MPNS Ch 56

Chapter 56(Mild NSFW)

Unlike Yullan and Raymon, who unconsciously thought of themselves as something apart from humankind, or Jikari, who consciously reduced himself to merely a bird, Lucien was far more human in temperament.

He had been born with a hereditary illness, pale skin and hair like snow, eyes red as rubies—and though quiet, unsuited to courtly show, he yet bore a personality prone to human warmth.

But his birth was mired in doubt. Rumors whispered that his mad predecessor, the last Duke of Turun, had “crafted” him through alchemy, as he did his homunculi, forcing the duchess to bear a child. In any case, the pallid infant looked more like legend than lineage, and the retainers doubted his legitimacy.

The Turun lords revered that very disease—albinism—as a “blessing,” yet Lucien’s father had been a cadet branch taken as heir when the main line died out unnaturally young. Ironically, though the serpent was their symbol of eternal life, the heads of House Turun rarely lived past forty. His father, too, was felled by a crossbow bolt during a hunt, leaving young Lucien barely weaned, his mother already dead of pneumonia.

Orphaned, hunted by his own vassals, only the sudden manifestation of the Dragon’s Curse had saved him, letting him slip like a hatchling serpent into his steward’s pouch and survive.

Longing for lost parents, the child‑duke still sought some shred of trust in others. Even after proving his magic to silence questions of blood, even after learning that the handmaid he thought a sister was an assassin sent for him—he did not fully cast off hope in mankind.

But when he had first met Nikiel… it had been different.

Lucien had known at a glance.

That thing is false.

Looking upon one so much younger than himself, fury had still surged. Like a loyal servant finding an impostor wearing his true master’s skin, he had seethed. The boy’s hair, his eyes, the aura of “royal”—all lies.

From that day, Lucien abandoned every expectation. Abandoned even hope that the Dragon’s Curse might be healed. Nothing miraculous could ever come from a fraud. He withdrew deep into himself.

So whether this false prince was imprisoned by his raging father or impaled outside the palace walls, Lucien cared little.

And yet… when the monsters had breached the palace days ago, Nikiel had not seemed the same. Lucien had felt, against all sense, a thrum of ecstasy in his presence. And so now, finding him in the restricted library, Lucien could not ignore him entirely. What book he hid suddenly mattered.

“Hand it here, Your Highness.”

Nikiel, meanwhile, was inwardly fuming. Why are all these so‑called Lords like this? One and the same—slap a ‘Your Highness’ on the end and think it excuses every order. Do this, do that… maddening.

He stiffened his face and turned to leave without heed. Lucien sighed, stepped to bar him, and spoke evenly:

“My apologies in advance, Your Highness.”

“What? Wait—”

Nikiel’s words broke into shock. The Duke had seized both his wrists in one great hand and pulled him into his chest.

What—?!

He hadn’t expected it at all. Yullan and Raymon recoiled from so much as brushing him. The Heads avoided his touch as if diseased. Only that day of the monster attack had contact been unavoidable. So to suddenly find himself gripped, wrist to wrist, powerless in Lucien’s iron grasp—startling.

Still weaker by build, even after months of exercise, Nikiel had grown a little stronger, but the albino serpent subdued him as one might a child.

Anger surged. He thrashed.

“Release me! How dare you!”

“I asked leave first, Highness. Forgive the offense.”

Lucien’s voice was cool, but his arm drew him tighter, reaching for what was concealed at his back.

Nikiel’s cheek rubbed against his chest, against silk and brocade. The scent of lilies rose faintly, dizzying. His face burned hot red.

Why… why is this turning me on?!

His lower belly tightened with heat. Wrong—utterly wrong. This was a situation for rage, not arousal. He thought of old angers—his professor berating his thesis, a junior harassing classmates, losing a winning lottery ticket. But none of those moments had ever made his thighs tighten like now.

“I’m not a deviant! This is insane—why now?”

Yet the man’s grip, the heated scent, the brush of muscle wrapped in costly silk—his own body betrayed him.

And why flowers, of all things—why should this man smell of flowers? He doesn’t even keep a valet like fussy Paul…

Still, Nikiel could not let go of the book. Nasihu Ossinis—a once‑in‑a‑lifetime find. No other texts truly chronicled the Dragon, save vague legends wrapped in royal myth.

He writhed harder—and only pressed himself further against him. His thighs rubbed between Lucien’s stance, his forehead and cheeks brushing his chest and collar in frantic pushes.

Lucien went white in the head.

“Highness, be still—nnngh—”

In his arms, Nikiel’s body was supple but alive with lean new muscle, flexible and springing. He squirmed without cease, all but petting Lucien’s frame with his own shape. Lucien could feel the warmth, the softness, even through layers of cloth.

Blood surged hot. The ruby of his eyes gleamed wet. With a gasp, Lucien shoved him back, breaking contact, releasing the seized wrists.

Nikiel blinked, then smirked like a man who’d scored a sly victory. So—contact costs them after all. Like the others, he recoils from my touch.

He looked up slyly. Lucien’s grip still pressed hard on his shoulder, the Duke’s chest heaving, words unsaid. His throat bobbed, Adam’s apple jerking with each swallow, his pale skin flushed crimson, lashes trembling over his ruby irises.

Heat poured from him in animal pheromones.

Nikiel tilted his head, face quizzical.

What on earth… is wrong with him? Is he ill?

For Lucien Turun, the reaction was disastrous. For Nikiel, it was bafflement—and reluctant intrigue.