MPNS Ch 78

Chapter 78

Alewyn stood there, mouth ajar before he managed to ask Yullan,

“…Weren’t you going to ask for the partner’s place at the ball?”

“What?” Yullan replied, frowning as if trying to recall something. Alewyn knew at once.

…Ah, of course. He’s forgotten the ball entirely again.

Yullan had never cared for such functions. He’d even shown up to the Tournament ball in field uniform rather than tails, earning the king’s rebuke more than once. Still he persisted—why wear tails if he wasn’t going to dance? Alewyn ventured,

“It isn’t that you refused to apply because you dislike dancing…?”

“…No.”

The reply was impassive, but Alewyn, long at his side, could tell he was badly flustered.

Oh dear, how did this happen!

Because the sword had been rushed, Alewyn had assumed it was a gift for a proposal to Prince Nikiel at the ball and had not pried. One did not meddle in a superior’s romance. Of late the prince and captain seemed less at odds; Alewyn had dared to hope.

His Highness hasn’t been causing scenes lately, and his approach to swordsmanship is upright. Those who know the martial ways are kind at heart. One who trains so earnestly cannot be wicked… surely he was finally setting royal dignity in place and turning to the Lords’ care.

Of course, skill at the sword doesn’t make a saint—but as a swordsman himself, Alewyn couldn’t help goodwill toward one who trained. The prejudice had merit here; his reevaluation of Nikiel wasn’t baseless.

Yullan, too, fit this. He didn’t pour energy into hating. Even when he disposed of the former duke, he hadn’t tortured to excess, hadn’t done the grotesque for revenge—he simply killed. It was a man with no appetite for lingering spite. Which is why the rumbling at Nikiel had always seemed off to Alewyn. And indeed, behind the growls, he’d meticulously prepared a jeweled blade for the prince—Alewyn knew; he’d been the one to dispatch a fast rider to fetch the emerald for the hilt.

Alewyn put hope into his voice:

“T‑the other Lords likely haven’t asked either. It’s not ideal to enter without a partner, but invitations can still be made once the ball is underway…”

Yullan didn’t answer, but to Alewyn he seemed almost relieved. He kept his blank face and offered no more words. It was too late to dash to the Prince’s Palace and ask again, so Alewyn let the matter rest and produced the stack of approvals needed for the final preparations.

But an unguarded moment can spark a war, as any soldier from Iteren fails to learn in time.

With the ball a day away, Paul was determined to scrub and polish Nikiel to perfection. He woke him early, blocked exercise, and tormented him with massage and treatments. Fearing he’d flee if pushed, Paul compromised with a “mere walk.” Thus escaped, Nikiel wandered the forest path between Prince’s Palace and the main keep, collecting bird feathers.

The scabbard is fine, but a bit plain.

The sword Yullan had given him had a splendid hilt, but the scabbard was modest—Temple smith’s taste on the hilt, Yullan’s conservative pick for the sheath. A few feathers, silk‑tied by Paul, would adorn it nicely.

As he walked and searched, he sensed someone. He looked up. A young man stared straight at him.

“…Huh? Who are you?”

Nikiel rarely spoke first to strangers, but the face was arresting enough to stop him. His hair was brilliant gold, like molten metal—rare even in this world. Gray eyes fixed on Nikiel. And the clothes were strange. People in the palace were usually of three types: royals, nobles, or servants.

This man—no, youth—didn’t fit. Though autumn deepened, he wore only a thin tunic, breeches, leather boots. Simple, yet the fabric looked very fine—like Nikiel’s own, woven of Ashinca silk. Even so, the cloth was creased, and he wore no Ossinis vest nor frock coat over the tunic.

Nikiel was similar—but lately, thanks to Paul’s nagging, he wore a silk vest; he looked a shade more proper. But this was his home; casual dress was natural. Anyone else, unless royal, wouldn’t roam so lightly dressed—strange. Too well‑made for a servant, too underdressed for a court noble’s child.

Nikiel frowned slightly and tried again:

“Are you lost?”

Perhaps a bureaucrat’s son had followed a parent and strayed. He was Nikiel’s height but looked boyish, gentle‑eyed; it obscured his age.

He stayed silent. Nikiel approached with care, like to a wild creature, trying to show he was safe. If lost, he’d guide him. Stopping within arm’s reach, he asked again:

“Whom did you follow into the palace?”

The boy only stared, golden lashes trembling over gray eyes. A thought struck—perhaps he couldn’t speak.

Though his build seemed sturdier than Nikiel’s, the youthful face made him look precious, endearing. Nikiel’s hand rose without thought and patted his hair. The lashes fluttered; the lips moved.

“You’re young. If you’re not alone, return to your guardian. A palace isn’t a place to wander alone.”

Hypocritical, from one who slipped about alone himself—but he played the old hand. The fabric was fine, but without a coat, the boy looked a minor noble of humble birth. He might blunder into those who once picked fights with Nikiel—pointless trouble.

He was about to offer escort when the youth turned, sprinted past him, and ran off.

“Hey—boy!”

No answer. In moments, he vanished. Nikiel was left nonplussed. He’d only wished to help—and the boy fled. Had his words offended him?

“Ah well. Perhaps he had urgent business.”

Uninterested in dwelling on others’ minds, Nikiel returned to scanning the ground. After some time, he found a fine feather—sleek and black as ebony, like his beloved golden eagle’s plume. A good find.

Back at the palace, he handed it to Paul to bind with silk and hang from the scabbard. Paul deftly knotted and threaded it through a hole at the sheath’s tip, letting it hang like a tassel.

Pleased, Nikiel flicked it a few times—then, under Paul’s nagging that preparations would begin at dawn, went to bed early.