MPNS Ch 76

Chapter 76

“What are you doing?”

It took quite a while for Nikiel’s fluster to subside. He felt baffled by his own behavior, and the clumsy awkwardness wouldn’t improve. Anyone could see it: he flushed looking at Oryx—a plainly masculine man—stammered, hemmed, and hawed like a wreck.

It didn’t feel like the “body of the real Nikiel” causing mere reflexes. He had experienced odd bodily reactions around the Lords before, but those were simply physiological—short breath, pounding heart—more reaction than emotion.

Facing Oryx was different. He felt shy meeting his eyes. He wanted to look away—and also to stare. He wanted to ask why, to him alone, Oryx appeared a handsome man with black hair and red eyes.

At the same time, he couldn’t understand why he was like this. As if to rescue him, Paul arrived bearing tea cups and a tray of sweets on a silver salver.

Before Oryx could truly study him, Nikiel exhaled and offered tea. Oryx thanked him with a light smile—and Nikiel’s heart thudded as if to burst through his ribs. Better clear him from sight quickly, he thought, and, after several false starts, finally asked:

“Since we’re now taking tea, may I hear the reason for the sudden visit?”

“…Indeed, Highness. Right now ‘we’ are taking tea.”

Don’t repeat my phrasing—answer. But Oryx only gazed steadily at him, as if oblivious to Nikiel’s impatience. Under that deep, insistent regard, Nikiel’s cheeks began to prickle.

Even among red eyes, Lucien’s were a clear ruby, while Oryx’s were a deeper garnet—like pomegranate arils.

So when those eyes fixed on him, something shifted inside. Oryx’s black hair, as long as Lucien’s, was dark as a night sky. His features weren’t “pretty” like Lucien’s—thick brows dark as Yullan’s, a boldly carved brow ridge masculine as Raymon’s.

He looked languid somehow—and that was what provoked. Sprawled on the sofa like a predator napping in a tree, he made Nikiel tremble with tension. Something in his body itched, somewhere he could not name. With effort, Nikiel continued:

“Mm. You haven’t even sipped, for one who was offered tea.”

“I can’t take hot things.”

Oryx answered with a small smile. Nikiel, entranced by his face, suddenly felt wrong‑footed.

Right. That’s true. You never took hot things. …And I teased you that you could breathe fire instead—

—Wait, what was I just thinking?

The thought vanished. His mind went blank. Oryx watched him openly, lounging back into the plush sofa like no Grand Master greeting a prince.

He bent the elbow resting on the armrest, traced his own lips with a finger, narrowed his eyes, and asked,

“Is residing at the palace uncomfortable for you?”

Drawn from his wandering thoughts, Nikiel looked up. Uncomfortable hardly covered it. More than palace life, it was life in another world. Many things chafed, but the worst was copying monster lore by quill onto vellum, work a keyboard would have made trivial. Still, if the question was about convenience, the host should ask the guest, not the other way around.

It was awkward to point that out—so he stretched his lips in something like a smile and said,

“Well enough. And you—you must be travel‑worn…”

Meaning: if weary, rest. Yet Oryx’s face was bright, while Nikiel, since a moment ago, felt a strange discomfort around him.

His life had been quiet, placid. But for suddenly falling into another world and inhabiting a frail youth, it would have remained so. This kind of “stimulating person” was a first. Different from the Lords.

Hot… or is it cold? My hands are shaking.

The cup trembled in his grip. He didn’t know why he was nervous, only that every nerve aimed at the black‑haired man before him. Was he simply a perfect specimen of beauty unseen in his life? No—Nikiel had met many handsome men here. Oryx was no lesser than they, but not uniquely more.

Unless… perhaps this one is precisely my type.

Even a straight man could have a taste in how he rated beauty. At that thought, the uproar within eased a little.

But the other gave him no time to steady. Smiling with a sly grace, he said,

“That title feels distant. When you address this lowly one, call me Naet, my prince.”

Nikiel knew how people of this land addressed royal blood—always “my this” and “my that”—but the moment he heard it, blood rushed to his face and he lifted the cup to hide it. The shaking looked foolish, but it hid his blush.

Why am I like this. He cursed inwardly. Was it right to quake before a stranger? With effort he managed:

“N‑Naet? Very well… I shall do so.”

Idiot. Why stutter? He flayed himself silently. Oryx, watching him keenly, spoke in that languid curve of a mouth:

“…Why so tense? Did something come back to you, Highness?”

Memory? At that word his tension evaporated; he met Oryx’s eyes.

The room darkened.

It was midday—but it felt as though an eclipse had fallen. In the sudden dusk, that black hair gleamed darker still, and garnet eyes flashed. He stared, relentless.

Nikiel felt stripped bare. The gaze was relentless and clinging. Shame and sin welled together—like sitting naked at a tea table, tunic and breeches shed.

Somewhere unspeakable began to itch. He let slip a small sound. Oryx, watching him, slouched deeper, legs opening, the posture collapsing—like a king on a throne pressing the air heavy around them.

“You remember I can’t take hot things, and yet you can’t remember who I am? You’re still heartless—and unbearably, terribly lovely.”

Naet’s words came through his ears and shattered in his brain. It felt like the mind forced itself to erase the incoming data as it arrived. At some point, he was shaking.

“I saw you with the mutt earlier. I braced for it—and still I burned. How could I not—when you were my only light, Ossinis.”

His brain struggled to erase the words. A flood of feelings washed him. The instant Naet spoke, tears pressed up in him with a guilty thought—I’m sorry—while another part of his reason yelled: You don’t know this—be on guard. Another corner begged: I miss him—rise now, wrap his waist, kiss his cheek. And all of it was swiftly deleted, wiped away.

He felt sick. Too much information processed and purged; his mind would overload. His reason acted like a commander, choosing what to accept and what to erase. His emotion pleaded not to erase this one again—not to scrub Naet from his heart again.

Reason whipped the tears and kept erasing exactly those memories. The eclipse darkness held. Naet spoke again, sadly:

“The beasts have smeared their pheromones on you everywhere. I want to kill them all. What am I to do, Ossinis—I already doubt I can bear it.”

I’m sorry—my fault—

But he could not say the words. His reason tied his lips with a thin cord.

“Don’t wear that face. It makes me wretched. Instead, call me Naet from now on. Just hearing your voice call me that will let me live another hundred years.”

With that, the room suddenly brightened. Nikiel blinked. Oryx smiled faintly.

“My, you must have been tired. You seemed to drift off; I left you be. I shall take my leave—you need not see me out. My most precious one.”

He rose. Nikiel stared, dazed. He wanted to say he would escort him—but the words would not come. Moments later, the parlor door shut with a thud.

Nikiel stared out the window. The gold sun still glared down, keeping watch.