MPNS Ch 62

Chapter 62

“Then if no one has yet earned the honor of standing at Your Highness’s left side…”

Lucien’s lashes—white as snow—flickered once, then lifted to reveal eyes red as rubies. His voice, hushed as though whispering, brushed Nikiel’s ear. It carried no magic, only sound waves, and yet it felt like something feather‑soft tickling against his cheek.

Behind his gaze lay barely hidden fear—that Nikiel might refuse. But beneath it swelled expectation, raw and uncontainable, directed entirely at him.

“Would you grant me that honor?”

Of course. Let’s go right now.

Nikiel almost blurted—but caught himself. It felt identical to realizing you nearly bought a pretty piece of trash, fooled by outward shine. He reminded himself: If he needed a partner for the tournament ball, he could accept Lucien’s offer casually. But Lucien’s demeanor was far from casual; it carried too much weight, too much insistence.

Had he simply asked, “Need someone to go with? Care to go together?”—there would have been nothing uncanny about it.

Granted, Nikiel admitted, Lucien’s face just now had been stunning.

How can a human face be built like that?

He knew his own was handsome enough, but he had only glimpsed it dimly in a bronze mirror. He had no grasp of how it struck others. Thus, confronting Lucien’s elegance with untrained eyes, the effect stunned him almost painfully.

While Nikiel thought such things, Lucien still waited.

The invitation had spilled from him on impulse, yet afterward he became convinced he had done well. He could predict how the other Lords would boil with fury at seeing Nikiel enter at his side—but their opinions were irrelevant. If their eyes were blind to the gem before them, was that his fault? Lucien was only moving swiftly to claim what they had yet to understand—always strike first, win first. That was strategy.

He himself had not known there was such a snake hiding inside him until now. All he wanted was Nikiel’s answer. So he looked at him with ruby eyes, stripped of longing, pretending innocent and patient.

And somehow, it worked. After silence, Nikiel nodded.

“…If you would accompany me, I’d welcome it. I’ve been fretting over this, truth to tell.”

Fretting was an overstatement, but still—he did need someone.

And Nikiel told himself it was not Lucien’s face that moved him. He had other reasons. Sharing the first dance with another man was strange, but inevitable—better to choose one outcome with advantage.

He was tired of Paul’s endless nagging. He was tired, too, of being openly scorned by the capital’s nobles. Appearing properly at the ball might soften their mockery; better to stand with one of the empire’s four pillars than stroll in unsupported.

Nikiel, once indifferent to others’ opinions, had grown weary of contempt when even the lowest courtiers began to disregard him. One more slight at the tournament ball, before the eyes of all society, might condemn him to continued derision.

Here, in Ossinis, the “first partner” of the ball signified your official escort. To accept Lucien meant entering the hall on his arm, dancing the opening waltz together. At minimum, nobles would not dare sneer.

Yet unease clung to him still. Because Lucien’s request had been so formal… intimate in a way that unsettled him.

It sounds like a date proposal, honestly. But asking anyone else would be worse. Raymon would sneer. Yullan would call me a whore again. At least Lucien asked.

With that thought Nikiel accepted. And Lucien, at the sight, smiled faintly. Not a broad grin—but enough that his relief showed clearly. Nikiel, embarrassed, scratched his cheek.

“I’ll have to learn to dance… I’m hopeless at it.”

“Would you try now?”

Lucien rose, offering his hand with impeccable form. Nikiel fought the flush that wanted to rise. The mind resisted—but whenever Lucien spoke, his body reacted. With a sigh, he stood.

“…What, practice here?”

“Yes. If there is something you object to, tell me, Your Highness.”

With a sweep of his hand—without even a spoken incantation—the sofa and all the cluttered furniture shifted aside to the walls. Nikiel’s eyes went wide.

“So it wasn’t that you didn’t know how to clean, hm.”

“A little untidy, I admit. I didn’t expect a guest—you must find the laboratory a mess.”

He spoke as though it were nothing. Nikiel thought: clearly a man who ignored anything but what he deemed critical.

So together, in a room filling with the savory smell of stew, they rehearsed the Ossinian waltz.

Lucien lifted him once—as firmly as he had when whisking him through the window—his whole arm supporting Nikiel’s back. It was steady, secure, but the closeness made Nikiel conscious.

“Your arm here.”

Lucien guided his hand to his own shoulder.

“Think of this arm as entrusted fully to me.”

“What? You mean to steal my arm? Better give it back.”

Lucien chuckled faintly. Nikiel, startled that he had landed a joke, grinned before he realized. Lucien’s eyes scanned his face—brow, pale eyes, neat nose—slowly, appreciatively.

Though a beginner, Nikiel’s body remembered somehow. Guided by Lucien’s lead, his feet adapted. They danced without music but to the bubbling rhythm of stew, not unpleasant.

He was clumsy still, and Lucien’s toes bore the brunt.

“Forgive me. I keep—”

“You are not weightless, but tolerable. If it is no malice, it is fine.”

Lucien smiled small. The gentleness felt wholly unlike the other Lords.

Nikiel, deprived of companions but Paul, enjoyed the closeness. With each step, he recalled the movements as though they had always slept in his muscles.

At last Lucien slowed, drawing them to a gentle halt. Nikiel slipped his hand away, embarrassed Lucien had not loosed his hold. But Lucien, smiling softly, simply said:

“Excellent. And now the stew must be ready. Are you not hungry, Highness?”

“Famished. Aerobics on an empty stomach causes muscle loss—if stew is ready, I would gladly rely on you.”

Lucien tilted his head at the odd phrasing—Yuswan show? Kun‑shon shil?—but fetched it to the hearth. He ladled stew into bowls, conjured a square of cloth, and with a swirl of his finger, brought table and chairs floating to the prince.

Nikiel sat, still marveling at such conveniences.

Yet just as Lucien placed food before him, a loud screech pierced the air, like a great bird crying above. Lucien stared toward something unseen, though the laboratory had no windows.

“…You’ll have to dine alone, Highness.”

“…Ah, urgent business?” Nikiel asked awkwardly, spoon in hand.

Lucien looked long toward invisible skies, then came close, took Nikiel’s hand, and bent over it. His lips brushed the back lightly.

“Eat at your leisure, go when you will. I shall return soon. Let me beg another appointment, if you please.”

Faced with such a courteous request, Nikiel could hardly refuse. He nodded slowly.

Lucien, satisfied, withdrew.

And so Nikiel found himself alone, in another’s chambers for the first time, eating stew with a faintly sheepish expression.