MPNS Ch 70

Chapter 70

Nikiel was just as baffled. The sensation of Raymon shuddering like someone jolted with electricity the instant his wrist was grasped wouldn’t leave his hands.

Was it sheer revulsion at being touched? He tilted his head and landed on that conclusion.

“What a piece of work…”

He clicked his tongue in disbelief. Just then, a tea‑serving page peeked into the parlor, saw that Raymon had left, and glanced at Paul in surprise.

Nikiel shook his head and beckoned the page.

“Just pour one for me. What was that sudden show about?”

He figured tea would help. This wasn’t the first time someone had behaved oddly around him without explanation; curiosity no longer bothered him.

“So strange… why would he— Never mind it, Highness,” Paul murmured, watching for any sign that Raymon’s rudeness had actually hurt Nikiel’s feelings.

Playing up a show of anger, Nikiel sent Paul off to fetch a monsterology volume. Even the valet who usually barred night reading “for skin health” delivered the book this time—so in the end, Nikiel counted it a win.

Raymon, who had hurried out of the Prince’s Palace, was in turmoil.

“Ugh—damn it…”

He felt heat flood all the way to his fingertips. One thigh seam of his breeches pulled tight; the fabric at the crotch was faintly damp.

Lost in mortification and fierce confusion, he pressed his palm to his brow. His body still trembled. He had never felt this kind of arousal.

His reason for coming had been simple: to confirm what he sensed. Was the lotus scent in his hair truly Nikiel’s? If so, how on earth had the prince approached a raging stag to touch his head? He would not rest until he asked.

The spine‑tingling jolt had struck the instant Nikiel stepped into the parlor. Merely sharing a room made his skin heat. The courtly greeting drilled into him since boyhood wouldn’t even form on his tongue.

Like a country fool before a first love, he only trembled, face slack, unable even to meet those guileless blue eyes. He felt a looming certainty—if he stayed, disaster would follow. He had to leave. But walking itself was difficult; the weight at his thigh made every step awkward.

Afraid the odd gait would be noticed, he moved carefully—thus letting his wrist be caught so easily.

And then the tide hit.

“Ha—shit—”

Recalling it now, his face burned deeper with shame and shock. Ecstasy surged up his arm from the wrist, staggering. He dared not open his mouth—uncertain what desire might escape if he did. He stood there, frozen—

No. He could not dwell on it. Not in the middle of the palace, not again.

So he left the Prince’s Palace with nothing to show for his visit, retreating to his waiting carriage. He hid the suspicious stain at his thigh with his frock coat as he boarded, lest the coachman notice.

Then he saw the crest on the carriage door and ground his teeth.

“Damn.”

He always used an unmarked carriage when calling at the palace—lest anyone note his visit. But today he had ridden straight here in the Boltwick coach, antler crest and all—idiocy.

He rapped twice on the wall to signal departure, head pounding. He had waited all day for the prince and fled without even sipping tea.

Regardless of his spiraling thoughts, the carriage bore him swiftly to his manor, where butler and staff stood to receive their lord.

He alighted, tugged his coat closed to hide his discomfiture. Baroness Minervina Weiss stepped forward.

“Your Grace.”

“…What brings you here?”

Minervina and Evelyn served both as Boltwick retainers and Hunt Bureau officials. The silver‑haired beauty seemed to have come to hear of the day’s events. She asked:

“Countess Evelyn said you suffered frenzy earlier. Are you well?”

“Mmh.”

He answered with a throat‑rumble, then moved to hand his frock coat to the butler—stopped—fished a cloth from the pocket and clenched it in his fist.

“If it’s not urgent, let’s speak tomorrow. I’m a bit tired.”

“Tired?” she echoed, incredulous. Raymon only admitted fatigue when he had hunted monsters on one hour of sleep for four days, eating two meals total.

Thinking quickly, she nodded.

“From the frenzy, then.”

…But it wasn’t that. There was no fatigue from frenzy at all. Barely a day since he’d transformed at the palace center, his body felt light—and he had only made a fool of himself in another man’s parlor.

Seeing his face change, Minervina’s curiosity sharpened. Before she could probe, he dismissed her.

“In any case, I’m tired. Go back.”

“But we need details for the record—”

“Tomorrow.”

He turned his back and entered the manor. She watched him go, frowning.

Raymon, because of his sister’s legacy, was careful with public face. He never bared his true temper before servants; only Evelyn, Minervina, and the other Lords knew it.

Normally he would have smiled warmly for the staff, spring breeze on his face. Tonight, he looked vacant, dazed.

She recalled Evelyn’s complaint:

“He left without saying a word about the frenzy. Where did he go? We need a report.”

“No idea. Skittered off lovestruck—first love, maybe,” Minervina had joked.

First love? She scoffed. Raymon did not “love.” He could court noblewomen charmingly, yes, but he lacked the cling of romance. He didn’t care enough for people to love them.

Having rushed to the manor to document the earlier‑than‑expected episode, she shrugged, took the reins from the coachman, and mounted.

That night, in the duke’s chamber, the magic stone burned low—and very slowly went dark.

Raymon did not return to the Prince’s Palace after that. Nikiel, for his part, was busy: skincare, ignoring Paul’s nagging, cramming monster‑hunt lore before the Tournament.

There was also fencing. Though hectic, he loved lessons. As Yullan was “busy,” he had been sent to train under Allewyn since yesterday.

Allewyn, the knights’ Left Marshal, was more than enough for a beginner. The time was fruitful—but curiosity demanded a polite inquiry after the former teacher.

“My good Allewyn—has the Duke Balt been particularly busy of late?”

Called “Al‑larry” again, Allewyn made a strained face and answered,

“…Yes, Highness. Preparations for the Tournament. Much to arrange.”

“I see.”

Nikiel replied cleanly and resumed thrusting his wooden blade into the straw dummy’s neck.

It was Allewyn, not the prince, who grew anxious.

“If His Highness seeks me—no, never mind,” he muttered, remembering Yullan’s odd half‑sentence when sending him to Nikiel. The taciturn duke seldom left thoughts unfinished.

Something was off.

“His Grace has been thinking of the prince more than usual,” Allewyn realized. Once, Yullan had ignored Nikiel as one ignores filth in the street.

Cautiously, blaming his own chatter, the marshal added:

“…Blessed iron arms have arrived from the Temple. As you know, iron weapons are most important for monster hunts—”

“What?”

Nikiel’s eyes flashed. Iron arms? Not bronze?

He questioned again:

“Blessed? The Temple sent iron?”

“…Yes. Each year.”

Allewyn wore a look of helplessness—how far did he have to explain basic facts to this youngest prince? In this world, even children knew the Temple blessed iron for the hunts.

Nikiel read the look at once.