MPNS Ch 80

Chapter 80

Despite that resolve, Paul’s loyal stream of jewelry suggestions continued, so Nikiel—face twisted with dread—declared he would not wear sapphire rings or finely wrought gold bracelets. He allowed only a small brooch to fasten the ribbon of the cravat‑like blouse, whereupon Paul, half-aggrieved, clasped his hands and showered praises at this rare “mature” restraint from the usually fluttery-dressed prince. At that moment, another page entered to announce Duke Turun’s visit.

Nikiel was puzzled. “Isn’t there still plenty of time before the ball? Why so early?”

Paul smiled awkwardly. “It is… customary for the pledged escort to visit the partner’s household two hours early to take tea with the head or guardian…”

What? A fine crack formed between Nikiel’s brows. Tea with the head or guardian? That was the sort of custom meant to honor debuting girls of society—ill-suited to an army reservist’s soul. He pressed his brow and said, “If the palace’s head or guardian means the king, he certainly won’t come here to receive Lucien. So why come early?”

“Shall I go and ask?”

“Stop with that nonsense and finish up. I’ll receive him myself.”

Even Paul, muttering it broke convention, resigned himself—one did not leave a high noble sitting alone for two hours. At last released after half a day, Nikiel descended to the parlor to greet the guest.

“Duke Turun.”

He entered and called Lucien’s name. The seated beauty rose slowly. Silver, spider‑silk hair was gathered and tied, revealing that sculpted face. A cream silk‑woven tunic gleamed; a pale sky‑blue frock coat suited his white skin, rose‑tinted cheeks, and ruby‑clear eyes. It risked overemphasizing mere prettiness, yet high brow, strong bridge, and broad, towering shoulders made him unearthly.

Nikiel beamed. “You look very handsome today, Duke.”

“…”

But Lucien only stared, eyes slightly dazed. Even as Nikiel came smiling—glad to see his sole court acquaintance aside from Paul—the other did not move.

Strangeness pricked at Nikiel. Lucien seemed too stiff. He approached, looking up. “Is something wrong, Duke?”

“…No, nothing,” Lucien said, shaking his head. His thin skin flushed easily; the pink on his face showed plainly. Nikiel watched, wondering if he had a fever, then decided further probing would be rude when Lucien kept averting his eyes. Instead he gestured to seats.

“You must have waited long. As you see, there’s no one fit to receive you but me, so forgive the breach of etiquette.”

“Please don’t mind it. It’s better this way… and you look especially splendid today, Highness.”

Lucien smiled small, still rosy-cheeked, gaze drifting around Nikiel’s shoulder like a bashful boy in first love, which made Nikiel oddly self-conscious. Paul, sensing timing, entered with fresh hot tea to replace Lucien’s cold cup.

Nikiel offered tea again. After one polite sip, Lucien set his cup down and lifted a box from the sofa to the table. “A gift, to commemorate our first ball together.”

“A gift? I came empty‑handed.”

Wide-eyed, Nikiel watched Lucien laugh warmly and wave it off—evidently another tradition. Since Nikiel did not refuse, Paul stepped over to untie the ribbon.

Inside lay a bouquet of blue roses and lace gloves made of white bridal veil. Nikiel’s expression went complicated—he had never imagined receiving such things. But Paul also looked stricken, and Lucien’s face flushed and froze.

Assuming they were embarrassed by his lack of delight, Nikiel forced a bright smile, slipped on the gloves. Paul’s brows slumped, wearing the look of a country grandpa watching a puppy dash into a freshly manured field.

What’s with that face.

Missing the silent warning, Nikiel flexed his fingers and grinned at Lucien. “They fit perfectly. Keen eye, Duke.”

Lucien’s eyes widened, then his lips curved. Usually cool in aspect, he now looked warmly approachable. The masculine lines of his face softened into a painting titled The Moment of Falling in Love.

Nikiel caught himself staring, then noticed Paul palm his forehead and shake his head. Before he could puzzle it out, Lucien said, “It seems the workshop erred—those are bride’s lace gloves, not men’s leather. I’m grateful the Highness did not deem it a breach and wore them.”

…Excuse me? Nikiel looked down. No wonder the shape felt suspicious. But he had already accepted—and donned—them. Even without mastering every local manner, wrenching off a beloved gift on the spot and tossing it back with a “You wear it” would be barbaric anywhere. So he kept them on, sighed, and shifted the subject.

“I’ve never seen a blue rose.”

“Dyed by magic. I prepared them myself,” Lucien said, confessing like an earnest youth. Seeing his joy, Nikiel resigned himself to attending the ball gloved as a bride.

Conversation with him was pleasant; they both loved research. Nikiel hid his true obsession with monsters, chatting only about the life histories of the cute‑looking ones. It was a bit of a waste—form without ecological link rarely drew him—but he preferred not to expose his curiosity and invite meddling at the Tournament.

Fortunately, the feint held. Lucien fed the interest with charming species, half from books and half from his own field experience, making it lively. His explanations were crisp, lecture‑clear in structure and headings—fun to hear. If only certain professors had taught like this. Then Lucien glanced at the clock.

“Shall we go to the hall? Time has come.”

Even a prince could not arrive after the king. In past years he had entered behind his father; this year, as Lucien’s partner, he must enter separately. Nikiel rose and nodded.

“…We didn’t practice much. You should have worn iron shoes, Duke.”

“The more I’m stepped on, the more guilty you’ll feel—and I, eager to impress, cannot offer an ironclad foot for stepping,” Lucien said with a sly smile. The gentleness made Nikiel chuckle.

“You must be quite the rake.”

“What a thing to say. I’m already lost in those lake‑blue eyes.”

He answered glibly. Embarrassing, coming from a man to a man, but Nikiel could only smile helplessly. Lucien’s answering smile matched.

Two picture‑beautiful men crossed the Prince’s Palace court and boarded the carriage carved with an ivory white‑serpent crest above the door.