MPNS Ch 55

Chapter 55

The mahogany bookcases were packed floor to ceiling with leather‑bound volumes. In an age when hardcover bindings were rare, these bespoke jackets gave an impression at once of durability and luxury—clearly cut to measure by skilled tanners.

What struck Nikiel as odd was the uniformity. The books varied widely in size and thickness, yet each was covered in the same hide, dyed the same hue.

Curious, he pulled down a few. Inside he found their original bindings—these leather jackets had been deliberately made to conceal them.

“Why go to all this trouble…?”

After skimming a handful, the reason was plain. These were not books meant to be displayed in a royal library.

Every title he glimpsed carried a provocation:

• A Philosophical Critique of the Ossinis Episcopate and its Doctrines 
• Alchemy and Solius 
• Myths of the Eastern Continent 
• Children of the Gods 

At first glance, innocuous. In context, dynamite.

Ossinis knew only one god—Solius, official creed, state religion. Other faiths were not tolerated. The royal family themselves embodied priestly authority through blood, even under papal oversight. In truth, crown and pontifex maintained a strategic alliance: neither could exist without the other.

With its Four Lords and military might, Ossinis dominated the West. But Solius was not universally declared state religion by other lands. Most subjects believed, yes, but monarchies hedged their bets with “freedom of worship.” This left the papacy anxious, dependent on Ossinis’ favor—hardly forgettable, when it was Ossinis that had exalted a middling sun god into the “national deity.”

Thus the king was called the pontiff’s “vicar” but in truth was his power broker.

So what was a volume titled A Philosophical Critique of the Ossinis Episcopate doing here? It was, in substance, a treatise on dissecting the very doctrines the king himself upheld. A treasonous text, borderline subversion—its author could, on the king’s whim, be hauled off, tortured and hung at the city gates as an example.

Alchemy and Solius was worse in its way. Magic in this world had advanced under alchemy, yet the Ossinis Ministry of Magic insisted all sorcery was borrowed light of Solius—miracles owed wholly to the deity. This book claimed otherwise—that magic was nothing but the scientific application of mana, a natural force saturating the world, independent of Solius. Chapter after chapter presented evidence. To churchmen, it was impudent blasphemy.

“No wonder they covered the titles.”

Nikiel murmured, but his pulse quickened. Squatting on the floor, he began to speed‑read the slimmer volumes, eyes hungry.

One bookcase back jutted oddly against his spine. Curious, he crouched and found among the bottom shelf another rank of concealed volumes.

He tugged one out and opened its hidden title.

Nasihu Ossinis.

The title was plain, yet something jarred.

“Nasihu… isn’t that the dragon? Why surname it Ossinis? As if the dragon belonged to the royal line—”

Every royal of Ossinis bore the dynastic surname, for they were the state. To append that name to the Mad Dragon suggested some intrinsic connection.

Heart pounding, he discarded the pile of forbidden texts and tore into this one. Its pages chronicled the birth of Nasihu, the first dragons settling the western continent, their ecology, their wondrous acts, their daily lives—written almost like zoology.

“This is… actually fascinating.”

It was scientific in method, serious, describing dragons through an emerging lens akin to modern ecology. Too rich to skim. He gathered it up to study deeper at a desk.

But just then, the secret shelf behind swung soundlessly open.

Nikiel caught his breath.

“…What brings you here, Your Highness? Come out.”

The voice was low, silken. White hair like snow, crimson eyes gleaming—Lucien Turun, Duke and Minister of Magic, stood in the doorway.

Caught red‑handed, Nikiel stammered,

“Ah, Duke. I merely found the passage open and wandered in.”

Flustered, he shoved the dragon book behind his back, stuffed into his breeches and masked awkwardly with his tunic. He did not know why, but instinct told him he must not let anyone know what he had read.

Lucien cut a radiant figure—tall, broad‑shouldered, in white silk shot with blue embroidery, a coat of peonies across his chest. Enough nobility of line that if not for his pronounced bones he might be called flower‑like himself.

But his gaze narrowed sharp as the serpent he was, voice throttled low:

“Pardon me, your Highness. What are you concealing?”

Nikiel tried a weak smile.

“I don’t know what you mean. My, is it that late? I should head back—wonder what’s for dinner, eh, curious.”

A thin, unconvincing act. Nikiel’s creed was honesty; bluster came easily if he believed himself right, but when guilty, his playacting rang false.

Of course, Lucien bought none of it. He stepped in and blocked the prince’s way.

“What you hide—show me.”

“I told you, nothing!”

He gritted his brows, turning the tables sharply:

“And what of you, Duke? If this is a forbidden wing, then surely even you trespass here.”

“…As Minister of Magic, I am granted authority over every library in the palace.”

Nikiel only arched a brow: So what?

Lucien studied him intently. What was this wastrel prince doing here? The Nikiel he knew had never cracked a book he wasn’t forced to. He had finished the barest education at sixteen only because the law required it; not for lack of ability, but of diligence, devotion—too lazy, too enamored of play.

And now, this? Sneaking into a restricted annex of banned texts? Eyes shining with real curiosity?

The snake frowned. He could not match the face before him with the memory of the boy he had known.

Even if there were lurid love stories or smutty novels buried here, it would not surprise him for Nikiel to slip inside for mischief. But a book he guarded so fiercely that he hid it behind his back? Strange indeed.

Normally, dislike of trouble would have made Lucien turn a blind eye, leave him to whatever fate his foolishness earned. Even if the prince’s dabbling in forbidden thought led to disgrace, imprisonment, ruin—it was no concern of his.

For since the day he first saw him at fifteen, Lucien had known Nikiel to be nothing more than refuse—refuse wrapped in gem‑bright skin.

And the despair he had felt then, looking upon a jewel‑box prince filled with rot, was beyond words.