a faint static crackle that hinted at mischief. <Although the term 'love' is subjective, and sincerity modules are currently at eighty percent efficiency.>

Mikhailis chuckled. "See? Even my competition is artificial." He shifted, tucking her more snugly beneath his arm. She smells like night-bloom lilies, he thought, breathing in her soft scent. How does she always manage to calm the storm just by being near?

Elowen, catching the slow rhythm of his breathing, felt tension ease further. The hero onscreen delivered a melodramatic line about destiny; Mikhailis whispered, "I'd rather destiny send me custard tarts." She snorted laughter, and Rodion dimmed the audio a notch automatically to offset their giggles.

The film rolled onward—montages of dancing under comet showers, shy glances across crowded bazaars. They offered commentary in low voices, inventing comedic backstories for side characters. When the heroine tripped while crossing a glass bridge, Mikhailis gasped theatrically, "Oh no, peril by footwear!" Elowen laughed so hard her shoulders shook. Rodion extended a small servo to steady the flute in her hand so it wouldn't spill.

Halfway through, Mikhailis glanced sideways at her profile glowing in screen-gold. He traced gentle circles on her arm with his thumb. "You look tired, but in a good way," he murmured. "Like candlelight after a long vigil."

She tilted her head, brushing a whisper-soft kiss to his jaw. "And you look mischievous, as always."

He grinned. "Mischief is my secret to youth." He reached over and took a sip of her ambrosia without asking; she swatted his arm, but amusement shone in her eyes.

They sank deeper into the cushions as the story reached its bright, swirling climax. When the lovers on screen leapt across a glowing portal hand-in-hand, Elowen's fingers intertwined with Mikhailis's automatically. He squeezed once, a silent promise that his hand would always catch hers.

Credits blossomed in pastel script. The lights brightened subtly on their own. Rodion drifted forward, hovering in front of them like a silent maître d'. Without a word, the settee slid a fraction aside as sections of the floor retracted, revealing a low dining table that rose smoothly into place. A pair of silver candlesticks unfurled like flowers, tiny flames blooming at their tips. Porcelain dishware glided from a hidden alcove, each plate settling with near-silent precision atop a star-embroidered table runner.

Elowen straightened, eyes wide. "Rodion, this is lovely." Her gaze flicked to Mikhailis, suspicion of collusion warming her smile.

He lifted both hands in mock defense. "I might have whispered one or two ideas earlier. The rest was Rodion's flair."

Rodion's eyes pulsed a dignified blue. <Credit allocation: concept ten percent Mikhailis, execution ninety percent Rodion. Presentation optimized for maximum queenly delight.>

Elowen clapped once, delighted. "Well, both of you performed superbly." She rose, silk gown brushing the carpet, and allowed Mikhailis to pull her chair.

Rodion uncovered a tureen; steam scented with mushrooms and thyme wafted out. "My favorite," Elowen sighed. Mikhailis ladled the bisque, first for her then himself. They lingered over each course, tasting slowly, letting flavors spark gentle conversation. Mikhailis recounted his morning training mishap—slipping during a lunge and nearly flattening a startled pageboy. Elowen laughed until tears pricked her eyes.

"I told the instructor to tighten his shoelaces," Mikhailis lamented dramatically. "But no, he insisted on style over safety."

Elowen dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "Your style nearly maimed the poor lad."

"He'll have a heroic story for life," Mikhailis declared. "The day he battled the prince's boot." She shook her head, eyes sparkling.

When the lavender-berry duck arrived, Mikhailis carved with surprising finesse. He forked a tender slice, held it toward Elowen's lips. "Taste for me?"

She blushed but obliged, teeth sinking into the succulent meat. "Mm… perfectly done." He watched the way her eyelids fluttered, satisfaction warming his chest.

How can a simple dinner feel like prayer when she smiles like that? he mused, offering her another bite.

They spoke of books—Elowen's latest escapade in magical baking literature—and Mikhailis's side hobby of breeding silk moths. Her laughter chimed when he confessed half the moths had eaten a hole through his study drapes. He shrugged. "Art requires sacrifice."

Dessert arrived, custard light as clouds. Mikhailis scooped a spoonful, aiming for her mouth. She inhaled a giggle. "Such royal service."

"Oh, I serve only the most beautiful queens,"

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