MPNS Ch 68

Chapter 68

Left alone, Raymon examined himself, unbothered by his near-naked state.

“What is this…?”

Around his neck was a strange pouch-like thing, fashioned by tearing fine cloth and tying it in place. Feeling along the fabric, he found slats—like splints fixed to keep the neck immobilized.

As he loosened it, a lotus fragrance pooled in the cloth rose to his nose.

“When did this…?”

Had Nikiel tied it on? If so, when? The first person he’d seen after returning from stag to man was not Nikiel but Yullan. And Yullan had said nothing about Nikiel. Raymon tried to reconstruct details, but the moment he lost his reason was indistinct.

He did remember this: after leaving the Guard Captain’s office that Yullan was using, his thoughts had begun to blur.

When Lucien’s frenzy eats him whole, he buries himself like a hibernating serpent, or sinks to the bottom of a great lake to endure it—confining himself before reason fully erodes. The same held for Raymon. The best course was to catch the signs of frenzy early and bolt for the palace woods.

But there had been no time today. The signs had overtaken him all at once—unlike before.

One saving grace remained: he had repeated to himself, over and over, that there must be no casualties.

So when he fully transformed into a stag, he fled unconsciously toward the emptiest parts of the forest. Even as he ran, a voice of unknown origin spoke inside his skull:

Kill Nikiel Ossinis.

It sounded neither adult nor child, neither male nor female. It felt like letters made audible—etched into Raymon’s mind, compelling the hooves of the stag to move. His dimming reason barely kept him from charging the Prince’s Palace, steering him into the woods instead. After that…

“Ghh—!”

A thunderclap of pain cut off his recollection just before the forest. Everything after was hazy.

And yet, beyond a faint headache, he felt only freshness. Lighter than usual—almost as if he had never suffered frenzy at all.

That was odd. After frenzy and a stag’s transformation, his body was usually covered in bruises from collisions; muscles swollen then deflated left him racked with malaise. But now—nothing. He felt full to the very cells, as if he had sunk deep into clear water and risen cleansed.

“How strange…”

He tilted his head and, almost without thinking, buried his nose in the cloth and inhaled.

Just then, a prickle of warning—he looked up, and clothing thudded down over his face. Tossing it off, he gave a thumbs-up skyward.

Jikari circled above, screeching irritably—not a crow, and yet scolding like one—then wheeled away, apparently offended by the rude gesture.

Raymon pulled on the tunic and bray in turn—only to realize there were no boots.

“Bloody bird—left them on purpose, no doubt.”

Indeed. Jikari, annoyed at errands from Yullan, had not bothered to fetch them. The tunic smelled of rotting straw, the breeches were caked in dust—work clothes from a stablehand or smithy, by the look and scent of dried sweat.

Unpleasant, but no choice—he dressed anyway, cursed skyward again, and strode barefoot from the woods.

The farther he walked, the stranger his body felt—in the sense that it felt extraordinarily well, as after a perfect night’s sleep. When had he last slept deeply? His insomnia was worse than the other Lords’; shadows under his eyes were constant companions. Yet now he felt brisk and renewed, as if fresh from forgotten slumber.

Rolling his shoulders loose, he left the woods, stole a pair of boots hanging by the stables, and headed for the Hunt Bureau. Too small by far, they twisted his gait, but there was no help for it. He meant to report the day’s frenzy and have it recorded.

His episodes, though not clockwork, were periodic. Having shed one today, there should be a lull before the next. That it struck earlier than expected was unusual, but not unheard of.

This time, what differed was duration: markedly shorter than past bouts. Usually it lasted from a day to as long as three—and the aftermath was punishing.

Still testing his condition, he entered the Hunt Office in the administration building.

The deputy, Countess Evelyn Wolf, glanced up, face bored.

“What hooliganry have you been up to to look like that?”

“And a good afternoon to you too, Countess.”

He brushed off her impertinence and strode to his private office at the back. She scolded his retreating head about tracking in manure on his boots.

Of all the staff, Deputy Evelyn Wolf and Administrator Baroness Minervina Weiss knew his real temperament—that the sweet, spring-breeze smile often masked a brutal stag. He did not bother to hide his foulness from them; they had belonged to House Boltwick—once sworn directly to his sister, Lia.

When she returned to earth, she left even her retainers to him. They had been her playmates as children; that they knew him too well was inevitable.

Saying nothing, he closed the door, frowned at his still‑odd body, and swapped into his spare boots. Only after donning a frock coat and checking the bronze mirror did he resemble a proper man again. He also tucked the lotus‑scented cloth—fading now—into his pocket.

“Check if anyone was harmed by a giant stag this afternoon,” Evelyn said, pushing up her monocle without so much as a glance his way.

“If a giant stag, did you invite your dear friend to the palace? Share some moss?”

Raymon grimaced.

“Yes, we grazed together, reminiscing about running the snowfields. Is that the answer you wanted? The frenzy came earlier than usual—spare me and make the entry.”

She jolted upright.

“What do you mean your frenzy flared? It’s too soon! Your damned temper—couldn’t you hold it in for once—”

He looked genuinely weary. They always made him think of his sister—and not always in ways he liked, especially when they nagged like her.

“Just check for damages. If none, send everyone home.”

He flicked a hand, collar up, and turned to leave. Evelyn called after him:

“How did you shed it so quickly, then?”

“Don’t know,” he answered without turning.

It was true—he had no idea. But perhaps not everything was beyond reach.

He stepped out. Clerks passed, bowing; he returned smiles smoothly. At the same time, a thought rose:

Lotus perfume…

Not only the cloth around his neck—his hair held a faint trace, too. He knew precisely who used that fragrance.

So—awake and wandering the palace already, are we?

The moment the envoy carried news of Nikiel’s recovery, Raymon had intended to go. If the northern bastard hadn’t summoned the Lords, he would have. But with the Tournament looming, he lacked grounds to refuse.

On the way to the meeting, he’d encountered Lucien—smothered in lotus scent.

His stomach had flipped. He was no stranger to fury—but this felt different, like drowning in a stronger current. He even wondered if that intense emotion had triggered the frenzy early.

The idea that Lucien had reached Nikiel first burned him. If not for that farcical meeting and the frenzy, he would have run straight to the Prince’s Palace to demand why Nikiel hadn’t stayed put until his visit.

After that—nothing. Only the memory of fragrance at Lucien’s shoulder and hip—echoed now in the lotus scent clinging to Raymon’s hair.

The Lily met me? After I’d already turned stag?

He knew Nikiel had changed—but not enough to feel anything extraordinary. Frankly, two days earlier when he had lifted the collapsed prince, he’d expected something to thunder through him, as the old Lords had claimed. When he’d gripped his wrist before, no spark had come—he thought perhaps closer contact might differ.

But the vaunted “divine power” seemed a lie. Holding Nikiel gave only a faint calm, a drowsy thought that he could sleep at last—and that was all. And not long after, the frenzy had seized him—proof enough Nikiel held no flood of sanctity. If he did, Raymon’s episode would have been delayed, not hastened.

And yet—while he was a stag—Nikiel had definitely touched his head. His nose told him so. Fingers through his hair, brush against his cheek; those crystal‑bright hands had cradled his face and tied a brace at his neck.

Which begged the question:

How, exactly, had Nikiel been able to touch him?