MPNS Ch 75

Chapter 75

“Two thousand knights” was a substantial force given the population; it made Nikiel wonder if this was typical for tournament preparations, though he kept quiet rather than ask Yullan.

Yullan glanced down and spoke again: “…The numbers were increased because Your Highness will attend this year.”

Nikiel read it as a rebuke—“stay home instead of tagging along”—and held his tongue. Yullan clicked his tongue softly. “…Would you like to open a weapons crate?”

It was unusually accommodating, even if his tone stayed flat. Resolving not to overthink it, Nikiel nodded. As he did, Oryx approached.

“Would Your Highness like to see the weapons?”

“Ah—yes.”

“This way.”

Oryx’s voice carried warm goodwill, oddly familiar in timbre. Nikiel had to keep himself from staring. Smiling lightly, Oryx passed Yullan and Nikiel and loosened a rope on the first wagon’s crate.

Nikiel meant to ask Benedict something, but seeing him step back two paces, he asked Yullan instead: “Why is the Grand Master not silver‑haired and black‑eyed?”

“What do you mean?” Yullan looked down at him as if hearing nonsense. Nikiel repeated, expression plain: “All paladins turn silver‑haired and black‑eyed, do they not? The Grand Master is black‑haired, red‑eyed—”

The words died on his tongue. He looked up, startled. Oryx, glancing over from the crate, smiled—so familiar it stung.

“Upon investiture, paladins’ hair and eyes change to silver and black,” Yullan said.

Nikiel wanted to ask, Then what about that man? He violates your “all” right in front of us. But his tongue stayed heavy.

“That includes Grand Master Ziments,” Yullan added.

No. He’s black‑haired, red‑eyed. Nikiel tried to speak with his eyes instead. Yullan’s next words veered where he hadn’t expected: “He too is silver‑haired and black‑eyed.”

Nikiel stared, eyes wide. His tongue loosened: “Th‑then, to Your Grace’s eyes, he appears silver‑haired and black‑eyed…?”

“Yes, Highness,” Yullan replied, still regarding him as if the question were strange.

It was bizarre. Nikiel looked again at the Grand Master. Oryx pressed a finger to his lips—shh—and winked. A shiver ran down Nikiel’s spine.

“Shall we look over the weapons?”

“…No. Not now.”

He shook his head slowly. Suddenly, he did not want to stand near the man who appeared black‑haired and red‑eyed to him alone. A scrap of something flickered through his mind:

“You… I cannot bear… the way you…”

A voice—broken, fragmented, impossible to piece together. The tone felt especially familiar today. But when had he ever heard such a voice? He knew no one who spoke like that.

While he stood blinking, lost in the surge of muddled memory, Yullan peered at him. “Your Highness.”

“…”

Before he could answer, the Grand Master stepped closer. “Are you unwell, Highness?”

“…No. No. I’ll view the weapons another time. Duke, I shall take my leave; I trust you understand. Grand Master, welcome to the palace. If you’ll excuse me…”

Before either could stop him, Nikiel turned and strode away. Yullan shouted something after him, but the words didn’t land.

He was rattled, and curious besides. He returned swiftly to his own palace. That day, for the first time, he skipped fencing; he bathed and lay down without dinner, eyes wide into the night.

At some unknown hour he drifted into a deep‑lake dream. In it, the familiar voice came again—blaming him, grieving that Nikiel had forgotten everything. Nikiel longed to soothe him, but could not even recall what he had forgotten.

Come morning, Nikiel realized he’d behaved strangely the night before—without drink as excuse. He rubbed his temples; no answer came. Disturbed, he chose the usual cure: cardio to spike adrenaline. His ankle twinged, but a light power‑walk seemed safe. He circled the broad gardens—until he met the very man: Oryx Ziments, still black‑haired and red‑eyed.

“Good morning, Your Highness.”

His greeting was simple. Ossinians, who framed their lives under Solius’s grace, usually pitched salutations to the sun’s height and often blended in hymns. A Temple Grand Master should have been even more ornate, yet his was bare, refreshing.

Only Yullan and Raymon (and, at first, Lucien) routinely skipped the sun‑flavored greetings; lately Lucien, though, had taken to kissing Nikiel’s hand in the highest royal courtesy, saying little else.

Perhaps because the greeting was so unusual, Nikiel was slow to register the reason for the visit. Still stiff, he answered, “…Good morning, Grand Master. What brings you to the Prince’s Palace?”

He regretted the bluntness—unbidden visitors were usually Raymon or Yullan, and they never came with pleasant faces; confronted with a smiling stranger, his reply had come out rigid. He cleared his throat, wiping sweat from his brow. Autumn or not, exercise left him in a thin tunic that clung damp to his back—a thought that made him unexpectedly self‑conscious for the first time since arriving in this world.

Oryx’s foreign‑tinted face softened in a small smile. “To ask your business before offering tea? I wondered if only Solius was saddened by your departure yesterday.”

Nikiel started—he’d been discourteous, too startled by the man’s appearance to do the proper thing. He had the face of a mother seeing a son return home and blurting, “What are you doing here?” only to jump up at the news he hadn’t eaten. He scrambled, calling for a page.

“Wait here—please! Tea at once! The parlor is that way. This way, please.”

Flustered, he beckoned, then commanded tea service, then redirected the Grand Master toward the parlor—words tripping over each other.

Oryx’s smile deepened a fraction. Catching it sideways, Nikiel felt his ear‑tips heat and rubbed both ears without thinking.