CHAPTER 623: THE PEACE AS OUTCOME

Mikhailis peeled his cheek from the table with a faint, tacky pop. The surface still thrummed with residual mana, warm enough to fog the edge of his vision. He blinked hard. First came blurred light—soft blues, mossy greens—then the outlines of glass tanks, copper coils, and that ever-present tangle of hummingbird-thin conduit that wove through every ceiling beam like a spiderweb of living veins.

The lab smelled of hot crystal and dried thyme. Someone—probably himself—had left a herb sachet under a cooling vent "for ambience." Now it perfumed the whole chamber with sleepy comfort. He inhaled once, slowly, feeling the dust of realization gather behind his eyes.

A second later the room’s central holoscreen brightened, bright white digits hovering in the half-dark.

01:03 AM.

Rodion’s voice slid into being, crisp and polite as always.

Current time: 01:03 AM. You’ve been unconscious for approximately three hours and thirteen minutes. Not that I’m judging.

Mikhailis massaged the bridge of his nose. "Elowen’s going to kill me," he muttered, and immediately pictured his wife’s deceptively calm smile—one she wore right before breaking a general’s morale with three sentences. He looked instinctively toward the ceiling, as though he might see through oak planks to the royal chamber above.

The lab monitors flickered, each screen halfway between night-mode indigo and neon lime. On one panel a wireframe of the Verdant Canopy glowed, leyline currents pulsing like slow lightning beneath stylised roots. Another showed a swarm of dots—chimera-ant scouts—moving in tidy spirals along the kingdom’s northern border. Statistical overlays claimed 80 percent territory mapping complete. A drowsy sense of pride tugged at him.

He reached out, brushing fingertips across a rotating model of dungeon instability. The projection rippled under his touch, recalculating. Numbers jumped; threat markers fell from crimson to amber. "Huh... not bad for a nap-hardened genius."

He let out a shaky laugh, half relief, half disbelief that Rodion hadn’t triggered the root-shaker alarm while he slept.

Should’ve fallen asleep in the lab more often, he mused, rolling his shoulders until vertebrae crackled in protest.

That was when a sliver of silver caught his peripheral vision.

He froze, breath half-drawn. Beyond the lab bench, the couch lurked in a pocket of dim light—a friendly shadow where he’d dozed many times himself. Now a spill of moon-pale hair cascaded over its armrest.

Slow steps carried him around the table. His boots barely disturbed the hush. With every pace his heart nudged higher, until it hovered somewhere behind his throat.

Queen Elowen. Regal, poised even in battle briefings, now crumpled onto the cushions like a garden cat that had found the one sunny patch left after twilight. A slender arm draped around the pillow. One bare foot peeked from beneath silk, toes curling every few breaths as if chasing a dream.

She looked impossibly young when she slept. Gone were the measured frowns, the diplomatic half-smiles, the crown-straight spine. Remnants of the day—courtly braids loosened, a stray ink smudge on her wrist—made her human, painfully so, and something in his chest twisted.

You came down here... just to wait? he wondered, the thought ringing oddly loud in his skull.

He cleared his throat—quietly. "Rodion, go into silent mode."

Already did. Don’t you trust me anymore?

He winced at the volume, even though Rodion’s voice was little more than a vibration in his earpiece. "Just say yes, damn it."

Yes. Damn it.

Silence reclaimed the room.

Across from the couch, the tea automaton blinked amber eyes. Its brass fingers paused mid-wipe, polishing cup rims with the precision of a monk ringing prayer bells. Mikhailis raised one brow. "Hey, give me the good jasmine."

A tiny whistle sounded. The machine scooped polished leaves into a ceramic pot shaped like a squat turtle. Vapour plumed, catching shard-light from crystals above and painting the lab with a thin haze.

Steam curled against his face as he accepted the cup. The heat bit his fingertips, a welcome sting. He sipped—sweet, grassy, just enough bite. Muscles unclenched.

Blanket, he remembered. He shuffled to a storage alcove and tugged at a stack. The woven fabric smelled faintly of cedar and thyme. Perfect.

Returning to the couch took three steps—and one long pause. From this angle he saw details he’d missed: the delicate quiver of her lashes, the minuscule furrow between her brows that never vanished even in rest, as though some undying part of her stayed alert to the kingdom’s weight.

His throat tightened.

Should I just cover her? Let her rest? The lab was climate-controlled; she’d be fine. Yet the slight slump of her shoulders looked uncomfortable. She’d wake with an ache and pretend it was nothing. Tomorrow’s councils would drag and she’d pay in quiet sighs he alone noticed.

He glanced toward the narrow staircase—ten short steps to their private room. Cozy bed. Warmer blankets. Far from drafty vents.

No. Better to bring her back up. She hates waking with a sore neck.

He set the tea on a side cart, balanced the blanket over one arm, then crouched. His hands slid beneath her knees and shoulders. She was lighter than she looked; or perhaps adrenaline made him stronger.

The couch creaked softly. Elowen murmured, eyelids fluttering like moth wings. Her fingers loosened on the pillow before finding the lapel of his coat instead. He stilled, breath held.

A drowsy sigh. Then calm again.

One smooth motion—he lifted.

Her head lolled against his chest, breath warm through his shirt. He straightened slowly, spine protesting after hours bent over schematics.

Halfway to the staircase a pale hand twitched against his collar. Her eyelids lifted barely a finger’s width—just enough for silver irises to glimmer in the lab’s glow.

"...You’re getting quite accustomed to letting me kill time in your lab, aren’t you?" Her voice was soft, blurred at the edges like ink in rain.

A smile spread before he could stop it. "You make sleeping in a research lab look royal."

Her lips curved—half grin, half yawn—and the faint citrus scent of her hair drifted up to meet the jasmine on his breath. A few strands brushed his chin, feather-light, sparking little pinpricks of warmth along his jaw.

"Mmm." Her nose wrinkled as she nuzzled closer, the regal façade slipping like a silk cloak hitting the floor. "I don’t want to sleep alone..."

That voice—usually a bell of command in council halls—now sounded like a flute half-asleep on a windowsill. He felt something inside him loosen.

He adjusted his grip, pulling her just a touch tighter against his chest. The motion earned him a sleepy hum of approval, almost a purr. Steady, Mik. One mis-step on the stairs and he’d never live it down—queen or not, Elowen would lecture him for weeks if he dropped the monarch of Silvarion Thalor onto a steel tread.

"You could’ve just dragged me back upstairs, you know." His whisper slipped out more teasing than intended as he began the climb. The staircase was barely wide enough for his shoulders; every other step creaked like an old storyteller clearing its throat.

She shifted, breath brushing the hollow of his throat. "Too heavy," she murmured, words slurring together the way wine does with water. Then, as if to prove a point, she tightened her fingers around the fabric of his coat and tucked her head beneath his chin.

A grin tugged at his mouth. It felt ridiculous and perfect. Jasmine, ink, moonlight, he catalogued automatically—his mind never stopped collecting data, even about moments it ought to simply feel. Weight distribution: slight. Heart rate: calm. He nearly whispered the numbers to Rodion out of habit but caught himself. Some calculations were meant to be kept private.

Step after careful step, he passed shelves lined with jars of glow-mites and dormant runestones. Their weak light glittered over Elowen’s silver hair, turning it to quicksilver ribbons. He reached the landing and nudged the door open with his elbow. The chamber greeted them with hush and shadow. Only a single prism crystal burned low on the far wall, casting opal halos across the ceiling.

He laid her on the bed with the gentleness of placing a crown on glass, yet her fingers clung until the very last moment. When they finally slipped free, she made a tiny unhappy sound. He whispered apologies no one but the darkness heard.

Blanket in hand, he tucked one edge under her shoulder, smoothing it down as though sealing a letter. She turned instinctively, drawing the cover up to her chin. He lingered, brushing a stray lock behind her ear. The tips were cool—always a sign she’d worked too long before resting.

A soft breath escaped her. He watched, counting the rise and fall of her chest. Even, steady, just as he liked his readings to be. One more precaution, he decided, leaning down. His lips found her forehead—a warm, feather-light press that tasted faintly of sleep and lavender. She released a sigh so content it made the torches seem louder.

At once her breathing deepened, slipping into a rhythm slower than his own. It reminded him of waves lapping under the canopy bridges—reliable, soothing, hiding dangerous currents beneath.

Mikhailis straightened but didn’t move away. For a beat, he simply let the stillness settle. He could have stood there all night.