MPNS Ch 77

Chapter 77

“Yesterday and today, there were sudden darkenings at midday—they say the sun set in broad daylight. Even the astrologers didn’t predict it. I didn’t even notice the sky go dark.”

That’s called an eclipse, medieval folks, Nikiel thought at Paul’s report, yet he only sat there blankly without replying.

Ever since the sudden visit from the Grand Master of the Paladins, Paul’s liege had worn a vacant look, dazed and absent. His master was often “unusual,” yet in many ways surprisingly sensible; this, clearly, was one of the “unusual” times. Paul—Nikiel’s diligent retainer—privately judged that his master had seemed fine for a few days, but not now.

Still unwilling to see Nikiel so deflated, Paul ventured, “The ball is the day after tomorrow—please, no injuries in today’s fencing lesson.”

“…It’s only a lesson. Hardly the occasion to get hurt.”

He’d been staring off again; Paul had expected no answer at all, and blinked to hear a courteous reply. He decided it best to hurry Nikiel to practice. And so, spurred by his suddenly zealous valet, Nikiel dressed and headed out for fencing.

It was the lesson that should have been held yesterday. But after seeing Oryx—no, Naet—at the Temple, a heaviness had crushed his chest; he could not go, and sent word to Yullan that a headache would keep him away. With that man’s temperament, he had expected a barked “Then don’t come again,” but the page returned with a northern Iteren remedy for headaches—Yullan’s first such consideration. Nikiel felt he ought not skip today. He rode by carriage to the practice yard.

As the hour was after sunset, the grounds were quiet. Yesterday, Yullan had carved out time but the lesson had failed; today, perhaps Allewyn would teach. Nikiel stepped inside.

“Ah…”

“You’re late.”

Yullan, wooden sword in hand, greeted him—oddly using formal speech though no one else was there. Staring, Nikiel realized he hadn’t even offered a greeting, and dipped his head awkwardly.

“I’m sorry to have missed yesterday, when you made time. I had a headache…”

“And now?”

“…What did you say?”

“I asked how you are now.”

He asked it calmly, watching him. The gleam in his golden eyes was more earnest than before. Nikiel thought his manner strange—no irritability, no insult.

“Well… I’m fine. …Thank you for asking.”

Not knowing why the duke acted so, he paid the courtesy anyway. Yullan glanced at him, said nothing, and began the session.

He demonstrated a diagonal cut, downward from above, and had Nikiel repeat it. The basics had begun to take shape—Allewyn would sometimes spar him one‑handed—but under the eye of the realm’s greatest swordsman the flaws still showed; Yullan moved to correct his stance.

“When cutting on the diagonal, engage more from the legs. Keep the waist centered and firm the right thigh—ah, pardon.”

He had reached toward the prince’s thigh, then withdrew before contact, apologizing. A question mark rose over Nikiel’s face.

“What are you apologiz—ah…”

He realized the spot had been the inner thigh. Embarrassment touched his cheeks.

Before, Yullan had tapped wrist or leg lightly with a wooden blade rather than touch; now he’d reached, then stopped. Startled by the sudden intention to use his hand, Nikiel flicked a glance up—Yullan’s face was expressionless, cool.

Ah, I’m the only one being awkward. We’re both men—why make a fuss over a bit of contact.

Though he knew this world’s chastity codes were odd, being apologized to for an almost‑touch made him feel even more awkward. Yullan seemed unbothered; only Nikiel felt flushed—though the tips of Yullan’s ears looked faintly red as well.

…Is it warm in here?

Perhaps the salle was warmer than usual. To hide his discomfort, Nikiel swung harder. Yullan watched, then turned away, went to the table beside the weapons rack, and brought a long, narrow oaken box—about the span of a child’s outstretched arms. Mid‑cut, Nikiel glanced between Yullan and the box.

“What is that?”

“…”

Without answer, Yullan opened it. Inside lay a sword, a touch shorter than those used by local knights. The blade was iron; the hilt, set with gems—a splendid weapon.

Nikiel stared, then looked up, puzzled. Was he showing off a blade? But the words Yullan spoke were unexpected.

“…It is Your Highness’s sword.”

“…What did you say? My sword…?”

He didn’t notice he’d started to stammer. His sword? Impossible. When he asked again, Yullan nodded slowly.

“With the Tournament near, I commissioned it. Consecration complete, it has just arrived. It was made in haste—that is a blemish—but the Temple’s smiths are skilled. As you see, the polish is excellent.”

It did seem so. Unbidden, Nikiel reached and lifted the blade. Contrary to its look, it was quite light.

“I… didn’t expect to receive something like this.”

“…You have trained diligently,” Yullan said, blunt as ever. Nikiel did not notice how the rims of his ears had flushed near to bursting; his mind was elsewhere.

What is this…? Why so kind? When he used to treat me with contempt…

He was suspicious. Even at the Temple earlier he had sensed a change. Perhaps his words then had struck a chord.

Well, in the book he was a fine leader. Perhaps he reflected.

Nikiel thought simply. It did no good to dig too deep into others’ minds. Better to assume Yullan’s opinion had shifted from “irredeemable trash” to “salvageable trash.” And Yullan wasn’t one to ignore effort. At least in swordwork, Nikiel had tried; perhaps this was a reward.

The thought of earned reward drew a smile.

“Thank you. It is truly excellent.”

“…”

He smiled at Yullan, but the duke did not answer—only stared down at him. Nikiel, long resigned to the man’s odd temperament, only bent over the blade, examining it with absorbed delight.

Thus the day’s training ended. When Yullan offered an escort, Nikiel declined politely—“my sword will escort me”—and boarded his carriage.

No sooner had he departed for the Prince’s Palace than Allewyn entered the yard. The day’s tasks were piled high; the captain of the Knights had left his post to oversee the prince’s training himself.

Allewyn wondered why Yullan was doing what he could do.

Perhaps… he plans to invite His Highness to the ball—propose.

And the urgently requested sword had just arrived from the Temple. To persuade that haughty smithy, they’d needed gold equal to half the sword’s intended weight. The royal budget covered the Tournament’s expenses, so they hadn’t brought jewelry in advance, but a courier had been sent to Iteren to fetch a few gems from the duke’s domain. The topaz and golden emerald were set in the hilt—a costly sword.

Thus Allewyn was certain: handsome captain, gift in hand—proposal successful.

If it worked, he would have escorted him home.

He had come seeking his captain, but expected the yard to be empty—surely Yullan had gone to see the prince home.

Yet—

“…Why are you here, Your Grace?”

There stood Yullan, at the weapons rack, polishing a blade with a cloth. He glanced over at the question and replied flatly,

“Then where should I be?”

Allewyn gaped.

“You should have escorted Prince Nikiel to the palace.”

“He declined.”

Allewyn noticed the continued honorific even in the prince’s absence and thought, Ah, the captain’s doing it right… then quickly masked his look and added,

“Even so—if your ball proposal succeeded, an escort would be proper—”

He clapped a hand over his mouth—the captain’s romance was none of his business. But Yullan’s response was not what he expected.

“…The ball?”

He set down the cloth and repeated it. Allewyn’s eyes went wide, uncomprehending.