The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

The moment the heavy teak doors of the Teulibrary whispered shut, Saintess Myria inhaled, then released a long, careful breath—as if she could exhale every flutter racing in her chest. The corridor beyond the reading hall was hushed, lit only by slender moon-lamps clinging to living pillars. Their silver glow usually soothed her; tonight it painted every vine and rune in strange, inviting colors.

She pressed her palms together in front of her waist, the ritual gesture steadying the slight tremor in her fingertips. Only moments earlier she had faced Prince Mikhailis with perfect composure, telling him in her most measured temple voice, "You must be tired, Your Highness. Shall we pause here for today? The shrine's atmosphere can be overwhelming for newcomers."

He had answered with that off-beat little grin of his—half scholar, half mischief. "A short rest sounds wise. I wouldn't want to start speaking to the trees just yet." The tease had been harmless, but the spark in his eyes had landed like a small, bright ember in her lungs.

Now, as her footsteps echoed down the leaf-carved floor, she felt that ember glow hotter. She turned instinctively toward an arched balcony, drawn by the night air. Outside, the Grove breathed: wet moss, sweet sap, and the faint, honey-soft perfume of blooming moonpetals. Ordinarily those scents anchored her—tonight they swirled in her head like incense.

Her fingers lifted to her lips. They were warm. Too warm. That smile… is it always like that? Courteous, unreadable, but threaded through with humor she couldn't predict. He hides entire gardens of secrets—yet somehow it's my own pulse that feels exposed.

She swallowed. One beat. Two. The distant song of nocturnal wind-moths drifted from the treetops—flutter-flutter, hush—yet even their wings sounded like a heartbeat.

I'm the Saintess. She tried to remember the certainty that title once carried. I've ushered high lords into truce, soothed mountain spirits, disarmed desert prophets with a single word. So why does one eccentric prince make my stomach twist like a first-year acolyte at her debut recital?

The blush deepened. She shook her head—silver strands of hair brushing her shoulders—and resumed her walk, hoping momentum might scatter the thoughts chasing her. The corridor wound downward, root-wood shifting beneath her sandals as if guiding her home. At each gentle bend, lanterns dimmed from silver to honey to soft rose, like a sunset in reverse. Her private chambers waited behind a curtain woven of flowering vine; the blossoms parted at her touch, releasing a susurrus of petals.

Inside, lantern-light tallied softly across carved runes on the walls. Scrolls slept upon low shelves, and a single ceramic pot sat steaming on a cedar table. Everything familiar. Everything safe. Yet the moment she pushed the wooden door closed, her shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. She leaned back against the door, palms flat on the smooth surface, and felt her heart gallop.

"What is wrong with me…"

The words drifted from her mouth like mist, swallowed by the quiet beyond the wooden door. Only the soft drip-tick of the distant water clock answered, each note punctuating the frantic beat of her pulse. Moonlight poured through the lattice window, painting silver stripes across the floor, yet it could not cool the warmth blooming under her skin.

She angled toward a low mirror framed in living ivy. Normally, the glass reflected an image of tranquil poise—a Saintess draped in layered robes, luminous hair braided with prayer strings. Tonight it revealed flushed cheeks, lips parted in uneven breaths, and eyes that shimmered with… what? Bewilderment. Restless heat.

Shame?

No—more complicated than shame. Something curious and wild pulsing at her core, refusing to be named.

The ceremonial sash slid from her shoulders with a whisper. She loosened clasp after clasp until the outer robe drifted down, pooling around her slippers like fallen petals. Only her white prayer shift remained, thin and airy, the hem brushing her ankles as she moved. She touched her cheek—still burning. Her fingertips trembled.

Why is my heart acting like this? It's just a man, she scolded herself. A guest, a consort, a scholar with too many jokes. Nothing more.

Yet her mind conjured that crooked grin of his, the playful glint behind dark lashes, the way one brow rose when he threaded humor into formality. Oddly charming, she admitted—but there were many charming men in the world. None had turned her thoughts to molten candlewax.

She shook off the thought, lifted the ceramic teapot, and poured a steady stream into a small cup. Moonpetal leaves tumbled in slow spirals, coloring the water palest jade. Steam rose, sweet and calming. She brought the cup to her lips and inhaled as healers had taught her—in through the nose, hold, out through parted lips.

The first sip glided over her tongue like cool silk. She waited for the familiar peace that usually followed. It did not come. Instead the fragrance of moonpetal seemed to carry hints of dark spice—an echo of Mikhailis's scent when he stood close during the tour, warm wood and faint citrus. The memory slipped beneath her ribs, settling hotly.

"It's because of that dream," she murmured, curling her hands around the cup. She hadn't told a soul. Why would she? Saintesses advised acolytes to interpret dreams, not to be undone by their own.

The dream… where he brushed a thumb along my throat, calling me by my childhood name no one in this realm should know. Where vines blossomed with every breath we shared…

Her grip tightened; tea sloshed perilously close to the rim. She exhaled sharply and set the cup aside before it could spill.

No. Don't think about it. She pressed her palms to her eyes, seeking darkness. Breathe. Count the heartbeats. One, two, three—but between four and five his laughter drifted into her thoughts again, wrecking her rhythm.

Abandoning the cushion by the window, she lowered herself to the polished floorboards, knees tucked to her chest like a girl hiding secrets. Candlelight flickered across her white shift, and for an instant she imagined Mikhailis must see her like this—small, uncertain. The thought stung, and she hugged her legs tighter.

"I'm not jealous of the priestesses," she insisted to the silent room. "Of course not. I guide them in their vows." Still, memory stole back to the corridor earlier—how Talyra's cheeks pinked whenever the prince addressed her, how Nessa's gaze lingered on his hands. Warm fingers on her neck—no, Talyra's neck. A flash of envy twisted in her chest.

Her breath shook. "I'm not some swooning girl—"

The words broke. She let her head fall forward, chin resting on folded arms. The quiet was oppressive, her own heartbeat far too loud. At last she pushed up to her feet, sudden resolve driving her forward.

"I'll just… walk back." She spoke the plan aloud, as if reciting orders might tame her pulse. "Casual. Calm. Check on them." The way a healer checks a bandage, she reasoned—routine follow-up, nothing more.

She moved quickly, gathering the outer robe but leaving it open over her shift. The hall outside greeted her with cool air scented by night-blooming starvine. She breathed it in, steadying. A moon-beetle skittered across a lantern, and its wings lit the passage in soft turquoise flashes.

Yet every few steps, her stride lengthened until she seemed to glide rather than walk, silk hems whispering over polished root-wood. The hush of the corridor magnified each soft footfall, turning the hallway into a long, breathing throat that carried her heartbeat forward. Anyone passing might have called it hurrying; Myria insisted to herself it was only diligence—concern for guests, for protocol, for the Grove's fragile equilibrium. Nothing else.

She rounded a bend where crystal-bark columns rose like pale river birches, their surfaces etched with tiny gilded prayers. Most evenings she paused to trace those lines, checking for flaking gold or hairline cracks. Tonight she registered them only as blurry flashes of light: a chipped loop in the rune for "patience," a vine whose single violet blossom had dared to bloom earlier than its sisters. She made a mental note—touch up the gold, trim the vine—but the thought skimmed across her mind like a pebble on deep water and sank without a splash. What mattered now lay ahead: the Teulibrary, heart of memory, vault of secrets, and currently the center of an unfamiliar tug in her chest.

The hallway opened at last into a moonlit landing. There the great doors of the library waited, sculpted from living teak. Tonight one half-door stood slightly ajar, a break in discipline that sent a ripple of disquiet up Myria's spine. She slowed, breath catching. Sharply cut diamonds of moonlight spilled through lattice panels, decorating the floor like shards of frost. A slender vine of gold leaf dangled from the handle, swinging lazily in a night draft—as if someone had slipped inside in haste and forgotten to settle the warding clasp.

Myria pressed a palm to the warm wood, grounding herself. A dozen reasons for the open door scrolled through her mind: a novice reshelving scrolls, an attendant replenishing lamp-oil, perhaps even Mikhailis wandering back in curiosity. She could almost believe any of those explanations, except her skin prickled as though sensing a different story.

She smoothed her robe, fingers fussing over invisible wrinkles. Listen first, she told herself, hearing the disciplined tone she used with acolytes. Gauge the mood, then walk in calmly. She leaned closer to the gap, the faint exhale of the Grove's night air meeting hers in the slit of space.

A sound drifted out, so soft it might have been imagination—a hush, half-sigh, half-breath. Myria held still. Wind? A settling scroll? Then came another note, unmistakably human and tipped with something fragile—pleasure, or longing, or both. The hair at her nape lifted.

She listened harder. The hush of fabric sliding over skin followed, then a low moan, muffled but laden with feeling. Not pain. Not surprise. An intimate sound.

Her spine straightened; every muscle snapped taut. Is someone injured? She sampled the noises again. No—no cry for help, no distressed rustle—only that tender, involuntary release people make when words have left them.