MPNS Ch 79

Chapter 79

He’d been treated like a child. Jikari Griff was at once shocked and humiliated. He had always considered Nikiel his mate-eagle. Recent weeks had seen the snake smear pheromones all over Nikiel like a petty animal, but as the ruler of the skies, Jikari assumed none could challenge him.

And he had reason. He was a magnificent golden eagle. Unlike other males with glossy white tail-feathers, his curse had made his plumage entirely black—but even that “flaw” was outweighed by his splendor. That wasn’t his own assessment; it was the unanimous opinion of every admiring hen.

He was confident. If he courted Nikiel, of course he would be accepted. And yet—one moment Nikiel stroked his beak and nuzzled his cheek as if to accept—and the next, facing him in human form, he failed to recognize him and treated him like a child.

Why the change? Humans and eagles couldn’t mate, as far as he knew—unless he was wrong? Other birds had said the world of pairing was deep and subtle. He should have observed summer courtships closer.

Did Nikiel only consider him a partner when he wore the form of a golden eagle? Disrespectful as the thought was, Jikari could find no other reason. Or perhaps he hadn’t fully matured yet.

True, his growth had halted at some point. But he had never lamented it. Even as a subadult, he was a splendid eagle! No male guarded a nest better than he.

Unlike many raptors, golden eagles are monogamous. Jikari was sure he could look only to Nikiel for a lifetime. How lucky, to have such a faithful mate—yet that shining golden human did not recognize him.

It was a severe blow. He had come today because—unlike other years—Yullan had warned of the appearance of a “sentient being,” and Jikari had taken up scout duty first. He didn’t attend balls, but in case Nikiel was waiting to enter with him, he had come to say he could not. He had even finished the fantasy of perching on Nikiel’s shoulder, feathers gleaming, and entering together—only to see the plan collapse. His human tongue wasn’t perfect, but he believed he could make Nikiel understand—because Nikiel had…

“He called me pretty,” he muttered. “Said I was the most beautiful eagle.”

How could he forget me! He had hoped to reveal himself today and confess that he had been the faithful mate all along. But now, unrecognized, he felt only grievance. And to be treated like a child atop it! He could build a nest and provide perfectly for chicks and mate right now. He might be a subadult as a human, but in the eagle realm, there was no better husband than Jikari. Unacceptable.

He stopped, hands on hips. He had come to the forest behind the palace. He was more accustomed to flying than running, and to have sprinted all the way here from near the Prince’s Palace without thinking—he must have been truly rattled.

He clicked his tongue. Because of a childhood betrayal by a stepmother, he had failed to complete his growth. His siblings, undone by her scheming, had all died; she had tried to seat her bastard by her lover as heir to end the Griff line. Jikari avenged his siblings, but killing at such a young age left him mute; he hid in the woods and lived among birds.

If Nikiel wanted to attend the ball with him, he would ask Yullan to postpone his scouting mission until dawn after the ball.

This could not stand. He headed at once for the marquis’s town house on the capital’s edge. Though he held the western fief of Redal, a great house like Griff would keep a residence in the capital. Jikari himself preferred his nest in the woods, but there was no time to dither.

He had to complete his maturation during this Tournament. Otherwise, the snake—so quick to read any shift—would steal the order of pairing; or the four‑legged ones—dull to nuance but keen of scent—would begin to track Nikiel’s noble fragrance.

He stripped, transformed, and took to the sky. Time was short.

Seeing the freshwater‑pearl powder from Hippibaur upriver, Nikiel yelped. He couldn’t help the absurd squeal.

“Are you insane? Make‑up? I’ll lose my manhood!”

“Manhood…?”

He had forgotten that “pepper” wasn’t a euphemism in Ossinis; chilies (chilibell) were only spice. He racked his brain for the local vulgar term. Seeing his odd face, Paul brightened.

“Ah—eggplant?”

A native Korean, Nikiel flushed faintly but nodded. So that’s what they called it here. A strange sense of dispossession flickered, but he reminded himself—he was a subject of Ossinis now; nationality could wait.

Make‑up on his face drove him half mad. With magnanimity, Paul offered compromise:

“Then a perfumed bath is acceptable?”

Since he did that anyway, it felt less excessive. Nikiel sighed.

“…Fine. That’s unavoidable.”

Paul nodded and grinned—three hours later, Nikiel realized it had been a tactic. Offer a worse option so the “lesser evil” seems reasonable—only for that lesser evil to be hell itself.

“…Enough. Enough!”

“We’re not done!”

On the morning of the ball, the scrubbing made yesterday’s massage seem kind. It was, in his mind, laundry—a human wash. Soaked and softened, pounded and rinsed, dried and perfumed—like cloth. When he had nearly accepted his fate as fabric, at last Paul beamed.

“Look in the mirror! O Solius! Your creature is perfected!”

To credit Solius after doing all the work himself—ridiculous. Still, for the zeal, Nikiel glanced at the bronze mirror—and gasped.

He looked like… an idol on awards night.

Hair, shoulder-length, was not left loose; sticky, clear gum‑wax swept the fringe back, baring a noble brow—like a confident young rake come to charm duchesses. Usually he thought himself more “pretty” than handsome, but showing forehead added a clean masculine edge.

Yet contrasted with the feral brow, he wore a black muslin‑dyed, wafer‑thin blouse speckled with tiny teardrop diamonds, glittering. Tied like a cravat, not poufed but turned lightly to one side in a ribbon, it showed graceful lines more than masculine bluntness.

Over it, a black satin frock coat embroidered with gold leaves at the hems; among gold buttons, jewels flashed—emeralds so vivid they looked blue‑green flames. Shoes were flax‑colored silk—Eastern thin slippers—an odd, elegant harmony against the black blouse, vest, and coat.

Half sick of it, he closed his eyes.

“…Isn’t this too much?”

“Not at all! Duke Turun may appear even grander. The partner’s beauty must not eclipse Your Highness’s splendor!”

Fair enough—Lucien was himself a vision; without comparable polish, he might be overshadowed before the nobles.

In any case, Nikiel saw this ball as his reckoning.

All those who yapped behind his back—time for payback.

Not with fists, but by standing before them as a robust royal. That count—Gaspar or Pasteur—had sneered at him before. He needed to stake his place among the nobility—so that if he did end up marrying one of the Lords, he could divorce quickly and fend for himself. For once, he burned with resolve.