MPNS Ch 45

Chapter 45

Early that morning, Yullan sought out Jikari Griff. In his usual flat, dismissive tone, he dropped the order:

“Tell the bird‑brat I want to see him.”

“And why are you telling me this? I don’t know where the Griff Marquis is either.”

Lucian, remembering how Yullan had barged into his laboratory without so much as knocking, answered curtly, frowning. The sunlight pouring in already made his light‑sensitive eyes nearly useless, and he stumbled into things as he moved.

Yullan, watching without comment, left the lab in silence. He’d said the words; Lucian would find Jikari and send him along, one way or another. Despite Lucian’s lack of answer, Yullan assumed it would be done.

The fledgling was too green, and it had been days since he’d shown even a feather. Left unchecked, he would certainly cause trouble. Jikari hadn’t even turned up at the training hall. Who knew what mischief he might already be involved in?

The Subjugation Tournament drew near. On some whim, Jikari might forget human speech entirely and fly south with migratory birds.

Indeed, Jikari had often vanished come autumn, despite not being a migratory bird at all — winging away to the south with the flocks, as if his hawk’s instincts compelled him. Absurd behavior, given he was a raptor.

The other three Heads had grown prone to losing their reason the longer they stayed in human form, but Jikari was different.

Living almost constantly as a hawk, his sense of humanity eroded, until sometimes he nearly forgot he had ever been human. Usually, Yullan cared little whether he nested or mated with the birds, but this year it was different. Scouts in the air were vital to the coming tournament, and Jikari was indispensable.

Yullan had meant to instruct him to spend at least a day in three as a man — to retain his human reason. But the hawk had not been seen at all, even at dawn this morning.

Each year, come tournament season, the Four Heads gathered in the capital, answered the king’s summons, and attended court banquets. At first, it had been a mark of pride, proof of loyalty. But now those gatherings were nothing more than arenas for politics and social combat.

Thus even those lords not based in the capital, unlike Raymon, were forced to reside in the palace.

Jikari endured this worst of all. His wild instincts balked at the crowded capital and its throngs of people. So whenever forced into residence, he stayed hawk‑form almost constantly.

Normally, Yullan would have let him be, regardless of his duties. But this year’s air was different. His predator’s sense told him so. Something in this tournament would not be as before.

The sudden invasion of monsters into the capital, the new prophecy recently pronounced — these confirmed the omen. Taken together — hawk‑sense and prophetic decree — Yullan mistrusted the coming days.

So, after his dawn drills at the training yard, he had gone looking for Jikari. But everywhere he went, nothing. Each empty place only sharpened his ire.

When he heard that the hawk had recently been spotted in the forest near the Prince’s Palace, he went there as last resort.

From the brush came the rustle of movement, and a sound — soft, unmistakably a human moan.

Yullan had never heard such sounds from him before, but at once knew whose they were.

Heat exploded through him. The same surging fury as when the Black Dragon’s madness pressed to the surface — anger rising from his gut to his crown in a flash.

Without thought, he stalked toward the bushes. On any other day, Yullan would have sneered — There goes the shameless prince, rutting in the grass as if it were a public latrine. And he might have passed on.

But this time, he could not. Since his “lost memory,” Nikiel had at least appeared to live with some degree of orderliness. To think it might all be lies —

And then he saw him.

Light caught on honey‑bright platinum hair, tousled under the sun. Cheeks flushed red, long lashes fluttering, blue eyes wide with startlement, slender legs half‑sprawled—

Inside, something boiled hot.

Raymon vented his beast’s urges in the arms of noblewomen. Yullan instead channeled it into the sword: strict corporeal discipline. It was never difficult to master his body.

Which is why this was so troubling.

No, there were no true signs of coupling. No swollen, wet lips, no rumpled clothes. Only cheeks red as May roses. By rights, nothing had been done.

And yet, the sight overflowed with raw allure. Enough to make him want to find and throttle whatever bastard had pinned Nikiel down into the grass, only to flee at Yullan’s approach.

…But why? Why would he want to kill that man? That he could not explain.

Nikiel’s excuse had been flimsy. Said a hawk had attacked him, grown huge and thrown him — Yullan knew of only one hawk in Ossinis that could do such a thing: Jikari Griff.

So the bird‑brat went after the prince?

If so, that would explain the animals drawn toward Nikiel. He remembered squirrels and rabbits clustering round him. He had assumed they were pulled to his holy power.

Perhaps Jikari too — doubling in. Even so, the thought sat foul in his gut.

And now Nikiel was squawking again, demanding a fencing tutor. Oddly enough, Yullan thought self‑defense training a wise idea. For all appearances, since his memory loss he had indeed been living more wholesomely.

So Yullan decided. That same afternoon, after drills, he gave the order.

“Pair off. Two‑man bouts.”

“Wha‑aaat?!”

The groan rose in unison from the weary Knights.

Even those lying sprawled on the dirt, polishing the swords balanced on their stomachs, jumped up in alarm at that command.

They had just finished afternoon drills, and were ready to wash and feast.

Northern cuisine was hearty and crude; these Knights savored every chance they had to eat refined food in the capital.

Especially the fruit liquors — in the barren north, there was nothing but wine. Here, each meal was a gift they relished.

And now, to be ordered into sparring, delaying supper again? Worse, the Grand Duke himself had overseen training that afternoon, not merely his lieutenant.

His notorious intensity had already drained them half to death. Their faces were gray with exhaustion.

But Yullan ignored their complaints. He received the roster from Benedict, the Left Marshal, and swiftly drafted match‑ups. Men were to face those in their assigned pairs.

“Deputy Commander, we can barely stand. We couldn’t even chop a potato right now, let alone spar! Please, say something to His Grace!”

The Knights groaned toward Benedict, while their Grand Duke sat calm and immaculate, cleaning his blade as if untouched by the same dust and sweat that covered them.

Benedict only shrugged.

“What can I do? Get ready. Better to spar before the palace guard barges in whining that we’re using the yard.”

The palace had more than one training field, but not many. Each year, with the Tournament approaching, the palace made ready to host lords and knights, filling the grounds with quarters and stables.

But two years ago, the king had gambled heavily with the emperor of the Eastern Continent on some card game — “Tuzen” or “Tution,” whatever it was called. When he lost, he sold off palace facilities as firewood to pay his debt.

So, thanks to a king who pawned his palace buildings instead of raising gold from elsewhere, the Black Thorn Knights had spent this past year sharing lodging and training grounds with the King’s Guard.

Admittedly, the Guard’s barracks weren’t small. But their arrogance was insufferable, strutting as only city‑born soldiers could. The Black Thorn had been forced to endure their bullying.

The Knights had thought their grudge would be answered at the recent Sitata match — but Yullan’s sudden punitive fury had lashed both Knight and Guard alike, quashing that hope.

So old resentments remained. And each time they shared the yard, friction flared anew.

To the Knights’ eyes, the Guards were indolent bastards who refused real training. Supposedly the protectors of the palace — but all belly‑fat and card games.

If they were truly so idle, surely they could allow the yard’s use. But no — any time the Knights were at it, the Guards rushed over to complain.

Time and again, the Knights had yielded — only to watch the Guards lounge in the shade, gossiping, before shuffling off to gorge in the barracks mess hall without having trained at all.