The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 380 : The Weight of Trust

"Trust me," Mikhailis chuckled softly, leaping effortlessly over a pile of splintered wooden beams that blocked their path. He landed lightly, feet barely stirring the dust beneath him. "I'll remind you later, when you've got your strength back."

"Oh, joy," she whispered dryly, though the slight curve of her lips betrayed the fact that she didn't entirely hate the idea.

Beside her, Cerys remained silent, her usual stoicism firmly in place. Yet, despite her efforts to maintain composure, he felt her grip on his shoulder tighten slightly with each swift movement he made. Her breath came in measured, controlled bursts—carefully hiding any indication of pain—but Mikhailis was no fool. He could sense the tension in her muscles, feel the tremors that occasionally coursed through her when they navigated rough terrain.

"Still hanging in there, Lone Wolf?" he asked softly, shifting his head slightly so he could catch a glimpse of her face from the corner of his eye. Her usually unyielding gaze was clouded, the harshness softened by fatigue, pain, and the lingering remnants of shock from the sudden battle and escape.

She hesitated, her breath catching briefly before she exhaled slowly. "I've been worse," she finally admitted, her voice a careful, controlled whisper. "Though never carried quite like this."

"Consider it an upgrade in your transportation standards," he teased, attempting to lighten her mood. "Next time, you'll probably demand it."

A quiet sigh slipped from her lips, a rare moment of vulnerability betraying just how weary she truly was. "You're lucky I respect your title enough not to slap you for that."

"Lucky indeed," he responded with a smirk, though it softened quickly. He felt a strange pang of tenderness toward her at that moment—this fierce, capable warrior reduced by circumstance to accepting help she'd normally scorn. It spoke volumes of her trust, even if begrudgingly given.

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He felt a gentle touch on his neck—a careful, soft pat from Lira. Turning his head slightly, he met her calm, steady gaze, the faintest of smiles playing on her elegant features despite the circumstances. Even dirt-streaked, injured, and carried so unceremoniously, Lira somehow retained her grace and poise, as though she'd trained for precisely this sort of absurd emergency.

"You truly have a habit of making the impossible look ridiculous, my Lord," she said with exaggerated patience, though the affectionate amusement beneath was unmistakable.

"Wouldn't be me otherwise," he replied with a soft laugh, feeling strangely energized despite the seriousness of their situation. His heart was racing—not from exhaustion, nor even entirely from adrenaline—but from the absurd thrill of what he was doing. This reckless, impossible act of heroics was the sort of thing he'd only dreamed of during long nights spent lost in anime and idle fantasy back home in Ruslania. Yet here he was, actually living it, feeling it, breathing in a new reality that seemed both utterly insane and perfectly fitting.

He darted around another collapsed building, flames roaring hungrily within its charred interior. The heat seared the air around them, briefly stealing the breath from his lungs, but he didn't falter. His steps were firm, confident, instinctive—as though guided by something beyond his own understanding. The mist thrummed within him, whispering encouragements he couldn't quite decipher but felt deep in his bones.

Vyrelda groaned softly, breaking the brief silence as she shifted restlessly against him. Her voice, though laced with annoyance, sounded softer than usual, almost vulnerable. "You do realize… no one is ever going to believe this, right?"

He laughed quietly, his chest vibrating softly beneath Rhea's cheek. "Then we'll just have to keep it between us," he teased lightly, though his tone carried an undercurrent of seriousness. "I'd hate to damage my reputation as a carefree prince who'd rather talk to insects and flirt than do something actually useful."

She huffed softly, clearly annoyed at the notion that she was involved in something worth secrecy, yet there was a reluctant fondness beneath her irritation. "You're insufferable."

"And you adore me for it," he countered smoothly, earning himself another scowl.

"Don't flatter yourself," she muttered darkly, though the tension in her voice eased somewhat, and he could swear he caught a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips before she quickly buried it.

They moved in silence for several moments, the chaos around them providing the only soundtrack—distant shouts, crackling flames, collapsing stone. Each passing second only reinforced how fortunate they were to have survived at all, let alone to be racing away from danger with seemingly impossible ease. Mikhailis knew, logically, that this newfound strength and agility should have terrified him. Yet strangely, it felt oddly comforting, familiar even, as though the mist had always been there, waiting patiently for him to recognize its presence.

He shifted his focus ahead, scanning the horizon for any sign of their destination. His pulse quickened with a hint of anxiety—not for his own safety, but for those he carried. Despite his casual teasing, he knew their injuries were severe enough to require immediate attention. The sooner they found shelter, the better.

"Are we… almost there?" Rhea whispered faintly, her voice weaker than before, breaking slightly at the edges.

"Not much farther," he promised softly, glancing down at her briefly. Concern flickered in his eyes, though he masked it quickly behind a gentle smile. "Just hold on a little longer."

She nodded weakly, eyes slipping shut as exhaustion threatened to claim her. "You're lucky… I trust you," she murmured drowsily, her grip loosening slightly, though she didn't let go entirely.

His heart squeezed painfully in his chest, her quiet trust stirring emotions he hadn't expected—protectiveness, tenderness, determination. He tightened his hold gently, wordlessly promising to keep her safe, no matter the cost.

"Almost there," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else, eyes fixed resolutely ahead as his feet quickened their pace.

He could feel the strange mist surging through him once more, pushing him faster, further. The ruins blurred past, the city falling away into nothing more than distant shapes and shadows as he focused solely on their survival, their destination.

He didn't slow until he saw it—their safe house.

_____

It was an old watchtower, built from weathered stone and reinforced with sturdy steel beams, standing defiantly amid the burning wreckage that surrounded it. Its silhouette, dark and stubborn, loomed tall in stark contrast to the chaos spreading through the streets. The upper floors had mostly collapsed, shattered and scorched by past conflicts, but the lower levels remained intact—solid, quiet, and steadfast.

Structurally sound. Isolated. Secure.

Perfect.

Mikhailis didn't waste another moment. He sprinted towards it, his breath steady despite the exertion. Each step felt heavier now, the extraordinary rush of strength and energy beginning to fade, replaced by an insistent ache spreading through his muscles. The mist's whispers softened into murmurs, leaving behind only echoes of its unnatural vigor.

He reached the heavy wooden door, its surface splintered and charred from years of neglect and recent chaos. Without hesitation, he planted a solid kick right in its center. The hinges screeched in protest before the door swung inward violently, slamming into the wall behind it with a deafening crash. Dust billowed into the air, dancing briefly in the dim moonlight filtering through the cracked ceiling before settling in a gentle haze.

"Home sweet home," Mikhailis joked under his breath, though the quip lacked his usual easy charm. His voice was rougher now, burdened by fatigue and barely masked worry.

Carefully, he stepped inside, eyes adjusting swiftly to the shadows. The watchtower interior smelled faintly of mildew and ancient stone, tinged with the sharp metallic scent of old weaponry long forgotten. In the center of the wide room, scattered pieces of cloth and old blankets lay abandoned alongside dried grasses and discarded straw sacks, remnants of past occupants. It wasn't luxurious, but for tonight, it was more than sufficient.

He knelt gently, carefully easing his companions off his shoulders and arms one by one. He set Rhea down first, her face pale, her breathing shallow but steady. She winced slightly, a quiet moan escaping her lips as she settled onto the bedding.

"You could've… been gentler," she whispered weakly, though her tone held no real complaint. Her eyes fluttered open, gaze meeting his briefly, filled with gratitude mixed with her stubborn pride.

"You complain now?" Mikhailis teased softly, forcing a small grin despite his own growing exhaustion. "After all that, you pick this moment?"

She managed a ghost of a smile, eyelids drifting shut again as she sank deeper into the makeshift bedding.

Next, he lowered Cerys carefully to the ground. The Lone Wolf's fierce determination flickered momentarily across her features, her lips pressed into a thin, tense line. She didn't say a word, but he saw the flash of pain she tried desperately to conceal as she shifted her wounded arm.

"Easy," he murmured gently, placing a reassuring hand briefly on her shoulder. "Save your strength for glaring at me later, when you're fully recovered."

Her reply was a soft huff, but he caught the subtle easing of tension in her posture as she surrendered slightly to the fatigue, closing her eyes briefly in silent acknowledgment.

Then, with careful precision, he helped Lira onto the bedding. Ever composed, she maintained an air of calm even now, though her breaths came slower, measured, betraying the effort she put forth simply to remain upright. As Mikhailis gently lowered her down, she looked up at him, her dark eyes holding quiet reassurance.

"My Lord," she whispered softly, touching his arm briefly, "you have done more than enough."

"Not nearly," he replied quietly, a touch of seriousness beneath his usual carefree mask. "We'll talk about 'enough' when you're fully healed and bossing me around again."

She laughed faintly, eyes twinkling momentarily despite her evident pain. "Then hurry, please."

Finally, he set Vyrelda onto the rough bedding, her scowl fierce despite the obvious exhaustion clouding her gaze. She grumbled irritably under her breath, refusing to meet his eyes.

"You're welcome," he teased softly, anticipating her protest.

She shot him a half-hearted glare, too drained to properly argue. "Don't expect thanks for carrying me around like a helpless kitten."

"I'd never dare dream of it,"