The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 379 : Through Smoke and Ruin

Mikhailis didn't think. He didn't hesitate.

The moment the masked figures disappeared into the swirling smoke, he turned swiftly, eyes immediately searching for his injured companions. The scene before him was grim, the aftermath of their battle written plainly across their faces and bodies. Rhea leaned heavily against a crumbling wall, her leg trembling as blood soaked steadily through the makeshift bandage they'd hastily tied around her thigh. Cerys stood rigidly nearby, a fresh bruise blossoming darkly along her jaw, one hand pressed tightly to a wound on her side. Her stoic expression barely concealed the pain beneath.

Lira's usually pristine dress hung in tatters, smeared with soot and dirt, revealing scrapes and bruises across her elegant arms and shoulders. She was breathing hard, one hand gripping the hilt of her dagger so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. Even now, her composure was remarkable, eyes clear but edged with fatigue. Vyrelda, meanwhile, glared furiously at nothing in particular, fingers twitching restlessly at her side as blood trickled slowly down from a shallow cut along her temple.

Mikhailis felt his chest tighten at the sight. A wave of guilt hit him—these women were suffering because of a battle he'd led them into, consequences born from his own decisions. Yet he couldn't afford to dwell on that guilt now, not when every second mattered.

His body thrummed with a strange new power, a force foreign yet oddly comforting. It surged and twisted through his veins, a feeling akin to adrenaline, but sharper—far more potent. He could sense it distinctly, mixing seamlessly with the bond he shared with Rodion and the Chimera Ant Queen. This mist—this alien power—now flowed in tandem with him, whispering encouragements directly into his bones. It felt like a surge of lightning, filling him with strength, but a small voice inside whispered caution: Nothing is ever given freely.

He pushed that voice away, determination flooding him anew. His friends—his allies—needed him now, not later. He would pay whatever price demanded, later. Right now, all that mattered was getting them out alive.

Moving with a confidence he'd never fully known before, he reached out and gripped Cerys first, looping an arm securely around her waist. He expected resistance from the proud knight, but the normally stoic Lone Wolf simply exhaled sharply, eyes widening slightly as she realized how effortlessly he'd lifted her from the ground.

"What—?" she began, confusion flashing briefly across her face.

But before she could finish, Mikhailis had already turned, sweeping Lira gently off her feet with surprising ease. Her expression shifted quickly from startled to mildly impressed, a small quirk of her lips betraying the surprise beneath her usual elegance.

"Your Highness, is this really the time for heroics?" she murmured softly, though there was no mistaking the relief shimmering in her dark eyes.

"Would you prefer I left you behind?" he replied, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the seriousness of the moment. "Sorry, Lira. I'm not good at abandoning pretty girls in distress."

She managed a weak scoff, shaking her head lightly. "Just this once, I'll allow it."

Nearby, Rhea had been watching the spectacle unfold with half-hearted disbelief. As he turned to her, she instinctively moved back, eyebrows knitting into a scowl.

"Don't even think about—" she began, but her protest was cut short as Mikhailis scooped her easily into his other arm. Her cheeks flushed bright crimson from either embarrassment or frustration—probably both—as she clung tightly to his neck.

"I'm perfectly capable of walking," she muttered weakly, voice barely more than a whisper, though the tremble in her injured leg betrayed the truth of her claim.

"Sure you are," he teased gently, meeting her defiant gaze with a soft smile. "But humor me this once, alright?"

Her eyes narrowed, annoyance clear, yet she stayed silent, accepting the help with a reluctant sigh.

Lastly, he faced Vyrelda, whose eyes widened in alarm, backing away as if sensing exactly what he planned to do.

"No. Absolutely not," she snapped, her voice edged with panic despite her usual bravado. "You wouldn't dare—"

Mikhailis didn't pause to argue, swiftly shifting the others slightly to free one arm. With barely an effort, he snatched Vyrelda around the waist, hauling her unceremoniously upwards. She let out a startled yelp, flailing briefly before realizing she wasn't falling, her pride clearly wounded more than her body.

"I hate you," she growled, glaring daggers at him even as she settled begrudgingly into his grip.

He flashed her a cocky grin, shrugging lightly despite carrying the weight of four people. "I'll accept your heartfelt gratitude later."

"You're insane," she muttered darkly, finally letting herself relax against his hold, exhaustion overtaking defiance. Yet a spark of reluctant admiration flickered in her eyes—something she'd deny furiously if ever confronted about it later.

Feeling the strange mist-borne strength fully now, he adjusted his grip, surprised by how easy it was to balance their collective weight. They felt nearly weightless to him, almost as if invisible hands were guiding his movements, ensuring he didn't falter. It was both thrilling and deeply unsettling, but there was no time to question it further.

Mikhailis took off running.

The ruins of the city blurred past as he sprinted through smoke-filled alleys and crumbling streets. Buildings lay collapsed and burning, debris strewn chaotically across their path. Yet, every obstacle seemed trivial now, merely inconveniences rather than true impediments. His feet found secure footholds where there should have been none, and his reactions were faster than he'd ever known possible. Fire and dust clouded his vision, but he moved with the precision of someone who knew every inch of this shattered landscape by heart.

"Your Highness—" Cerys gasped softly, her voice tinged with reluctant awe as she clung firmly onto his shoulder. Her usually cool demeanor was slipping, replaced by disbelief at what she was experiencing firsthand.

"Is now really the moment to question my royal decisions?" he quipped lightly, voice slightly strained with effort, though not from physical exertion. It was the intense concentration required to control the overwhelming mist that proved most taxing. "Just enjoy the ride while it lasts."

Lira laughed softly, despite her exhaustion, leaning into him slightly. "I didn't know you were such an adept porter."

"You learn something new every day," he answered dryly, vaulting over a fallen beam without missing a beat. His heart pounded fiercely, though whether from adrenaline or this newfound power, he couldn't tell.

Even Rhea managed a quiet chuckle, tightening her grip around his neck. "Next time, let's find a less destructive method of travel," she muttered, wincing slightly as her injured leg shifted against his arm.

"No promises," he retorted lightly, though a pang of concern flickered in his chest. She was pale, clearly struggling to stay conscious. They needed shelter quickly.

As he raced onward, Vyrelda continued to shoot annoyed glances his way, grumbling irritably beneath her breath. "Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. Since when did princes become pack mules?" she growled, though her voice betrayed relief despite her complaints.

Mikhailis grinned broadly, offering her a mocking wink as they cleared another pile of rubble. "Don't complain too loudly, Vyrelda. I might accidentally drop you."

She glowered fiercely, though exhaustion dulled the effect somewhat. "Do it, and I'll haunt your dreams forever," she threatened weakly.

"Tempting," he teased back, hoping humor would distract them all from the grim reality surrounding them.

The flames grew higher, licking hungrily at the remnants of the once-beautiful city. But Mikhailis felt no heat, no fatigue—only a relentless, alien strength propelling him forward. His heart was a steady drumbeat, synchronized perfectly with the whispers of mist guiding his every step.

Yet even as confidence surged, a quiet voice whispered doubts at the back of his mind.

What is this power, really? And what will it cost me later?

He clenched his jaw, shaking off the uncertainty. That was a question for another time. Right now, he had only one goal: protect those he cared about, no matter the consequences.

Vyrelda groaned as she clung onto his arm, her usually sharp eyes hazy with exhaustion. "I swear… if you drop me… I'll kill you."

"Bold words for someone who can't even stand," Mikhailis shot back, vaulting smoothly over a fallen statue, landing gracefully despite the weight of four grown women balanced precariously on his arms and shoulders.

"I'd stand just fine if you weren't carrying me like a sack of potatoes," Vyrelda retorted sharply, her voice muffled slightly as she grumbled against his shoulder. Her arms were folded in stubborn defiance, though she didn't seem inclined to actually move from her current position. Exhaustion clearly outweighed pride, even if she'd never openly admit it.

"I prefer to think of you more as a noble sack of potatoes," Mikhailis said lightly, a playful grin tugging at his lips despite the chaotic destruction surrounding them. The burning city illuminated his expression in brief flickers of orange and red, casting dancing shadows across his dirt-smudged face. "You know, the high-quality kind—the ones merchants would charge extra for."

A weak snort came from Rhea, whose fingers clutched tightly onto the fabric of his coat, knuckles white from the effort of hanging on. Her face, pale and sweat-slicked from pain and exertion, was pressed lightly against his chest, hiding her expression from him—but the subtle vibration of her quiet laughter betrayed her amusement, despite everything.

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"I hate that I'm too tired to argue," she murmured, voice quiet, almost inaudible beneath the cacophony of distant explosions and collapsing structures. Yet the softness of her tone held something warm beneath the weary resignation, a note of reluctant fondness.

"Trust me,"