MPNS Ch 83

Chapter 83

“My goodness….”

“Oh, O Solius….”

Exclamations of astonishment burst out here and there. Every gaze in the banquet hall had been fastened upon the entrance. Standing at the doorway were two strikingly handsome men, shoulder to shoulder, surveying the hall before them.

The snapping of fans among the noble ladies grew frantic, while the gentlemen covered their mouths with silver goblets, muttering in subdued tones. A terribly clamorous silence swept through the hall. Their eyes assessed the two handsome men with the precision and severity of overseers scrutinizing miners at their toil.

“His Highness Nikiel presents us with yet another innovation in coiffure.”

“Indeed—and tell me, what is that blue rose pinned upon his coat?”

“Even His Grace, the Duke of Turun, sometimes adorns himself so splendidly.”

The nobility dissected the attire of the two men in minute detail. Not a few gasped upon noticing Nikiel’s tall, debonair figure crowned with hair swept back from his forehead. Over the summer, through diligent exercise, the once-delicate prince had dispelled his frailty, now radiating vitality like a jewel come to life.

Lucian, standing just beside him, surprised the crowd no less. His manner of dress today strayed far from the simple neatness he normally considered sufficient. The young Minister of Magic—whom many only ever saw as fastidious and solemn—now shone with dazzling allure. Nobles who had feasted their eyes on lesser beauties such as Raymond and Yullan found themselves enthralled, astonished by this unexpected transformation.

Curiously, Lucian’s tall frame and strong build, though refined with the delicate beauty of one with fine features, appeared markedly masculine when set next to Nikiel. The young nobles, witnessing this picture-perfect harmony, felt stirrings in their hearts.

Yet what most agitated those gathered was something else entirely.

“Upon His Highness’s hand…what is that…?”

At a marquis’s remark, all eyes turned sharply to Nikiel’s hand—more precisely, to the glove of white lace he wore.

It was no ordinary glove. This was among the ceremonial treasures traditionally bestowed upon a bride at her wedding. The lace gloves, crafted of the finest silk thread, were exquisitely difficult to fashion by even the most skilled of artisans. For this reason, such gloves were reserved solely for the paramount moment of a wedding ceremony. To wear them was to declare the prestige of the union itself, for the quality of the gloves determined, almost without exaggeration, the quality of the marriage. And the glove Nikiel wore was indisputably of the highest tier.

“Surely that is imported from Fransua?” whispered a noblewoman behind her fan to the marchioness seated beside her. The lace appeared indeed to hail from Fransua—a faraway land acclaimed for its peerless lacework.

It had, of course, been a preposterous falsehood when Lucian claimed the wrong pair had been prepared in error. Yet, blissfully oblivious, Nikiel would never know the truth. He innocently extended his gloved hand to Lucian—an unspoken invitation to be escorted by his partner into the ball.

Their ease and naturalness left the hall dumbstruck. A young lady who had secretly pined after the Duke of Turun swooned upon the spot. Noblewomen and youthful lords who admired Nikiel let out cries of awe. And in the midst of that clamor-wrapped silence stood Yullan and Raymond.

“Did I just see….” Allewynn muttered without thinking. But he quickly snapped his mouth shut, cowed by the pressure radiating from the superior at his side. He glanced at his commander—Raymond’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles bulged like cords, fury plain upon his face. The very air seemed streaked with the killing intent of a Swordmaster, and his subordinates strained visibly to withstand it.

From across the hall, Minervina observed similar peril.

‘Ah, Heaven help us. He is utterly seething.’

The heavy scent of a beast’s pheromones weighed low over the chamber, keeping frailer nobles from daring approach. Minervina stared into Raymond’s green eyes, now shot through with blood.

‘This will end in disaster.’

A chill of premonition struck her. She instinctively looked toward the entrance of the hall, where Nikiel—hair of platinum smoothed back to emphasize unusual masculinity—stood smiling beside Lucian radiant in his purity. By sight alone, they were a most splendid couple. And yet Nikiel wore upon his hand a bridal glove—a gift a groom would bestow upon his bride before marriage. There could be no doubt Lucian had given it to him. To present such a token to one’s partner in a ballroom was tantamount to laying bare the heart of a great serpent before all. The Duke of Turun had just delivered an unmistakable message to the other lords assembled: this was a declaration of battle, the staking of territory against rival beasts.

Raymond’s gaze fastened upon the white lace glove, fitted snug over Nikiel’s slender hand like the tip of a silverfish. Minervina knew with certainty they were all doomed.

Though the households of Baltaga and Boltwick had never held good relations—indeed, their retainers on entering the hall had withdrawn into natural distance—at this moment, they shared wholly the same foreboding sentiment. Both feared what their masters might do in a fit of temper.

The first to act was Yullan. He began to stride toward Nikiel, who had taken a step as though to enter the center of the hall. At that moment, a herald thundered out after filling his lungs:

“Make way for His Majesty, sovereign of six provinces, the Unsetting Sun of Ossinis!”

At once, all nobles in attendance rose together, placing their right hands upon their left breasts, bowing at the waist. The second-floor doors swung open. The king of Ossinis entered.

He wore a crimson velvet cloak embroidered with a golden shield, upon which an unicorn reared upon lifted forelegs. As it was a day for festivity, a crown crowned his dirty-blond hair.

From the upper staircase, the king, pale of visage, gazed down upon the hall below, giving no mind to the attendants lifting his train as he descended. Only once he was several steps from the bottom did he finally speak.

“Today is a day appointed for blessing, not abasement. Bow not too deeply. Raise your heads and show your king faces as bright as spring sunlight.”

Obediently, the nobles forced smiles. Released from the storm of attention that had weighed upon him since he first entered, Nikiel exhaled in relief, lifting his eyes instead to meet those of the king, his father.

‘A thorn in my side every time we meet.’

To keep every neck bent until his descent was complete, only to say then that courtesy was unnecessary—it was nonsense. Nikiel sighed, prompting Lucian at his side to regard him curiously.

“Is Your Highness unwell?”

“…No. Rather, must I not shortly make my obeisance to my father the king? Shall it be all right?”

Since he had entered in Lucian’s company, it was fitting they should greet his father together. Yet Nikiel worried—the king’s keen attention might fall too greatly upon them and expose what lay between them.

Lucian smiled gently and pressed his hand with firmer warmth. Lifting their clasped hands to his lips, he gazed down as though intending to brush a kiss upon Nikiel’s fingertips.

“To earn Your Highness’s concern is, for me, a profound delight. Pray allow your servant to bask in it all the longer.”

Ah, unbearably embarrassing! Nikiel felt his temples warm and glanced aside. From the carriage ride to this very hall, Lucian had attended him in the most courteous fashion—so careful, as though Nikiel were a fragile blossom to be guarded from a gust. The feeling was strange, but not unpleasant. It was the sensation of being honored.

Unlike the cloying gestures of a suitor eager to woo, this felt more like the gracious reception reserved for a distinguished guest. Ever since he had stepped into Lucian’s carriage, adorned with the crest of that house, he had been treated so. The journey was brightened as Lucian even performed magic, conjuring amusements to fill the time.

Nikiel had been taken wholly off guard when Lucian, solemn-faced, drew a rabbit from within his frock coat.

‘It seems my lord has many talents….’

‘I grew nervous and missed several of my intended steps. I had first prepared a greeting before the entertainment, you see….’

The absurd explanation made Nikiel laugh aloud, and until their arrival he could scarce stop smiling. They seemed to share a similar sense of humor. Nikiel could not help his mirth as Lucian, expression stone-serious, let pigeons and rabbits slide from his coat into the open air.

‘What a waste of a magician’s gifts.’

‘My gifts are as broad and deep as Your Highness’s wisdom itself.’

His unstudied compliments and flattery, too, turned out to be pleasantly acceptable. By the time they reached the hall, Nikiel’s cheeks ached from laughter. But now this same man, who had made him laugh until he wept, was trying to kiss his hand with words so sweet they burned.

Nikiel thought, were he some innocent maiden, he might have fainted into Lucian’s arms and yielded right then. And if his father forced marriage upon him—why, perhaps a life with one who shared so keen a sense of humor would not be unpleasant after all.

At last, with the air of someone conceding defeat to his own heart, Nikiel gave a small chuckle and tugged Lucian closer.

“Shall we then go to meet… father-in-law?”

It was but a jest, a quip tossed lightly into the air. Yet suddenly Lucian’s face bloomed bright red. Caught so unawares, Nikiel himself froze too. The mood turned peculiar. Lucian stammered, eyes still alight with crimson.

“Wh-when you say such things so suddenly…I—become nervous….”

Nikiel almost snorted. So forward when coaxing, and yet when tugged in turn, shrinking like this? And yet it was endearing too.

‘How old is Lucian again?’ He was surely younger by far. Though their first impression had been chilly, the more he knew him, the more captivating Lucian seemed.

So, while Lucian flustered near to collapse, Nikiel leaned in with a sly smile.

“If my father should promise misery in my married life, you may cast me aside on the spot, saying you refuse to live in such sorrow. Unlike him, I am quite the understanding sort.”

“How could I ever refuse Your Highness?”

Catching his point, Lucian laughed lightly, answering in kind. And so, hand in hand, they advanced toward the king—never realizing that golden and green eyes, blazing with fire, burned holes in their backs from where they clung fast against the walls of the hall.