Chapter 19

Lucien stood in the courtyard of the royal keep, surrounded by his retainers and knights.

Contrary to Kosha’s anxious suspicions, neither the prince nor his closest advisers had forgotten the mage existed. They had simply needed time to investigate his background and determine the most appropriate course of action. Unfortunately, time was the one luxury they could least afford.

The antidote had only partially worked, leaving Lucien with no memory of anything he did between sunset and sunrise. He usually welcomed the occasional surprise as a refreshing diversion, but being forced to dance entirely to another person’s tune inspired a vastly different reaction. In the end, he devised a strategy to prevent further accidents. By completing every duty while the sun remained overhead and drowning himself in sleeping draughts shortly before dusk, he managed to contain his nights, though only at the cost of processing twice his usual workload during the day.

Lucien rarely buckled beneath a mountain of responsibility, yet the past three days had proven an ordeal of an entirely different nature. Exhaustion had lodged itself deep in his bones, accompanied by a dull, relentless headache that clung to him from dawn until dusk. This uncharacteristic malaise stemmed directly from his disrupted sleep, or, more precisely, from the grotesque dreams born of the medication’s forced and shallow slumber.

“Duke Carlot.”

Lucien had just emerged from the hall after concluding the morning’s administrative meetings. As he strode through the corridor with his entourage trailing behind, the unexpected voice brought him to a halt. Although autumn had only just begun, a stout man swathed in sable and layer upon layer of heavy fur rushed toward him, practically rolling down the stone passage.

“Minister of Finance,” Lucien greeted him.

“Does the Duke of Aramor truly intend to risk another war?” The Minister of Finance gasped for breath, spilling words like grain from a torn sack. “Surely not. With Izeland’s treasury in its present condition, any further expansion of military expenditure is impossible. You know that, do you not? This is the time for Izeland to consolidate its internal stability. Surely you agree, Duke Carlot?”

Merely looking at the man’s vividly flushed face made the corridor feel oppressively warm.

Lucien arranged his features into a genial smile. “Of course. But was that not merely the position expressed by his proxy? My brother did not attend today’s meeting, after all. This is not a matter to be decided lightly, so I beg you not to worry yourself excessively.”

“T-that would be the case, would it not?”

“Indeed. I have no desire for further warfare either.”

“Is that so?” The stout man released an audible sigh of relief. “You are truly wise. How fortunate we are to have someone like Duke Carlot here. I feel far more at ease now.”

After fussing over the matter for a while longer, the Minister finally rolled away. The instant he disappeared from sight, Lucien’s masklike smile vanished.

He had barely cleared the long corridor, descended into the inner courtyard of the main keep, and rounded the corner when another group intercepted him. At its head stood a white-haired, middle-aged veteran, still powerfully built and clad from throat to heel in full plate armor.

“Your Highness.”

Are none of them hot in this weather?

Lucien seamlessly restored his picturesque smile. “Cavalry Captain.”

“No matter how I consider it, leaving those northern bastards alone cannot be the right course.” The old commander leaned closer, his armor clanking with every movement. “Your Highness, is timing not the very essence of warfare? If we strike first and crush them before winter truly sets in, victory is well within our grasp. I do not know what those ink-stained scholars have been whining into Your Highness’s ear, but you must not allow their silver tongues to mislead you.”

Lucien nodded, soothing the agitated veteran as gently as one might calm a child. “Yes, of course. How could I fail to understand the importance of timing when maneuvering troops? Please, do not concern yourself. No one has said anything of the sort to me.”

“Ah, how fortunate that Your Highness understands! What could those fellows, who spend their lives indulging in empty armchair theories, possibly know about war?”

Moved by a lie delivered without the slightest flicker of hesitation, the cavalry captain rambled on for several more minutes before finally departing. Once again, the pleasant façade slipped from Lucien’s face.

“Am I a deputy regent or a nursemaid?” he muttered.

With the King growing increasingly frail, the court operated under a regency composed of his three most influential children. Arabelle, however, had unexpectedly departed to inspect nine cities in the southern territory of Seodin, while Bastian remained the sort of man who could not be coaxed from bed before noon. Serving as prince regent meant possessing minimal authority while shouldering an abundance of responsibility, which made it a thoroughly thankless position for anyone not actually seated on the throne.

Lucien’s head began to throb again. As he habitually rubbed the bridge of his nose, Mailot clicked his tongue.

“Another headache?” the retainer asked as he matched Lucien’s stride. “It has been severe since the day before yesterday. Why not consider changing the prescription?”

Lucien frowned and shook his head, knowing the cause of the pain all too well.

That damned dream.

It was the sort of nightmare he had not suffered since childhood, yet it had plagued him for three consecutive nights. The mere thought of it stirred a foul, restless irritation deep in his chest. Had he possessed his full faculties during his waking hours, he would have seized the culprit by the hair and dragged them into the courtyard the moment his eyes opened. Naturally, preventing himself from doing precisely that was the reason he poured potent sleeping draughts down his throat at sunset.

Yet even within that forced and wretched sleep, the grotesque imagery persisted.

“No, it is fine.” Lucien squeezed his eyes shut, wrenching his thoughts elsewhere. “More importantly, the tail we placed on the Seodin faction…”

He turned his head, then stopped without warning.

For one fleeting instant, Lucien wondered whether he had finally begun dreaming with his eyes open.

Large emerald eyes wandered across the courtyard with a faintly dazed expression. Pale skin marked someone who had never spent a day beneath the sun, while reddened cheeks made it impossible to tell whether they were swollen or merely flushed. The moment those vacant eyes finished sweeping across the courtyard and settled directly upon him, their expression softened into a small, awkward smile.

With jarring clarity, Lucien realized that this creature was profoundly different from the form he had grown so sick of seeing in his dreams.

This is no dream. This is real.

His hair was neither absurdly long nor damp, and his gaze remained sharp and alert instead of hazy. Fingers as thin as paper fluttered uncertainly in Lucien’s direction, as though their owner could not decide what else to do with them.

Lucien’s feet moved before reason could intervene. His stride lengthened, carrying him across the courtyard in moments before he reached out and seized his target.

“Ah, Your Highness,” Kosha stammered. “Well, actually…”

“Who put this here?” Lucien demanded.

His hand closed forcefully around the back of Kosha’s oversized shirt. Strands of hair brushing the mage’s nape tangled between the prince’s fingers along with the fabric of his collar.

Kosha froze in the iron grip, unable to produce so much as a squeak.

“I-it is not quite like that. I was told Sir Mailot…”

“Mailot!”

“Sir Mailot was here, so I came looking for him,” Kosha desperately attempted to explain, though Lucien appeared entirely deaf to the words.

At the sound of his lord’s thunderous roar, Mailot rushed over in utter shock. Kosha offered the stunned retainer an awkward smile, immensely relieved to have found the correct person after his arduous journey through the castle.

By nature, Kosha was a man who accepted responsibility for his actions. Since that night, however, the weight of that responsibility had become almost unbearable.

This is a disaster, he had realized earlier in his room. Lucien has completely and utterly lost his mind, and it is all because of me!

Surely only a thoroughly insane man would commit such strange acts. Consequently, Kosha felt duty-bound to free Lucien from the effects of his own wicked magic. Fleeing the problem meant he would never sleep peacefully again. He had only intended to find Mailot somewhere nearby, never imagining the endeavor would require an epic journey.

The royal palace of Osterbrache was vast and labyrinthine. Every door remained firmly shut, offering no indication of where it led. It was the largest castle Kosha had ever encountered, and he cursed his own naivety for assuming all castles followed a similar layout.

Would it be better simply to turn back?

He had stood there in utter despair, contemplating retreat, when a high-pitched female voice sounded behind him.

“Hey, you there. Who are you?”

Startled by the possibility that his botched escape had been discovered, Kosha spun around. A young woman stood behind him, her hair braided neatly atop her head. Her blank stare lingered on him for a moment before her eyes widened slightly.

“Oh my. What is this? Are you new here?”

Kosha blinked, noticing that her clothes resembled his own. A servant, then.

“Ah.” He nodded stiffly.

She stepped closer. “You are a newcomer, are you not? No wonder I have never seen you before.”

Mailot’s assurance that the palace employed so many servants that one more would never be noticed now seemed like a complete miscalculation. Apparently, newcomers could be identified at a glance.

Kosha’s stomach twisted with anxiety, but the woman merely tilted her head. “Which section are you assigned to?”

Having no idea how to answer, he pointed vaguely in the direction from which he had come. “Um, over there.”

“Ah, the West Wing? Then you must serve either Prince Lucien or Prince Sorellin.”

She was a remarkable person, capable of deducing the truth from such a pitiful explanation. Kosha smiled with all the gratitude he could muster, causing a faint flush to rise into her cheeks.

“Goodness, you really are pretty,” she observed softly. “No, forgive me. You are a man, so I should call you handsome, should I not?”

“Thank you.”

“But what are you doing here?”

Kosha parted his lips. While he largely agreed with the common assessment that he lacked both cleverness and common sense, even his slow mind recognized an opportunity.

“Actually, I am looking for Sir Mailot. I have an errand for him, but I became lost.”

“Sir Mailot? Ah, Prince Lucien’s man.”

For once in Kosha’s life, an extraordinary stroke of luck had arrived. Everyone in the palace seemed to know Mailot by name.

“At this hour, he should be in the main tower,” she offered warmly. “Come with me. I will take you close to it.”

Kosha followed the genuinely kind servant, repeatedly bobbing his head in gratitude. The journey became somewhat awkward when she began asking increasingly personal questions, though he endured them as best he could.

“You look rather young. Have you only just begun working here?”

“Yes, I have.”

“You truly are pretty. Forgive me for repeating myself, but do people not tell you that often? That is why I assumed you came from the East Wing. Prince Bastian’s… Well, you know what I mean, do you not?”

Having absolutely no idea what she meant, Kosha nodded awkwardly. “Yes.”

“I am glad you do. Still, you should be careful around people like that. If fortune turns against you, you might become entangled in something unpleasant. Do not even go near the East Wing.”

“I will not.”

“Goodness.” She flushed again, regarding him with an endlessly softened expression.

Before they parted ways, she fussed over him like an older sister, brushing and straightening his clothes.

“There. Go that way. The meeting should have ended by now.”

“Thank you for bringing me.”

“Think nothing of it. Take care of yourself, and let us meet again.”

Encouraged by her kindness, Kosha found the courage to continue wandering through the unfamiliar palace. After straying off course and asking another passerby for directions, he eventually reached the correct location.

He simply had not expected to encounter Lucien first.

Mailot had assured him that the problem occurred only at night, leaving Kosha somewhat reassured beneath the blazing midday sun. Truthfully, he had harbored a faint hope that the prince might recognize him now that he was tidy. He was still the same Kosha who had presented Lucien with a bouquet, after all.

Instead, Lucien charged toward him and seized him by the nape, leaving Kosha too flustered to defend himself.

“Why is this here?” Lucien hissed, lowering his voice as far as it would go and forcing every word through clenched teeth.

“Well, I wonder?” For once, Mailot lacked an immediate answer. Looking as though he had left half his soul behind, he fixed his unfocused eyes on the mage. “Why are you here?”

“I can explain,” Kosha protested, struggling in the prince’s grip. “I did not leave the room on purpose.”

“Did I not tell you to stay inside?” Lucien demanded.

His voice carried heavy frustration and barely suppressed panic. Although his grip remained locked around Kosha’s collar, his massive hand trembled almost imperceptibly.

Mailot recovered his voice and stepped forward to intervene, only to freeze when he met the dark intensity in Lucien’s eyes. Lucien ignored the complaint completely, keeping his attention fixed entirely on Mailot. “Call your man back.”

Mailot floundered, glancing around in confusion. “My… my man? Ah.”

Felon, who almost always remained at Lucien’s side, stood nearby with two escort knights. The rest of the prince’s entourage remained scattered and visibly unsettled, abandoned by a lord who had rushed away without explanation.

Mailot clicked his tongue, nervous irritation flashing through his eyes. It would be disastrous if too many people saw this creature standing with his head raised in the very heart of Osterbrache.

“That is not it, Your Highness,” Mailot stammered. Recovering a shred of composure, he reached for Kosha’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should instead… Ah, move him aside.”

Kosha refused to move, his neck still trapped beneath Lucien’s unyielding hand.

“Your Highness, now.” Mailot looked up at him in bewilderment.

A thunderous voice erupted from deep within the cloister.

“Lucien!”