MPNS Ch 69

Chapter 69

 

Nikiel, wrapped in a large cloak pulled up over his head, made for the rear yard of the Prince’s Palace. He worried the twisted ankle might worsen, but walking carefully seemed to help; the sharp ache subsided markedly.

“Look at this shoddy security. Tsk.”

The palace guards clearly still hadn’t recovered their wits. Using the wall’s end like a horizontal bar, he lifted both legs with his lower abs in a leg‑raise and vaulted the wall with ease.

He was about to toss Yullan’s cloak away, then sighed and rolled it up to return later—after all, it was borrowed.

As he reached for the back door to the kitchens Bendi had left open, a voice dropped onto his crown.

“Did Your Highness enjoy the outing?”

“Ah, yeah—super fun—huh…?”

Answering carelessly, he looked up and froze. Paul was glowering down at him with a fearsome face. Nikiel’s complexion went instantly wan—he realized why Paul had been waiting.

He turned to bolt—again. But Paul was not so lenient. The layabout guards, for once obeying orders, were already blocking the rear wall.

“Utterly useless…”

He had no choice but to turn back with a sigh. Paul wore a solemn smile. Today was skincare day, one of those things Nikiel could never fathom the need for.

As he ushered a docile Nikiel toward the bath, Paul intoned,

“From today, regular massages and facial care. But first—a bath.”

Did preparation for a ball really require this? Paul was relentless, and Nikiel, deciding to humor him a little, sighed.

“…By the way—Duke Turun will be my partner for the ball. Do we need to receive him at the palace that evening?”

Paul stopped dead.

“Y‑Your Highness… what did you just say…?”

Why so shocked? Even as Nikiel thought it, Paul—still astonished—pressed again. Asked twice, Nikiel had to answer.

“Duke Turun is my dance partner. Will he come here that night to, what is it, ‘escalate’—escort me?”

“Kyaaa! His Grace will escort you? There’s no time to lose!”

Before Nikiel could ask “No time for what,” Paul, bleating like a frantic goat, dragged him into the bath. He barked orders like a field marshal:

“You—hands and toenails. You—hair. You—the eyebrows…”

It went on and on. One valet was even assigned to nostrils.

Without explanation, Paul lowered Nikiel into the tub. Thus began his ordeal.

Three hours of bathing, four of skin care, two of massage later, Nikiel learned only that his hard‑earned stamina was worthless. Although he had returned after midday, the windows already held dusk’s dark.

He even shouted things he never shouted.

“No more! Make it 1,500 lunges instead!”

Exhausted, he sprawled on the bed, skin smooth as a hard‑boiled egg. He’d pulled two consecutive all‑nighters once, sorting sources for a master’s thesis, and that had felt easier than this.

Paul approached smiling. Nikiel, spooked, declared he would refuse anything further—but Paul said something else.

“Not that—His Grace Duke Boltwick is in the parlor. He’s been waiting a while.”

“…What?”

Nikiel sprang up. Raymon—here. He immediately recalled the afternoon: the beautiful black stag kissing the top of his foot.

Where else would one see such a stag—North America, perhaps. It had been peerlessly handsome, glossy black coat, trapping him inside antlers dark as ebony.

The gentleness and submissive kiss had emboldened Nikiel to stroke between the antlers—a top‑three moment of the year, alongside earning the PhD and the beloved golden eagle curling into his arms. The stag allowing him to touch its antlers belonged among treasures.

Remembering this, he felt oddly reluctant to drive Raymon out with his usual stony face. He changed to meet him—and remembered to ask:

“The sun has set. Is it proper for the duke to meet me now?”

“I’ll attend you with the tea‑boy,” Paul said, smiling at the rare “proper” question.

Nikiel cleared his throat and checked his simple indoor clothes—neither gaudy nor plain, a favored Ossinis style for nobles. He walked slowly to the parlor and waited for Paul to open the door.

When it opened, he stepped in. Raymon stood up abruptly from the sofa. The sudden movement made Nikiel flinch.

Good grief—when a wall of a man springs up like that—

He forced a bright smile to hide the start.

“What wind brings so lowly a guest to such a noble palace? Seeing you at night, I find myself almost—though not quite—glad.”

Not glad, in other words.

But Raymon only stared at his face, rooted in place, as if nailed to the floor. His eyes looked slightly unfocused. He didn’t even seem to consider offering a greeting—only fixed that gaze, unblinking.

What’s with him, that foul‑mouthed rake?

For once, no provocation. The man who usually greeted him with barbs was silent.

Nikiel found it strange and studied him. The scratches from his stag form seemed healed; his cheek looked clean. That eased him slightly. Still Raymon stared, dazed.

“My lord…”

He meant to invite him to sit and take tea—when the tips of Raymon’s ears flared crimson. With a great stride he passed the sofa—and then passed Nikiel.

“Forgive me, Your Highness. Something urgent—”

The excuse came out barely audible; it was not his usual crisp, careful tone but the voice of someone shaken, almost panicked.

His nape was red to the hairline now. Nikiel wondered—was his frenzy not fully gone? If he let him leave like this and he transformed again, there would surely be casualties far from the forest.

“Don’t go—sit and talk a while. You’ve waited long; to let you go feels…”

It didn’t feel anything at all, honestly. But if the frenzy hadn’t lifted, letting him go was more dangerous.

Should I share divine power? Holding his hand should do something, right?

Even if Raymon had no “pretty” side, a new rampage would be catastrophic. To prevent loss of life, a handclasp was easy enough—and the memory of his pain in stag form made Nikiel pity him a little.

The Lords carry such pain. No wonder Raymon and Yullan are so harsh—sick men find it hard to be kind; all patience burns up enduring inner torment.

Unaware he was labeling two robust men “invalids,” Nikiel reached and took his wrist, about to bid him sit and calm himself while sharing grace—

“—nn!”

Raymon jolted so hard Nikiel himself was shocked.

Nikiel stared. From nape to ears to face, Raymon blazed red. Something felt… off. Nikiel’s lips moved, but no words came.

Did I startle him by grabbing him suddenly? If he disliked it, he’d be spewing slurs as usual—but he isn’t.

As if enduring, shoulders trembling now and then, Raymon let him hold the wrist—like a man unable to pull away. He hid his face with his free hand, unable even to turn toward Nikiel.

The atmosphere was so strange that Nikiel spoke slowly:

“Duke Boltwick, what is—”

“…Forgive me, Your Highness.”

He wrenched his wrist free and fled the parlor.

Left stunned, Nikiel looked to Paul. Paul, eyes round, stared at the door as if to ask, What was that?