MPNS Ch 93

Chapter 93

Nikiel’s spirits lifted at the familiarity of Lucian’s steps. The dance with Naet had been somehow uncomfortable—his chest tight and his lower belly heavy all at once.

Though he had not known Naet long, each meeting left him with a headache; speaking with him felt like having pieces of memory go missing. For that reason, Lucian’s hand settling upon his shoulder was welcome.

When Nikiel’s arm drew around Lucian’s waist, Lucian offered a gentle smile. From afar he had always seemed lithe, yet up close—palm over the waist—his erectors were firm, the body far more masculine than Nikiel’s own once-slender frame.

The sensation was clearer than when they had danced briefly in the laboratory—perhaps merely the ease that comes with practice, Nikiel thought lightly. Instead, he voiced what curiosity had pricked him with since before.

“Your waist is very firm—do you train it specially?”

The old habit slipped out—the one that, upon meeting a well-built gym regular, made him ask without thinking, “May I palpate your erectors once?” His hand slid, then paused just above the sacrum, suddenly aware it might be rude. Lucian’s ear-tips flushed.

“Mn—Your Highness—”

“…Ah. Pardon.”

Face warming at the response, Nikiel could only blame the reflex of locker-room banter—asking another man, “What’s your big three?” as if it were nothing.

After all, he and Lucian were near-betrothed; he should have been more careful. Lucian’s face was so red Nikiel felt guilt bite—his thin skin, inherited, made the flush like rosy silk.

Clearing his throat softly, Nikiel guided the steps. Lucian followed his lead with a flowing grace, as he had in the laboratory—a far smoother dance now. A small, involuntary smile tugged at Nikiel’s mouth. Lucian slid him a sidelong look, as if scolding a scoundrel pestering the innocent.

“It is crueler if you say you meant no teasing.”

“No… Apologies. Then you may touch my waist as well.”

“Even such words—you toss them out thoughtlessly.”

What of a waist? Lucian’s sensitivity about touch owed much to a slightly conservative nature; Nikiel, however, came from a modern world and, before arriving here, had lived as a conscientious straight man—surely a little contact was nothing. A brotherly clap at the waist was hardly indecent.

He shrugged and prompted Lucian’s turn; Lucian spun away and back, then settled nearer, murmuring,

“You even lost the boutonnière. It grieves me, Your Highness.”

“Ah… It must have fallen when I ran out. It seems all I do is cause you trouble.”

Lucian’s eyes had reddened at the rims, as if holding back something, gazing straight into him. With a soft exhale he rested his brow on Nikiel’s shoulder. Hair glinting like braided silver spilled onto Nikiel’s chest, tickling.

“You try me sorely… you wear me thin.”

Hm? That distressed? Nikiel, realizing fault, patted Lucian’s back. When Lucian flinched again, he stroked lightly. Breath hummed low against Nikiel’s shoulder; warmth at his nape set a sympathetic itch.

“I am sorry. What would ease your heart?”

Lucian lifted his forehead and looked straight at him, eyes very deep.

“…Who can say. You ask as though you would grant anything I desired.”

“If it is within my power, it shall be yours.”

He meant it. From noon to now, Lucian’s care deserved some return. Gifts should be practical, Nikiel believed; better to learn what was wanted and give exactly that. He was about to say as much—ask him to name it—

—but the ballroom’s murmur swelled; the waltz ceased. They, too, stopped and looked to the dais where all eyes fixed.

On the dais stood Raphael, the king, and Raymond. Raymond addressed the king; when the king moved to hush him, he smiled gently—then raised his voice for all to hear.

“Your Majesty, might an inquiry be made at once into the traitor Gaspar, who sought to assassinate His Highness Prince Nikiel?”

Traitor. The word rang with heavy weight. The orchestra had fallen silent; whispers had risen—now even those died at that single word.

The king wore a vexed face—one that wished the matter small. Lucian glanced that way, then quietly guided Nikiel; together they reached the foot of the stairs to the dais.

Raymond still smiled, and in that smile was such kindness that the nobles believed a matter worthy of halting the ball had arisen indeed. Meeting that expectation, he went on,

“In the cup Count Gaspar presented to Prince Nikiel lay poison. His Grace the Grand Duke of Balt sensed it, put his lips to the cup first, and so averted calamity.”

Before the king could intervene, Raymond laid out all that had befallen Nikiel. The king’s face grew troubled at the plain recital. Nikiel’s brow furrowed.

‘That face screams, “What a bother.” His own child nearly drugged—and such a reaction?’

Sensing his displeasure, Lucian tapped the back of his hand in comfort. Nikiel nodded once and kept his eyes ahead.

“Count Gaspar has been confined in the dungeon,” Raymond continued. “The case is clear, and moreover, His Grace Yullan Balt, having drunk the poisoned wine in Prince Nikiel’s stead, briefly lost his reason.”

“What?”

At last the king started up, trembling like an aspen.

“Then—then that beast is within the palace? What do the Guard think they are doing? Protect your king at once!”

Raymond smiled again, kindly.

“Be at ease, Your Majesty. The Grand Duke has recovered his reason and departed the palace—he conveys his regret for failing to present himself and begs Your Majesty’s pardon.”

Yullan would never say such a thing—but to the king, the fact that Yullan had returned to human form mattered more than his unannounced departure. Nikiel watched his father sigh in relief.

Soon enough the king realized relief alone would not serve. The injury to his own son might be glossed over; but with Yullan harmed, failing to punish Count Gaspar would be tantamount to slighting House Balt.

Worse, the Monster-Hunting Tournament loomed. Should Yullan truly be laid low now, the Kingdom of Ossinis—ever under threat of monsters—would suffer sorely. A king who had never once sent Crown Prince Raphael to the hunt could ill afford to lose Yullan, lest the imminent campaign be thrown into disarray.

The king’s face fell, sour and balking—he had wished to ignore a troublesome matter, and could not. Raymond drove the wedge deeper, declaring before all the nobles the reasons Gaspar must be punished.

“Not only did the deed of that reprobate imperil a descendant of Ossinis, blessed by the Sun, to the very brink of death, but even the kingdom’s military governor, His Grace Yullan Balt, was nearly undone, Your Majesty.”

The implication was clear: punish Gaspar. As the king opened his mouth, sallow with distaste, Raphael spoke suddenly from his father’s side.

“Would it not be wise to begin by examining the poison he placed in the wine, Your Majesty?”

The king lifted his gaze to his firstborn. Raphael smiled with an easy air; yet the smile was so mean that Nikiel could only think some other scheme lay beneath.

‘In the true Nikiel’s memories as well—there was always something off about him.’

Footnotes

1. Boutonnière: A lapel flower worn in formal dress; here, a blue rose crafted by magic and originally pinned to Nikiel, later lost during the commotion.