MPNS Ch 88

Chapter 88

Nikiel looked up at the brazen figure who had appeared out of nowhere and downed the contents of his cup—his own sword master and lord of the North.

“…Your Grace, what are you doing?”

“As is plain, slaking my thirst, my prince. Fruit wine abounds, yet does yielding me a single sip grieve you so?”

Yullan replied offhandedly, his face as indifferent as his tone. He even seemed to find Nikiel’s indignant, “And now you pick quarrels like this—Your Grace,” faintly pathetic. Nikiel knit his brow.

“No, but to stoop to this sort of— Hey, Your Grace.”

He had opened his mouth, determined to have his say today, when he noticed Yullan’s eyes glazing. More—his complexion was visibly draining of color. Startled, Nikiel forgot his own expression and blurted out,

“Are you unwell, Your Grace?”

Yullan tapped the empty cup against Nikiel’s hand, as if to say, It’s finished; you can keep the goblet. The gall of it.

“Never have I felt more invigorated. Spare me, and go to that rattlesnake you brought as your partner.”

With that curt dismissal, he turned on his heel. Nikiel tilted his head in bafflement. Looking into the cup Yullan had handed back, he saw within a residue of some unknown white substance—like undissolved powder that had settled at the bottom.

‘What is this…? It certainly wasn’t in the other cups.’

Clear, golden apple wine should not have left such impurities; it made no sense.

While Nikiel pondered the sediment, Yullan strode swiftly out of the ballroom. Why had he emptied the cup that had been offered to Nikiel?

‘I had a bad feeling about it… didn’t want to drink it….’

Seeing the white powder, it seemed possible Yullan had noticed and taken it upon himself.

Nikiel had not been in a position to refuse the cup. He had accepted Lucian’s offer to partner him precisely to salvage his poor reputation, and this ball was part of shoring up his standing before the Hunting Tournament.

He knew well how vital social tact was. Thus, when a suspicious man proffered a suspicious cup, he could neither drink nor discard it—until Yullan suddenly appeared, whisked it away, and tossed it back.

It could not be mere thirst. And then he left at once, leaving no chance to ask why.

‘Should I follow?’

Just then, Naet came near, took Nikiel’s hand, kissed the back of it, and whispered,

“Act as you think best, and that shall be a miracle. My Night.”

“What does that…”

Nikiel looked at him. His eyes were still green. Where had the garnet hue gone? Naet glanced toward where Yullan had vanished, then spoke again, voice weighted.

“So you are that sort. To your own, inexhaustibly kind.”

“Your Grace, this is no time for your riddles—”

Then Nikiel felt the air stop. The noise around them froze into silence. In that suspended stillness, he blinked dully at Naet.

“Yes. And knowing it, I still loved you.”

“…”

“Regrettably, that too is something I have loved.”

Pain clenched Nikiel’s chest. Somewhere a crystal shattered; a young baron’s daughter, newly debuted last year, breathed an Oh dear and flushed bright at the ears, chastising herself for the mishap.

The paralysis broke like a thunderclap, and time flowed again. Most of Naet’s words slipped through Nikiel’s mind like water; only a heavy ache remained.

Naet smiled faintly and gave Nikiel’s back a gentle push.

“Go, then. To your beast.”

Absurdly, Nikiel’s legs moved the instant Naet’s hand pressed him, and then quickened of their own accord. Silken shoes struck the ballroom floor in decisive strides.

The nobles sighed softly, thinking the prince came toward them from the center of the hall. But that meant nothing to Nikiel now.

He realized, at last, he was running. Attendants, seeing him, flung the doors open. He rushed through without even knowing where they led. His heart began to hammer.

Just before passing out, he glanced back. Naet was no longer there.

Even after leaving the ballroom, Nikiel did not hesitate once. He ran as though he knew the way—as though he knew precisely where Yullan had gone.

A faintly familiar scent hung in the air. He went straight out of the palace grounds. At this pace, before reaching the auxiliary residence the king had built for his concubines, he would come upon a garden in full bloom, in this season no less. Autumn’s flowers flung themselves wide in a last blaze before winter.

Through the heavy scent of elecampane came another he had once known.

‘A beast’s pheromones….’

Yes. It was the very scent he had taken before Raymond changed into a reindeer: sharp, cutting, and strong—keen as if to attack, yet not truly threatening harm.

“No way…”

He murmured without meaning to. Could Yullan be transforming? He burst into the garden and cast about. From far off came a whisper of harp—drifted music from the ball. Otherwise, the autumn garden lay hushed.

Then, with a hiss of wind, something growled.

“Your Grace…?”

His head turned toward the sound. Before he quite knew it, his steps had carried him to the statue at the garden’s center, where Yullan leaned with his brow pressed to stone.

“Your Grace.”

He called again. Yullan still did not look back; his forehead remained against the statue as his breath rasped. That mountain-like back rose and fell visibly.

“If you’re unwell—”

“Do not come closer.”

At last his voice, roughened. Nikiel stopped without thinking. He had heard Yullan speak curtly before, but never so desperate. So he took one more step forward.

Yullan lifted his head and looked back. Golden eyes flickered. Nikiel saw that his canines had sharpened.

“…In seconds… I shall become a monster. Flee as you are and evacuate the others, Your Highness.”

“Your Grace.”

“Please. Do as I say.”

He grimaced, breath ragged—anger and pleading mingled. Seeing his face, Nikiel’s mind cleared. The air swam with a beast’s pheromones. Without hesitation, he advanced.

“What are you—”

Yullan began, startled—

“—Kh…!”

He doubled over; the fabric at the humped back of his frock coat split with a series of unpleasant tears along the seams.

“Hah—ah—!”

Claws burst through his boots. The breeches tore as his thighs swelled. He tried, even bent, to brace on his hands without dropping to all fours, but it was useless. With clawed palms pressed to the ground, he set fully on four limbs.

“Ggh—”

Writhing, his ears sharpened to an animal’s. Through the shredded cloth, fur sprang in a dark tide. Nikiel stared, transfixed. The young lord of Iteren, last line of defense in the North, had become a four-footed beast.

“Do not—look— Ugh—hah—”

Perhaps a shard of reason remained; Yullan’s plea was almost human. The wolf’s body swelled. Yullan was not short, but this wolf was the size of a cottage. In the lamp-lit garden, the beast cast Nikiel’s face into deep shadow.

The change finished. The beast, eyes blackened, fixed on Nikiel. The house-sized wolf had recognized him.

Grrrr… grrrrrrk… It rumbled, lowering itself—poised to spring. Thinking of a wolf’s hunting habits, Nikiel sighed and opened both arms.

“Come, then. Come here, little dog.”

At that, the black wolf barked once at the air and charged. Its hind claws scored the garden floor. It leapt, jaws yawning to break Nikiel’s neck.

Nikiel did nothing—only held his arms wide.

At last the wolf’s muzzle touched the nape of Nikiel’s neck.