The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 464: The Queen’s Surprise and Date (1)

<Compliance. Retaining codename 'Monkey.'>

The queen straightened, smoothing invisible dust from her skirt. "Thank you."

Mikhailis watched her interaction, amusement settling into something softer. She talks to machines the way other rulers talk to their generals. No wonder they adore her.

Monkey swung an arm forward, urging them closer to the light display. New overlays bloomed: heat signatures, distance markers, troop identifiers in soft, readable fonts. Elowen's gaze tracked every label with hungry curiosity.

"Is that a newly opened side tunnel?" she asked, pointing at a branching image. "See that glow? Could be sulfur deposits."

"Sharp eye," Mikhailis said. "Worker squad thirty-two discovered it yesterday. I've queued soil tests—if the air quality's safe we'll expand storage."

Rodion added a data card in the corner of the projection: gas composition percentages, structural ratings, fungal bloom risk. Elowen glanced over the numbers, nodding like a seasoned field-captain, not a monarch in embroidered silk.

Mikhailis felt a proud ache stir behind his ribs. She's fearless. Show her the roots of the kingdom and she only wonders how to make them stronger.

Elowen finally stepped back, head tilting like a cat tracking sunlight. "You spoil me, husband. First, a knight of steel and velvet. Now, a living window to our secret army."

"Just wait till dessert," he quipped. "I'm teaching Monkey to flambé."

Monkey perked up, blinking LED eyes. Then he produced a thumb sized flame from an internal pilot light—just once—like a chef showing off a trick.

Elowen clapped, delighted. "Approval granted."

Mikhailis grinned wider, ready with a joke, when Rodion's voice sliced in.

<Advisory: Prolonged outdoor projection may attract attention from passing staff. Recommend relocation or conclusion.>

The hint of caution sobered them. Elowen nodded. "You're right. We should move this inside before someone asks difficult questions."

Mikhailis pushed off the pillar, and Monkey folded the petals of the pod halfway, dimming the image but leaving it floating like a private lantern between them.

As they started toward the archway, Elowen squeezed Mikhailis's hand. "Thank you for showing me," she whispered.

He squeezed back. "Anytime."

They stepped beneath the ivy shade just as Monkey, eager to stay useful, scampered ahead with the pod held high—throwing shifting tunnel-light across the corridor walls like a secret constellation guiding them home.

Mikhailis shrugged, dead-pan, when Elowen caught him staring fondly at the little bot. "Look at the arms," he said. "Tell me it's not a monkey."

The bot responded with a wounded-puppy spin of its head, servos whirring in protest.

Monkey chirped an electronic squeak—half indignation, half theatrical sigh—then stepped forward with exaggerated dignity. Its finger-tips blossomed, and the metallic pod unfolded like silver petals greeting the sun.

"Drama queen," Mikhailis muttered.

Elowen elbowed him. "He learned that from you."

A soft pulse of mana rippled outward—cool, almost minty against their skin. The courtyard air warped as if someone had peeled back a curtain. Then color spilled across every surface: moss, stone, even Rodion's dark armor flashed aquamarine as a giant projection snapped into being and wrapped the walls like living wallpaper.

"Clever boy," Elowen whispered.

"Clever bot," Mikhailis corrected with a grin, though pride leaked through every syllable.

Before them stretched an underground world. The ground beneath their feet faded; in its place a moss-laced cavern unfurled. Shimmering fungi sparkled like lanterns caught in perpetual twilight.

Rodion's voice hummed, echoing slightly inside the illusion.

<Live feed synchronized. Latency: two-point-six seconds. Environmental stability within predicted parameters.>

Elowen edged forward. The phantom floor swayed under her toes, but she trusted the magic; she always did. She crouched, peering at a stalagmite that wasn't really there. "Glowcaps," she breathed, "so many. They look healthier than last cycle."

Mikhailis took a slow sip from the steaming mug Monkey had whisked into his hand. Cinnamon. Perfect. He glanced sideways, amused at how her crown jewels—real ones—glittered in the projection light. "They're thriving on the ironvine mulch the Workers laid down last week."

"You swapped the compost recipe again," she guessed.

"Added pulverized basilisk shell," he admitted. "Trace calcium, helps spore density."

Elowen's smile went crooked. "You treat agriculture like alchemy."

"Same principle," he said. "Just friendlier explosions."

She laughed, a bright fountain of sound. Then her breath caught. A thousand black-chitin bodies marched in tight formation: Soldiers slotting shields together, Workers weaving between ranks carrying resin barrels. It was martial and balletic in equal measure.

Her hands flew to her cheeks. "Look! Look at their precision!"

She pointed like a girl spotting fireworks. "Row three—see how they swap positions without breaking stride?"

Rodion supplied numbers.

<Error margin: zero-point-two body-lengths average. Coordination achieved via pheromone string 14-L, reinforced with tactile signal loops.>

Elowen turned glowing eyes on Mikhailis. "Tactile loops?"

"High-frequency antenna taps," he explained. "Like drummers keeping tempo."

She returned to the vision. Onscreen, the front ranks wheeled outward, shields rotating until the formation resembled a spiraling nautilus.

"The Spiral Shield Nest!" She clapped in delight, nearly sloshing Mikhailis's cocoa. "Exactly like your sketches."

Mikhailis's chest warmed. She remembered every doodle. "Takes them eight seconds to pivot from march to spiral defense. Shorter than human cavalry can raise lances."

Elowen leaned in, voice awed. "Imagine our western wall garrison trained to mimic that twist, even imperfectly. Siege towers would stall."

"Assuming the garrison doesn't trip over each other," he teased.

She waved a dismissive hand. "Details."

Across the projection, a different squad split into V-shaped wedges, mandibles angled like scythes. They darted forward, then merged again, forming a zipper-toothed line.

"The Folding Fang formation!" Elowen crowed. "I thought it theoretical."

Mikhailis chuckled. "They adopted it overnight. Hive memory spreads quicker than gossip."

Elowen shot him a sideways smirk. "Speaking of gossip—wait till Lira sees this."

She mimed her maid's trademark eyebrow raise. "'My prince, am I expected to iron uniforms that change shape every eight seconds?'"

He barked a laugh. "If anyone can, it's Lira. She'll invent self-ironing fabric just to spite physics."

Rodion's voice carried a note of faint dry amusement.

<Proposition: assign Maid Lira to textile research. Probability of self-ironing fabric within three months: forty-nine percent.>

Elowen's shoulders shook with giggles. "Put it on the docket."

Mikhailis took another sip of cocoa. "We might bankrupt the silk guild, though."

She shrugged cheerfully. "We'll tax the savings and fund orphanages."

He eyed her sideways, fond. "Ever the benevolent schemer."

She shot him a quick wink—regal dignity completely gone—and turned back to the parade of ants. "But seriously, husband, I want a training manual." Her gaze tracked every elegant sweep of chitin. "If we can't copy their telepathy, we can still copy their pathways." She traced swirling lines in the air. "Color-tagged banners for infantry, maybe drums tuned to pheromone cadence."

Mikhailis raised his mug in salute. "Yes, General."

Rodion added helpfully—

<Recommend rhythmic battuta at one-hundred-twenty beats per minute for human approximation of pheromone signal cadence. Directional flag colors: indigo for converge, amber for disperse.>

Elowen's jaw dropped. "He's already drafting footnotes!"

Mikhailis grinned. "He likes to be useful. Don't you, tin-sir?"

Rodion's helm dipped one micron.

<Statement: Utility is preferable to ornamental idleness. Unlike certain consorts currently engaged in beverage ingestion.>

"Hey!" Mikhailis feigned a wound. "This beverage fuels genius."

Elowen elbowed him again, softer. "And sugar fuels my patience. Share."

He passed the mug; she took a dainty sip, then exaggerated a contented sigh. "Perfect."

She handed it back. Their fingers brushed, small sparks trading warmth.

Across the courtyard, Monkey's lens zoomed in. Onscreen, a sub-squad peeled off the main column. Workers in the middle unfurled silk spools, simultaneously weaving and laying a glimmering path across the tunnel floor.

Elowen's brows knitted. "What are they doing there?"

"Laying conductor thread," Mikhailis answered. "Mapping a new logistics lane. Rodion noticed bottlenecks."

Rodion confirmed.

<Projected efficiency increase: nine-point-eight percent travel speed for heavy loads.>

Elowen hummed, impressed. "You optimize faster than I can write decrees."

"That's the dream,"