MPNS Ch 64

Chapter 64

 

The two men’s conversation carried on until, before they realized it, they stood before the Guard Captain’s office adjoining the training hall. Lucien rapped the door once—yet without waiting for reply, he pushed it open wide.

Raymon, still immersed in his own brooding, felt his mood sour the moment he stepped inside. His eyes met Yullan’s. At once, as though having seen something filthy, both men broke eye contact.

On the sofa sprawled the arrogant bird. Jikari, golden curls tied back with a ribbon, gray eyes rolling lazily, sat up abruptly at Lucien’s entrance. Grabbing at the albino duke’s collar, he thrust his nose close and sniffed.

“Disgusting. Get off me.”

Lucien coolly pressed a palm to his forehead and shoved him away. Jikari, though long past adulthood, was smaller than the other Lords—his height not much above Nikiel’s. He hollowed his bones for flight, like a small bird, though he styled himself a raptor.

He feigned harmlessness—but his gray eyes sparked as he hissed a cutting phrase:

“I smell it. Lucien—Nikiel’s scent.”

So it was true.

Raymon’s gut clenched. That lingering fragrance he had detected was indeed Nikiel’s lotus oil.

Jikari, too, froze, his gaze turning icy, fixed upon the serpent. His talons and beak all but promised to flay Lucien’s skin. Lucien scowled.

“You sound very certain, Griffoux. Why? You speak as though you spent hours close enough to memorize his scent.”

The words were disingenuous. All four Lords lived wrapped in beast instincts; once smelled, a scent was never forgotten. Just as Jikari and Raymon had noticed from the faint trace clinging to Lucien’s shoulder where Nikiel’s hand had lain.

But Lucien’s red eyes now burned with illogic, baring fangs simply to crush dissent. Fire dripped in his gaze, like a beast enraged, its domain trespassed.

“Stop.”

Yullan’s single word halted them.

Raymon, queasy under his command, looked up. The Duke of Balt rose from behind his desk, stoppering the ink well, planting both palms flat as he leaned forward, eyes scanning each of them.

And then, drawling:

“So. Each of you seems to be carrying his lily‑scent like a brand on your hide.”

“……”

“How did that happen?”

The meaning was clear.

Years ago, the Four Lords had silently agreed: disappointments one and all, the king and his brood would not be granted power. None of them would touch Nikiel—never even risk a brush of contact.

They had kept this pact—until whispers broke that the youngest prince had lost his memory.

Even then, the truth was unchanged. Whether he remembered or not, Nikiel was a puppet of the king. To kiss his hand, to draw his body close—such acts would spring a trap laid by the monarch himself.

Thus they had avoided him, consciously or not. Yet now… they each seemed to have touched him.

Yullan, hiding that he was Nikiel’s fencing master, glared sidelong at the others.

“Where did you make contact?”

The boy was like a horned cat, leaping a hundred times daily to the stove no matter command. Yullan ground his teeth, thinking of Nikiel. What was he doing, scattering his lotus fragrance about until every Lord in the kingdom could recognize it?

In the past none would even have known his perfume. Jikari would never have gotten close. And yet now, they all knew exactly how enticing it smelled.

This… was dangerous. The king could notice such things. Yullan had told himself it would be harmless to consent to teach Nikiel a few swings—but already it endangered them all. He had summoned the Lords to speak of the Tournament—and received a greater problem.

Lucien pried Jikari’s grip from his collar and snapped:

“What does contact matter? That is between His Highness and myself.”

All three looked on him sharply. Lucien only dusted his sleeve with careless grace.

“Guard the Lily’s bulb alone—that was always the matter.”

“The Lily’s bulb”—their code for the king. Raymon’s brow furrowed sharply.

“Are you saying, Duke Turun, that you mean to wed His Highness?”

“Why not?” Lucien answered blandly.

The words were barely past his lips before Jikari’s fist cracked against his jaw.

Lucien staggered, then snarled, returned the blow. Fists struck. Their cheeks bloomed purple, swelling. Yullan slammed his scabbard down on the desk.

“Take it outside. You’ll break the teacups in here.”

The “meeting” unraveled before it began.

Raymon sighed, rising wearily. But then Jikari loomed, shifting form, great eagle spreading wings and pinning Lucien under talons.

“Jiki! You blind?!”

Yullan barked, gesturing to the wall, where bold letters read: “No Flying Indoors.”

Chastened, Jikari shrank again. As his claws lightened, Lucien twisted, seizing his leg, and hurled him into the wall.

But the bird veered effortlessly, wings catching the air, soaring to the ceiling instead of crashing.

Raymon stifled a yawn and turned for the door. The meeting was plainly over.

But Yullan’s voice cut him.

“Duke Boltwick.”

He paused, hand laced behind his head, feigning idleness. Yullan, setting scattered parchments to order, asked:

“Did you also have contact with the Lily?”

For some reason, bile churned in Raymon’s stomach. He smiled.

“Yes, my lord Duke. Yesterday I fucked the Lily raw.”

The room froze.

Jikari and Lucien’s brawl halted. Even Yullan’s hands stilled.

Lucien’s grip clamped on Jikari’s skull, eyes blazing death. Serpent pheromones filled the chamber, noxious and sharp.

“…What did you say you did, Boltwick?”

The question was courteous—but in Lucien’s ruby eyes his pupils ripped upward like a slit.

Yullan exhaled long, weary.

“Enough, Turun. Those words cannot be true.”

Raymon only snorted, shrugging, smirking.

“Ask the Lily yourself.”

And left. His smile quickly faded, washed into a scowl.

Why, he wondered, had Yullan begun to care about Nikiel at all?

Once, Yullan never spared him thought. Even if he reeked of perfumes, even if another Lord had shared his touch. But now—he had reacted instantly, like one who had smelled it firsthand.

What could that mean?

It felt like a burning stone sank into Raymon’s gut. Heat seared him, his body restless. Was it anger—or illness?

He frowned deeply, turning toward his Huntsmen’s estate, thinking bitterly: on such days, luck never came. And perhaps he’d best flee straight for the woods—for already, madness coiled like a serpent around his ankles.