MPNS Ch 61

Chapter 61

Yet once outside, Nikiel found he had nowhere to go.

Truthfully, he was the only man in court with nothing to do—a highborn idler, in effect.

He considered seeking Yullan to apologize for missing training. But if he confessed to simply collapsing while walking, when Yullan still opposed his participation in the Tournament, Nikiel could predict the mocking reply word for word:

“…And with a body like that you still insist on joining? Your Highness has less conscience than one who starves a sick horse.”

Just imagining it made him shiver in distaste.

Of course, Yullan would hear soon enough anyway, but Nikiel wanted—for today—to put a lid on it. He simply didn’t have the heart to spar verbally with anyone.

Instead, he checked the folded paper he carried in his breast: a crude drawing of sunglasses.

“I may not be an optician, but twenty years wearing glasses must count as experience. The blueprint is serviceable enough.”

Grinning to himself, he headed for the Ministry of Magic, hoping to find Lucien.

His legs trembled after two days fasting since his collapse, but he planned to beg Lucien for food and drink.

Exercising on an empty stomach burns muscle mass…

A night, perhaps, would be forgivable—but starvation lasting two whole days threatened permanent loss. Still, a prince couldn’t exactly stoop to eat grass at the roadside, so he pressed on.

A walk that usually seemed short today dragged long, but at last he reached the Ministry building.

Problem: guards stood at the gates. His platinum hair and blue eyes were proof of station, but the Ministry was off‑limits, even to the Crown Prince. For the youngest prince, entering was impossible.

Nikiel hadn’t considered that. So he simply forced a shameless smile and greeted them.

“My thanks, gentlemen.”

“Y‑Your Highness Nikiel! Loyal servant of the Crown, Gestapf, at your—”

“Enough, enough with the bows. I’m glad to see you too.”

The guards straightened like poles, flustered under his glance. Nikiel coughed politely.

“I know security prevents me entering. Still—will you deliver word to Duke Turun that I am here?”

“Yes, Your Highness! At once!”

Off rushed one soldier. Nikiel expected a long wait—surely Lucien would hardly rush to greet him.

But soon a noise came from above. Nikiel instinctively looked up.

There: from the window of the floor just below the top story, Lucien himself gazed down.

His sugar‑white hair streamed in the breeze. And Nikiel, for some reason, thought, Rapunzel, let down your hair…

It was absurd—yet Lucien’s crimson eyes, fervent, were exactly those of a princess imprisoned in a tower staring down at her rescuer knight.

Without a greeting, he stared, unblinking. Nikiel stared stupidly back—until Lucien vaulted from the window.

“…My lord!”

Nikiel cried out as, borne like a breeze, Lucien landed lightly beside him. It was elegant, effortless.

Nikiel’s own eyes widened.

“What did you just—?”

“Did you come for me?”

He ignored the question; instead his own voice was urgent. Startled, Nikiel only managed a nod.

“Ah… Yes.”

“Then let us go up.”

At once Lucien’s hand circled his waist. Before Nikiel could protest, magic lifted them both gently, sending them sweeping back through the very window from which Lucien had leapt.

Nikiel caught his breath. Was that magic? Thrilling. He nearly asked him to do it again.

Lucien folded through the window behind him, straightening. His cheeks were flushed. Nikiel, puzzled, guessed idly: …Perhaps they served him fine soup at lunch?

Lucien adjusted his coat and hair, then—deliberately—reached out to smooth Nikiel’s hair as well. Only then did he murmur apology.

“My pardon.”

Nikiel chuckled faintly. It didn’t fit—the solemn Duke acting impulsively, then remembering to apologize.

Lucien only stared into his smile. Those ruby eyes, just as when they had first met, rippled faintly. Nikiel, self‑conscious, dropped his grin, bit his lip, and spoke softly.

“I had meant to call sooner—but I’ve been unwell these past two days.”

“I received word you were ill. …I even paid a call. Did you not see the paeonies I left on your nightstand?”

There were flowers? Nikiel could not recall; flowers never swayed his attention. But he nodded instead.

“My thanks, for both the visit and the bloom. I came now to finish what I had left unsaid.”

“Come inside, then.”

Lucien gestured anxiously up the stairs. Nikiel paused, frowning—did he mean another flight up? For a moment Lucien looked oddly hesitant, then quickly masked it.

“…My eyes fare poorly in sunlight. I use a sealed room for work as laboratory.”

“I see. Then all the more reason I came.”

Glad of the excuse, Nikiel took the spiral stairs. Lucien hesitated, then followed.

Upstairs, Nikiel stepped unaware into the sanctum few, not even the king, could enter: the Magister’s laboratory.

He only gaped at the clutter.

For a man so precise, to live so untidy…

He remembered a brilliant classmate who neglected every other part of life. Lucien too seemed that type.

At his gesture, Nikiel sat on what must once have been a sofa, ruined by paper and tools. Lucien turned to summon tea—but Nikiel added quickly,

“…And food, please. I came straight here. I’m starving.”

That drew a flicker of amazement, and Lucien snapped back:

“You came… directly?”

Nikiel nodded sheepishly.

Lucien’s face shifted, suddenly grave. A wave of his hand—and a cupboard opened. Out floated a black iron pot, settling onto a brazier. Water brimmed within. Sausage, tomatoes, shallots, nutmeg—all flew from shelves, diced themselves, tumbled in.

“…Wow.”

The awe escaped Nikiel’s lips. Lucien blushed faintly but said:

“It will become stew quickly. Can you wait?”

“The wait is half the joy… But glance at this, in the meantime.”

He pulled from his breast the blueprint.

Quartz alloyed with obsidian to produce black glass, then plated with ore‑nickel (“false‑stone”) to block ultraviolet. Frame carved from ivory, with clear sketches of nose‑bridges and arms.

Lucien studied intensely. Nikiel noticed his ears’ rims deep red—perhaps only the brazier’s light?

“You see—the wearer could endure daylight without potions. Of course, construction is your domain, but—”

He cut off as Lucien’s voice dropped, the paper slightly crushed in his taut hand, knuckles paling.

“…At the Tournament’s ball.”

“…Eh?”

“Whom do you intend to take as dance partner?”

The question landed from nowhere. Heat tickled Nikiel’s neck—Lucien’s ears, he realized, were flushed scarlet, his nape blotched too. His ruby gaze flickered like flame.

Nikiel thought: That look—is it warmth aimed at me? Without knowing why, he sensed the answer.

So softly, he shook his head.

“…No one, yet.”

The brightness that broke over Lucien’s face astonished him.

It was like witnessing a rosebud burst open on camera, petal by petal, snow‑white into bloom, unveiling beauty to the world for the first time.

Nikiel blinked, dazed—and then he heard it: Lucien’s voice, low and unfaltering, speaking at last a most formal request.