MPNS Ch 94

Chapter 94

The acts of shutting a younger sibling in the forest and leaving him there were nothing but early attempts to tame a child to an elder’s liking; they did not look good at all. Nikiel could tell that Raphael was the same kind of man as his father.

From the outset, the true Nikiel’s temperament had not been gentle either; it was plausible these were simply vile traits passed down in the blood.

At Raphael’s words, Raymond’s brow knit slightly; then he offered the king another gentle, courtly suggestion.

“Then might Your Majesty adjourn the ball at once and proceed to investigate Count Gaspar? Given the gravity, this should rightly be treated as treason.”

“Is that not rather excessive, Duke Boltwik?”

Raphael again cut across Raymond. Slowly, Raymond turned to him; he was no longer smiling.

“What, precisely, is excessive, Your Highness the Crown Prince?”

“We cannot yet specify any charges against Count Gaspar, and already treating him as a criminal seems… precipitous. Besides, is this not a sacred occasion to pray for victory in the Hunt?”

Nikiel saw Raymond’s expression crumple, then smooth. Likely he thought, step outside and one will find nobles rutting in corners—so much for sacredness.

Feeling as though he could hear Raymond’s thoughts, Nikiel gave a short cough. This time Raymond shed his smile entirely, adopting the urgent air of a loyal servant distraught for his country.

“True enough, Your Highness. Yet will you feel no anger that your beloved younger brother nearly came to harm? Whatever that swine—pardon, that greedy wretch—put in Prince Nikiel’s cup, it cannot have been mere sugar.”

Shrewd, thought Nikiel. Framed before the public as “Do you not even worry for your brother, you sorry man?”, Raphael could only move as Raymond pushed.

But the king, again, favored his firstborn.

“Enough, enough… As the crown prince says, this is a sacred night; have him confined and begin inquiry tomorrow morning. And the dungeon is too harsh for one not yet condemned. I love my people.”

Is the man mad? Love of the people—while his own son may be left to die? Whatever the drug, seeing Yullan shift into a wolf with reason lost but no inward injury suggested an aphrodisiac at least; his son might well have been raped—at worst, killed—yet the father chose to elevate a noble’s standing.

And the nobles around them would seize on this—hail the king as a virtuous ruler who protected their class, while mocking Nikiel as a despised wretch ignored even by his father. This was a world that bit first at the weak.

Having spent all day polishing himself and preparing to attend with Lucian only to see it all thrown away, Nikiel wanted to stick a finger—no, a thumb—up at the king’s face.

‘A man to be made my slave, set first to scrubbing chamber pots.’

If the king’s father was Nikiel’s grandfather, it meant nothing to him; there was no warmth in blood here. Besides, the first blow had not been his.

Yet with the king’s pronouncement made, even Duke Boltwik could not gainsay it; the matter petered out.

The nobles whispered over the decision and stole glances at Nikiel. He judged he had again failed to shed his wastrel image at this ball. Irritation simmering, he stood still as Raymond descended the dais and glanced his way.

Their gazes tangled midair.

“…”

“…”

They regarded one another in silence. Raymond’s lips moved—as if he wished to speak. Nikiel sighed. Since Raymond had denounced Gaspar before the king, thanks were owed. He told Lucian he would go offer them, and Lucian smiled.

“Let us go together. I too should thank Duke Boltwik.”

“What thanks from you, my lord…?”

“He publicly cleared my partner’s name. A debt of gratitude.”

Teasing lightly, Lucian drew a small laugh from Nikiel, who, unaware of the foxcraft, approached with an easier heart. Raymond, a few steps away, stared fixedly at the lace glove on Nikiel’s hand—and the hand clasping it, Lucian’s. His stare was so intent that Nikiel found it odd.

Still, courtesy first.

“I am indebted to you. My thanks, Duke Boltwik.”

Even as Nikiel spoke, Raymond’s gaze stayed on the white glove. His voice was low when he answered.

“…How grateful are you?”

Not the response expected; Nikiel’s brow tipped up and the words caught.

“Well…”

“Grateful enough to grant a request?”

Calmly spoken. Nikiel, who had mostly seen his waspish temper, noticed for the first time how vivid Raymond’s green eyes were. He nodded slowly.

Raymond’s ear-tips reddened.

“Then… pray call me Raymond.”

Nikiel, slightly nonplussed, was about to ask if that was all—

“Raymond, Raymond, Raymond. Is that sufficient?”

Lucian’s dry voice, thrice intoning the name. Raymond’s brow crumpled fast.

“What do you think you’re—”

“You asked to be called by name; I obliged in his stead. At a ball, a partner shoulders vexations for the other—does he not, Your Highness?”

“Mm…? Is that a rule?”

While Nikiel ransacked his memory for such etiquette, snake and reindeer glowered, sparks in their eyes. He noticed neither, pondering the supposed rule.

‘Paul never mentioned any such thing.’

Tilting his head, Nikiel said to Raymond,

“What is a name? In any case, thank you—Raymond.”

“…Your Highness.”

This time Lucian gazed down at him in stunned dismay. As Nikiel arched a brow—what now?—Raymond swiftly took his hand and pressed his lips to it. To the lace glove.

“Grateful for your acceptance. I shall withdraw. Pray call me Raymond with such warmth again next we meet.”

Courteous, proper—yet with the clang of a seal stamped in triplicate.

‘I did not call him so kindly…’

Still, Nikiel nodded without thinking. Satisfied, a faint smile still at his mouth, Raymond turned and left—and at once Nikiel caught Lucian’s scent, sharp with anger. Cautious, Nikiel asked,

“My lord, has something angered you?”

“Nothing—save that my name is Lucian Turun.”

“Is that so…? Mm. And mine is Nikiel Ossinis.”

Was this an odd round of introductions? Nikiel responded blankly with his own name; Lucian sighed deep, then suggested they take their leave and that he would see Nikiel back.

Truth be told, Nikiel was tired; he nodded. With the king gone, only Raphael required a farewell, and Nikiel chose to ignore etiquette.

As Lucian’s arm circled his waist and guided him to the doors, a prickling gaze stabbed his nape. He did not look back. Enemies abounded still.

They stepped from the hall into Lucian’s carriage. All the way to the prince’s palace, Lucian kept stating his name; Nikiel, matching him, kept stating his own, baffled as to why.

When Lucian let him down in the inner court, he sighed, as though giving something up. An absurd line—“Care to come in for ramen?”—flitted through Nikiel’s head; flustered, he banished it at once.

They parted at the portico. Lucian took the blue rose from his own frock coat and gave it to Nikiel. Nikiel chuckled softly at last and breathed its scent, and Lucian—stone-faced till then—slowly followed with a smile.

It was a cool autumn dawn.