MPNS Ch 67

Chapter 67

He spoke in a cutting voice, words sharp enough to bite.

“Is it Your Highness’s will to be found alone in the forest, with one of your betrothal candidates lying at your side?”

“That isn’t what—”

“You must have eyes of your own, so let me spell it out, since your judgement is impaired: You, Highness, were just now discovered alone in the woods with a man who is naked—a candidate for your betrothal.”

…Was he insane? How was that the point here? A man had collapsed and Nikiel had done all he could to save him—and yet. But as he drew breath to argue, Nikiel sighed instead.

Because at last he realized: this world’s norms were as conservative, even prudish, as mid‑20th century Korea.

He had never forgotten himself as a man, not once—but he was going to have to get used to this hellish, restrictive code. Especially since public opinion was already so poor.

Even Paul, his own steward, was mocked by courtiers for “attending the slut prince.” Nikiel was learning that for the sake of even his attendants he must begin caring about his reputation. And after cutting up his own tunic to brace Raymon’s neck, his own clothes were in ruin.

If he walked back with a naked Raymon beside him, there would be no end to rumor—even with Yullan at his side.

“…I understand.”

His voice was heavy. Yullan’s eyebrow rose faintly at the resignation.

—

When reports of trees crashing down in the woods behind the palace had arrived, it had been just after the assembly of Lords collapsed into brawling. Sick of that mess—snake and bird squabbling, children to be chaperoned—Yullan had been emptying half a bottle of the Guard‑Captain’s brandy in resignation.

The liquor hardly touched his blood, and he was wondering whether to drink more when the griffon landed on his windowsill, scratching the panes.

What now, he thought bitterly, half inclined to roast birdmeat tonight. He had just lifted the window when the heavy thundering reached his ears.

Without hesitation he leapt through the casement. The office was only on the second floor—nothing to him. His Achilles tendons and hamstrings carried him to safe landing.

He closed one eye, ringed the other with thumb and finger to narrow his view. Beyond, in the palace forest, trees were falling in chain.

The griffon wheeled thrice in the air—the Lords’ sign that one of their number was in peril.

Yullan bolted. When the griffon seemed to follow, he signaled skyward. It banked away, no doubt to fetch Lucien.

His thighs burned like fire as he sprinted, even the stables no detour to him. A horse could not match his pace. Not in human form—but even so, his speed rivaled beasts.

Lungs expanded, pumping oxygen to every cell, driving his leaps as he raced to the treeline, veering diagonally to where the sounds converged.

But then the crashing ceased. He clicked his tongue. No sound—then only scent remained.

Drawing a deep breath, he filled ribs and nose with air. And there it was—

A lily fragrance.

It was faint, yet held within the rank musk of stag pheromones. A blue, floating scent, like lilies blooming across a lake.

Bloody hell…

He clenched his teeth. He should have warned them—warned Nikiel, warned the “boy” who wandered everywhere, about this cursed palace forest. He had trusted the other Lords not to lose themselves within walls.

If that stag’s hooves had trampled Nikiel’s frail neck, it would have snapped like paper. Just the thought lit fire in his eyes.

He followed his nose, swearing aloud. Branches whipped his face, cutting scratches as he charged forward. Heart thundered not with battle, but something wilder. Yet faster, faster, toward the thickening lily scent.

And then—through the fir trees, he found him.

Nikiel.

Panting, exhausted, smoothing sweat‑wet hair from Raymon’s bruised face, fingertips gentle.

Shafts of sun through trees faded—but Nikiel himself glowed brighter, standing amid forest gloom, white hair crowned by some impossible halo.

It must be illusion. Yet Yullan’s chest constricted as if a fist seized his heart. Emotions stormed him, unknown until this moment.

It seared him to see Raymon receive that caress. Envy—raw, choking jealousy. He longed to crawl forward, press lips to Nikiel’s feet, bury his face in palms, find rest he had never known. His eyes even stung with phantom tears—he, who never wept.

He dared not admit it. If he acknowledged it, everything of him would collapse, rebuilt only by Nikiel’s hand. He would lose himself entirely.

And then he noticed Raymon’s bare body—scratched raw by his frenzy.

Of course. Clothing dissolved during transformations. But the sight now stoked inferno in Yullan’s gut.

That bastard.

Never before had manic stag rouses inspired such hostility in him—not even toward Raymon.

Revealing himself at last, he stepped from cover. Relief brightened Nikiel’s pale face—brief, before he stood and retrieved dignity, torn tunic revealing his stomach.

Yullan’s mind blurred. He dropped his cloak around Nikiel’s shoulders. And spoke his warning.

Nikiel, to his credit, seemed to understand.

“…I am glad you do, Your Highness.”

“And… Duke Boltwick?”

“Does it matter?” The words snapped, edged with inexplicable anger.

Nikiel only sighed, waving a hand.

“Enough. Leave him to you, Duke. I’ll return quietly to the palace. Worry no more.”

He turned his back. Yullan said nothing, only watched. Cloak heavy with his pheromones wrapped around Nikiel’s frame—a twisted satisfaction lit his chest.

He never looked back once. Yullan stared until the blonde head vanished, until even the scent drifted thin on the air. Then he clicked his tongue, pressed finger and thumb to lips, whistled twice—signal of calm restored.

Signal too, for the griffon. Jikari returned, reducing size until sparrow‑small—a petty declaration of “I’ll take my time about errands.” He circled lazily.

Yullan’s eyes narrowed. “Bring this fool clothes,” he called.

The griffon vanished toward the Guard compound.

Yullan’s gaze returned to the unconscious stag. He did not hesitate—struck his cheek, a slap sharp enough to scatter birds from the trees.

“Wake.”

His voice was flat. He slapped again until Raymon groaned, clutching his face.

“What—agh, why does my cheek hurt—”

“You hit a tree. Stay still until Jikari returns with clothes. I’ve no time to waste.”

“What? No cloak, even?” Raymon rotated his jaw, aghast. He looked dazed still. Yullan thought him idiotic, turned on his heel, and strode from the forest without another look back.

Rage followed—the roar of the stag, calling his name. Yullan did not answer.