NOVPUBMikhailis tugged the rumpled bedsheet over one ankle, then pushed it away again with an impatient twitch. The linen felt suddenly scratchy, as if woven from second-rate hemp instead of palace cotton. He shifted to one elbow, squinting at the pen twirling between his fingers. The polished brass barrel flashed in the lamplight—one-two-three revolutions, a clumsy skip, then the nib clicked harmlessly against his thumbnail.
Stop fidgeting, he scolded himself, but the pen kept spinning, gathering speed with every restless thought.
A muted breeze slipped through the balcony doors, cool and resin-scented from the towering pines that ringed Silvarion Thalor. It ruffled a stack of parchment lying near his hip. The sheets lifted, fluttered, and folded back down, almost accusing. Blue ink diagrams peered up at him: half-assembled manabatteries, preliminary sketches of mobile seed-harvesters, and in one margin a doodle of a slime girl wearing oversized goggles. He tried to tuck the papers beneath a pillow, then sighed and let them be. The kingdom never slept; why should his paperwork?
Rodion's voice lingered in the air like soft static. He always began with numbers, but tonight there was a lilt to his cadence—subtle, yet comforting, as though recounting a tale by hearth-fire.
<The orchard unions specifically praised the drip-spiral channels you sketched last month. One representative referred to them as, quote, "vines that never wither." Morale in those districts has climbed nine percent.>
Mikhailis snorted. "Nine percent? I was hoping for ten. Tell them the vines sing if they water them at sunrise. Maybe that'll push it."
<Noted. Adjusting future outreach propaganda with lyrical references.>
A thin chuckle escaped him. He stretched one leg until toes brushed the carved headboard, then let it fall again, foot thumping the mattress. "All right. What about the other side of the canopy? The salt-wind fields?"
<Six new windbreak towers completed, two ahead of schedule. Crop-loss due to gust erosion has decreased by forty-one sacks per quadrant. Local farmers suggest naming the towers after you.>
He grimaced, scratching the bridge of his nose. "No statues, no names. Give the credit to Elowen's rural architects."
The lamplight flickered as if nodding. Rodion responded without judgment.
<Acknowledged. Credit reassigned.>
Outside, a cicada chirped—a single lonely note puncturing the hush. Mikhailis tapped the pen against his ribs in slow rhythm, following the insect's cadence until it faded back into night.
"So… the Technomancer League," he said, rolling onto his side. His hair fell across one eye; he blew it away with a puff. "Do we know their delegation size yet? Or are they still hiding behind fancy letterheads and cog-wheel seals?"
<Manifest lists twelve envoys, six aides, and one private security detail. Their flagship air skiff is due in port four days prior to the summit.>
"Security detail?" He whistled under his breath. "They must think we keep dragons in the attic."
<To them, the Tree of Life may as well be a dragon, minus the wings and plus inestimable research value.>
The turn of phrase amused him. "Rodion, was that… sarcasm?"
<A functional metaphor. Please do not assign emotive subtext.>
He shrugged, cheeks dimpling. "Maybe I'm rubbing off on you." The pen spun faster, a blur above his stomach. He stared at the ceiling fan—it groaned on its pivot, casting fat shadows that circled the room like lazy hawks.
If they try any sabotage, he mused, Elowen will smile, Rodion will calculate, and I'll … improvise. The thought settled like a pebble in his gut—equal parts thrill and dread.
Rodion resumed his litany, the syllables lapping gently against the room's brittle stillness.
<Serewyn's trade envoy has requested an additional shipment of Tree-sap spheres for distillation. They propose a five-year exclusive clause on alchemy derivatives, in exchange for frost-ward logistics to shield our southern passes.>
Mikhailis rubbed his jaw. "Exclusive?" His brow furrowed, glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. "That's bold. I'm guessing they taste potential gold, but we risk a bottleneck."
<Projected risk acknowledged. Elowen intends to counteroffer tiered quotas instead of blanket exclusivity.>
He wagged the pen like a baton. "Good. Keep it balanced. We don't need another Velroth wailing about river nymphs." A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, remembering the council spat earlier. "Poor fellow might build a shrine to appease imaginary lantern spirits."
<He has already commissioned one.>
The laughter burst out, soft but genuine, earning a reproachful squeak from his bedframe. He rolled onto his back again, free hand combing through hair that had grown far too long to be court-proper. Strands clung to his knuckles, crackling with faint static.
<Shall I proceed to agricultural metrics?> Rodion prompted politely.
"Hit me," he said, eyes half-closing.
While the AI outlined honey yields, soil pH balances, and the minute triumphs of canal reinforcement, Mikhailis let his gaze roam the ceiling beams—old cedar polished by centuries, engraved with runic filigree. Tiny motes floated above, illuminated by the lamp's glow. He imagined them as miniature fireflies, performing a stately dance each time Rodion mentioned percentages.
<Bees introduced to the south orchard region have adapted quickly. Honey output has risen twenty-eight percent, with mana-infused varietals showing unique crystallization patterns. Predictive models suggest a new luxury export label dubbed "Amber Echo" could double profit margins.>
A small breathy sound slipped past Mikhailis's lips—part awe, part fatigue. "Amber Echo… catchy. Market it to the League; they like shiny labels."
<Noted.> Rodion's tone dipped into something like approval. <Additionally, we have begun reinforcing minor trade routes with alchemical stone. Structural resiliency exceeds projections by forty percent.>
"So we're fortifying," he murmured, staring at a crack in the plaster he'd never noticed. "Quietly. Subtle as moss on a wall."
<Precisely. Your philosophy: spies before sabers.>
His lips curved but didn't quite smile. Spies before sabers… and stories after wars. He pocketed the phrase for later, maybe to scribble onto a napkin.
Rodion's final report chimed to a close, and the room lapsed back to stillness. The fan overhead groaned once more, then fell into a smooth, rhythmic whirr that matched the faint percussion of his heartbeat.
He inhaled slowly, tasting cedar and lamp oil. "Good," he whispered, voice softened by the lull. "That's all good."
Silence hovered. Rodion did not cut the channel; perhaps he sensed the question lingering on Mikhailis's tongue, like a stone he had yet to turn.
Mikhailis blew out a slow exhale. "But this is the part I was actually waiting for."
A digital sigh—static soft—drifted through the speaker.
<You could have said so from the start.>
The door at the far side of the chamber slid open with a gentle hiss. Rodion's physical proxy waddled in: plush, barrel-chested, its fur-like fiber coat brushed to cloud-soft perfection. Reinforced plating peeked beneath the fluff where shoulders met neck. Six stubby fingers balanced a lacquered tray bearing three honey-soaked rice rolls, a clay pot of jasmine tea, and a single ripe star-fruit carved into petals.
Mikhailis pushed himself upright, pillow tumbling to the floor. "Perfect timing," he murmured, accepting the topmost rice roll. Sticky honey glistened on his fingers; he licked it off without shame. The plush-butler inclined its head, eyes gleaming pale blue, before stepping back to a polite distance near the bookcase.
Glasses settled onto his nose with a decisive click. Subtle runes along the rims glowed, AR interface blooming across his field of vision—soft navy panels filled with rows of data. Words and charts slid into position like actors taking the stage.
All right, he told himself. Showtime.
A faint smirk touched his mouth. "She always wins first."
He turned his head, pressing one cheek into the cool linen so the pillow muffled half his hearing. The subtle shift changed the room's acoustics: the fan's groan dropped an octave, the music-box hum melted into an underwater murmur, and Rodion's voice—crisp as cut glass—seemed to drift from somewhere just behind his eyes rather than the ceiling.
<Agricultural output has surpassed last year's benchmark by fifteen percent. Mana-soil yield multipliers in the South Orchards remain stable at stage-three saturation. Bee population gains have raised honey output by twenty-eight percent. Experimental seed strains—designations Dawn-Husk and Velvet-Top—are undergoing viability trials; projected germination window four weeks.>
Mikhailis blinked up at nothing, lashes brushing foggy glass. The numbers floated across his inner vision, neat gold lettering against lamp-shadowed rafters. He felt the data more than read it, each percentage a gentle tap on a mental abacus.
"Finally," he muttered around a breath that smelled faintly of jasmine and old ink. "The bees like our economy better than the council."
Rodion did not deign to comment on sarcasm; instead the AI rearranged the figures into a honeycomb diagram that shimmered, amused, above Mikhailis's sprawled knees.
<Additional note: orchard union spokesperson Jul Fennor requested permission to commission a commemorative mural of the 'Golden Swarm' initiative.>
Mikhailis snorted, rolling the pen between fingers until it clicked against bone. "Tell Jul to paint the Queen's portrait kissing a beehive. Velroth will faint on the spot."
Silence, then the faintest static—Rodion's version of a sigh.
"So we're quietly fortifying the kingdom without looking like we're fortifying. That's Elowen again, isn't it?"
<Correct.> No elaboration, but the approval was implicit.
