MPNS Ch 82

Chapter 82

“What on earth is wrong with His Grace?”

“How should I know? He’s always like that after a bout of frenzy.”

No. Minervina rejected that. After a frenzy, Raymon never returned straight to the ducal house on his own feet. Even once back in human form, he typically lurked in the vast woods behind the palace for quite a while before coming home.

This time, not only had he returned from frenzy unusually quickly, but there were scarcely any aftereffects. No scratches on his body, his mind seemingly clear. That was what made it strange—his shutting himself up in his rooms.

“To hole up at the busiest time of year? Nonsense.”

There was a reason the Subjugation Tournament was called a tournament. The head of the house that slew the most monsters earned a kiss from Nikiel. Through that kiss, frenzy would be soothed, granting at least several months, up to a year, of relief—thus the tournament format.

But in truth, the heads of house did less competing than cooperating. None of them believed the kiss would be awarded as a prize. The king would never permit contact with Nikiel—the lever by which the Lords could be moved. And with colossal, dangerous monsters everywhere, there was no time to compete.

Thus the tacit rule: Yullan’s Black Thorn Knights held the vanguard, the Boltwick White‑Stag Knights the rear, Turun’s mage corps the left wing, and Griffoux’s guild the right.

The vanguard captain—Black Thorn—had the most to prepare, but still, all went to war; the rear could not be overlooked, or all would die.

This year, preparations had begun early; most of the itinerary had been laid out. Yet many items still required Raymon’s sign‑off. And still he would not leave his room. Never, even in worse frenzies, had he been like this. Minervina smelled something amiss.

Knowing he would tell her nothing if asked, she used a process of elimination to trace his movements that day: whom he had been with, whom he had met in the woods. Checking the Boltwick stables first—whether the carriage had gone out after his return—she found her answer.

“He went to see Prince Nikiel.”

From the very day he returned from calling on His Highness, Raymon shut himself in. Strange. What had happened there? The other party—Prince Nikiel—continued public activities without pause thereafter. Mostly he exercised within his palace, but he also visited the Temple to view consecrated arms and trained at the Guard’s yard, which the Black Thorn Knights were temporarily using. That too was odd. That prince, practicing swordsmanship? Was this not the man who used to shriek that lifting anything heavier than a flower vase tore his arms to pieces?

Minervina decided there was something there—at least on one side. If not both, then at least Raymon held something one‑sided toward Nikiel. The thought made her unbearably curious. In the end, further deduction led her to a close approximation of his present heart:

“Our book‑clever fool of a duke has fallen in love.”

If not, why would Raymon come to the ballroom with that incongruous grim face and yet dressed with a peculiar effort?

“Tried denying your heart and failed, did you? Men.”

She clicked her tongue inwardly. Given how rough he looked, he had surely tried and failed to deny his feelings for Nikiel. With that face he ought to have dressed accordingly, but he wore a newly tailored formal suit from top to toe. His deep‑green frock coat—difficult to dye and hard to obtain—went exceedingly well with his green eyes.

“Judging by the face, he’s still denying it. Idiot.”

She shrugged. Perhaps this was his first true love. He had enjoyed light affairs, but none had ever truly broken him. The cloud on his face was proof enough: his heart was newly embarked upon first love. Even so, she offered no advice.

“Who would want to meddle in the love life of a brother grown not only up but monstrously large?”

After their dear friend Lia Boltwick passed, Minervina and Countess Evelyn Wolf regarded Raymon as a younger brother, in her stead. But what sister wished to involve herself in a younger brother’s romance? Even a desire to help turned the stomach. She resolved to keep out of it—if only Raymon’s pitiable face didn’t make that impossible.

With a resigned sigh, she pressed his side with a nudge.

“Smooth that face, Your Grace.”

“…”

He did not answer—only kept darting glances at the door with the haunted look of a man with troubles. To Minervina, he looked like some young lordling who had lost a third of his estate to gambling debts; yet the surrounding youths and maidens blushed and whispered that he looked soulful with melancholy.

From Nikiel’s conduct since that meeting, it seemed Raymon alone was pining fruitlessly—another oddity. Did His Highness not consider faces? Then what had Raymon to fret about?

At the same time, Count Allewyn of Saxen, Iteren‑born, was thinking precisely the same thing.

Both lieutenants could swear their lords lacked nothing in looks. Thus each buoyed his own commander’s confidence.

“Captain, you are dazzling tonight. Have you practiced your dancing?”

Allewyn offered Yullan a narrow silver cup. Yullan frowned.

“What dance.”

“Why, you must be His Highness’s partner for the first piece. Surely the opening will be a waltz.”

The Ossinis waltz ran a touch fast. Even when he attended, Nikiel danced only with ladies; Yullan might need to take the female steps. At that point, Yullan’s brow furrowed at once. Allewyn scolded lightly,

“If His Highness knows only the male steps, why didn’t you practice the female?”

Beside them, Benedict reviewed his assessment of his friend, shifting from “Has he gone mad?” to “He truly is mad.” But Yullan’s reply—still frowning—was unexpected.

“I practiced. The posture is merely odd.”

…What? Benedict could not parse what he had heard and glanced between them. Allewyn clapped, delighted; Yullan looked neither abashed nor proud—only matter‑of‑fact. Benedict, after much effort, gave up thinking.

“You’re trained in the martial arts, Captain; the posture will follow.”

“…”

Yullan replied no more. Benedict longed to drown his reason in the distillate in his silver cup; he did not wish to behold the mountainous back of his commander hunched over to take the female lead.

Across the hall, another overzealous lieutenant worked his part.

“What if you asked His Highness for the first dance, Your Grace?”

“…What?”

Silent all day, Raymon snapped his gaze to Minervina, neck and the backs of his hands flushing red—the face was beyond question.

Recalling an opera titled The Boorish Duke, Minervina kept a straight face and drawled,

“Your female steps are exquisite. You’d be more than fit to partner His Highness.”

“…Keep your voice down.”

He muttered low—but Minervina knew. If Nikiel returned to the ballroom, Raymon would ask for that first dance.

Neither Allewyn nor Minervina imagined their lords would be refused. With both so immaculately turned out, they dazzled; even if it were Nikiel’s grandfather, he would have fallen for such faces.

But life ever arrives with its twists.

“His Highness Prince Nikiel, accompanied by Duke Lucien Turun.”

At the herald’s announcement, everyone in the hall froze—Yullan Balt and Raymon Boltwick among them.