NOVPUB"Fantastic."
The feed pivoted back, following the party through a narrower passage choked with stalagmites. Dripping echoed. Water pooled ankle-deep, making each step a whisper-splash. A fat albino rat scurried across a rock shelf and vanished; somewhere distant something hissed.
Ravager signaled silence—two curled fingers—then pointed down. Goblins halted. He crouched, brushed pooled water. A bubble slipped upward, popped. Gas vent beneath. He produced a small torch stub, splashed wax on the water surface, pinned a shard of wrecked pew through it as a float. When the bubble rose again it hit the wax raft, displacing without noise. Trial done, he advanced, testing each step for gas pockets before motioning others.
Mikhailis tapped the air to enlarge the camera bubble. He watched how each follower mimicked the foot placement, how the mage at rear scrawled quick chalk marks on the wall at safe points. They're building a map. —something adventurers took years to master. And here goblins learned in weeks.
At corridor's end loomed a set of warped bronze doors. Carvings of robed figures lined the panels, their mouths open in eternal chant. Mist drifted through seams—cold, ink-black, swirling tight.
Rodion overlaid: <Boss antechamber reached. Hazard probability eighty-two percent.>
Mikhailis' hands squeezed the popcorn tin until metal squealed. Buttered kernels jumped.
The Ravager twisted a gauntleted fist in the air—halt. He extended one claw, touched the mist. Frost crept along his armor, retreated. He growled a word—low, steady. Goblin mages planted staffs, channeling faint warmth. Hobgoblins formed a shield wall. Scouts drew short swords, knuckles white on leather grips.
Mikhailis leaned so far forward his glasses nearly slid from his nose. "They're ready," he whispered, tone reverent.
Ravager placed a palm flat to the doors. Push? No. He traced a circle where two carved faces met, feeling for… hinges? Weakness? Perhaps mere ritual.
Then—
Knock. Knock.
Mikhailis startled. The feed froze mid-gesture. Mist hung like paint spattered in midair.
Another knock—real, wooden, echoing through his actual bedroom door.
Popcorn bounced off his chest as he jolted upright. "Oh no," he hissed.
<External interruption detected.> Rodion's voice cut the projection audio to a faint static hush.
Voices in the hallway. The slide of armor plates. The unmistakable sound of a tray placed on a side table. His mind flashed: Lira? Midnight tea?
The door-latch clicked open with the gentlest sigh, as though the solid oak had been convinced—rather than forced—to surrender its hold. Moon-light from the corridor traced a pale blade across the threshold, sliding over blueprints and half-disassembled gizmos scattered across the bedroom floor. It glittered once on a stray copper cog, then landed on a pair of abandoned Worker Ant tongs that had been left sticking up like an accusing fork.
But another voice replaced that expectation, low and matter-of-fact—nothing like Lira's composed lilt.
"Your Highness," she called, almost conversational, voice pitched just above a whisper. "Are you awake?"
Cerys. The Lone Wolf. No nonsense, no permission asked.
Cerys stepped inside on silent boots, habitually ducking her head so the crimson ponytail would not snag on the lintel. The glow-orbs embedded in her cuirass were dimmed, but even muted they threw soft amber halos that painted her angular cheekbones and the faint scar beside her lower lip. She closed the door with two fingers pressing the handle, not letting the latch catch loudly. A practiced soldier's entrance—no rattling armor, no clank of sword against greave.
She waited—a disciplined five-count—eyes scanning the room the way she would sweep forest shadows for bandits. On the reading desk, the little bronze butler-body of Rodion sat motionless, tray still balanced from its earlier delivery. At the first hint of intrusion its optic slit dimmed to a harmless pinprick; protocols had ordered it to freeze, a toy again.
Near the far wall, where skirting boards met plush carpet, a faint shuffling noise betrayed the Chimera Ant Workers' retreat. Two of them, each smaller than a teacup, huddled behind a stack of brass gears, holding a length of wire like burglars caught mid-heist. When Cerys's gaze flicked that way, they froze in statue mimicry—antennae pulled tight against carapace, multifaceted eyes dulling to matte black.
The knight's amber stare passed over them without pausing. Messy floors were normal in the Prince-Consort's workshop suite; tiny clockwork "pets" were, too. She let out the breath she had been holding and eased deeper into the room. Evening lanterns were unlit, forcing her to navigate by the faint pewter glow of inactive AR runes. A smell of buttered popcorn, cold solder, and the herbal tang of mana-ink hung in the air—domestic chaos wrapped in scholar musk.
The bed across the chamber looked like a dragon's hoard of linens: quilts half-kicked aside, an avalanche of worksheets sliding down the duvet, an empty tin tipped on its edge like a toppled goblet. In the middle, Mikhailis sprawled under a thick woolen blanket, one bare arm flung dramatically over his eyes. The gentle rise and fall of his chest suggested sleep, but the rhythm struck Cerys as too deliberate—almost rehearsed.
Her steps slowed; instinct sharpened. The man who could fall asleep atop a workbench still surrounded by sparking capacitors was notorious for cat-napping, but tonight the bed was a theatre stage: popcorn sprinkled like prop snow, pen clutched in one loose fist, glasses perched suspiciously straight near his temple instead of tossed aside. She narrowed her gaze, noting the faint tension in his shoulders beneath the blanket.
The silver tray she carried—her pretext for being here—held a heavy ceramic mug steaming with honey-root infusion, plus a small plate of lemon shortbread. Lira had ordered the late snack for the prince, but a last-minute council draft had detained the maid elsewhere. Cerys, happening by the kitchens, had offered to deliver it. She told herself that curiosity alone moved her feet, not the memory of Mikhailis's laugh echoing through the sparring grounds earlier that afternoon.
She placed the tray on a low side cabinet with the softest clink. No response from the bed.
One measured step toward him, then another.
The sleeve of her tunic brushed a loose blueprint; the parchment skated away on a whisper. Still no twitch from the sleeper. Cerys felt a smile threaten—just at the corner of her mouth—and tamped it down. She crouched, tugging the fallen pages into a neat pile, muttering at the line-drawings of mana-conduits as though scolding lazy recruits.
Behind her, the two Worker Ants poked heads around a gear to watch. Upon noticing her back turned, they scampered under the wardrobe, dragging wires with them; one squeaked in alarm when the cable snagged, earning a sharp click from the other to hurry. By the time Cerys stood, the insects were gone, and the bronze butler had not moved a micron. A faint hum under the bedframe—doubtless hidden Scarabs powering down—proved the entire secret menagerie had ducked for cover the instant an unfamiliar human entered.
Cerys straightened to her full height, cracked a small joint in her neck, then padded to the bedside. She hovered.
The blanket covered everything but a mess of inky hair and the pale curve of his cheek. Even from here she could see faint specks of popcorn salt on his lips. One stray kernel balanced on his collarbone, gently rising and falling, a ridiculous badge of gluttony.
"Your Highness," she repeated more softly, leaning closer. "If you are awake, now would be a good time to say so."
The kernel jerked slightly—just enough to betray a swallowed laugh? Or perhaps the rhythm of his breathing skipped, barely. She narrowed her eyes, reached down, and plucked the popcorn piece with thumb and forefinger. She held it where he could smell the stale butter under his nose. Nothing.
Stubborn, aren't we?
A page on the blanket shifted, flipped of its own accord. Most folks would blame a breeze, but there were no windows open; the mechanical fan across the room turned too slowly to stir that sheet. Pages didn't simply flutter without cause. Cerys's suspicion sharpened.
She leaned still closer, strands of red hair sliding off her shoulder to tickle his ear. "Mess on your tables," she said quietly, almost teasing. "Instruments still humming. And you, asleep in the middle of it all? Almost believable."
No answer—though a patch of color crept up his exposed neck. Cerys snorted under her breath, part amusement, part rare tenderness. Then her eyes flicked to the shadows beneath the shelves where miniature servo-arms hid; she'd fought side-by-side with Rodion often enough to sense his network powering down. He protected the secret well.
She exhaled once, deliberately loud. "Fine. Stay 'asleep.' But know this, Prince: the world keeps moving even when you play dead."
Still no response.
Her breath brushed the edge of his jaw, and the pulse there jumped—only once—before settling.
Sudden mischief danced behind Cerys's eyes. She reached for the mug she'd brought, scooped a dollop of amber honey foam with her finger, and poised it an inch above his lips. A silent promise of sticky retribution. Then she reconsidered. How many times had she resented the barracks pranksters for childish tricks? She sighed, wiped the honey on the rim instead.
Perhaps something subtler.
She brushed the back of her glove across his brow—warm; definitely awake. She bent low, lips near his ear. "Sleeping beauty," she whispered, tone half-warning, half-caress. "If you truly need rest, say the word."
Only the steady breathing answered.
Cerys pulled back, eyes softening against her will. She remembered the first time she'd met him—breezing through the training yard with a stack of scrolls and carefree grin, throwing compliments at recruits like confetti. She'd thought him a fool. Then at that moment of truth, he saved her. At their journey towards Serewyn, she was saved by him. And she offered her heart and body to him. 𝓃𝓸𝓋𝓅𝓊𝒷.𝓬𝓸𝓂
That memory hummed under her skin even now.
She touched her own lips, smirked, and caught her reflection faintly in the glassy surface of the projection rune on his wall. The flicker of torchlight from the AR feed still active cast twin shadows, making her appear like a phantom leaning over him.
Cerys let out a small breath, the smirk fading. He worries—she could read the tension coiled beneath his theater of relaxation. The council debates, the secret armies, the dungeons—each thread thicker than a knight's oath. Sleep might not come easy no matter how he pretended.
She reached down, tugged the blanket higher under his chin with soldier-quick efficiency, an instinctual caretaking gesture she hadn't allowed herself in years.
"Rest then, mahkilik," she murmured in her dialect—a mountain term for 'clever fox.' "We'll guard your woods."
Still no flinch, but she felt the faintest relaxation ripple under her hand.
Unable to help herself, she leaned in one final time, placing a kiss, feather-soft, to the corner of his mouth—no mischief now, only silent promise. "Good night."
She straightened, adjusted the sword belt she'd removed earlier, reclaimed the tray, and set the mug within reach on the nightstand. Her gaze lingered a heartbeat more, drinking in the ridiculous tousle of his hair and the faint popcorn smell. But just as she began to turn, a subtle crease in the scattered blueprints caught her eye—too orderly to be natural, like something brushed aside deliberately. The subtle hum of an inactive AR feed hung in the air, an interface waiting for a voice command. The floor wasn't perfectly messy either; stray bolts and parchment didn't lie in true chaos, but in the precise mess of someone hiding haste.
Her fingers flexed at her side, a hint of suspicion shadowing her gaze. Cerys leaned closer, her voice low, almost teasing. "Your Highness… are you truly asleep?"
Nothing. No stir, no sound. But now she saw it—his chest rose too evenly, his lashes didn't quite settle in the limp softness of true sleep.
Mikhailis's heartbeat quickened, his mind racing. Did she leave? Is she still here? He strained his ears, catching only the faint whisper of her breath, the rustle of her cloak. Silence stretched thin, an invisible thread threatening to snap.
Then her voice returned, softer yet more playful, carrying a hint of challenge. "I will do something strange if you don't wake up now."
He froze. Breath held. Muscles taut beneath the blanket. But before he could decide—lips soft as velvet touched his. Gentle, lingering—warmth, a heartbeat captured. His chest squeezed tight, pulse roaring like a war drum in his ears.
