Chapter 35

It had not taken Mailot long to realize that something was deeply amiss.

In truth, his suspicions had begun taking root much earlier. Mailot, however, was a pragmatic scholar burdened by far too many matters of state to dwell on something so seemingly trivial. With civil war looming over the horizon, confronting such an insignificant concern had felt like an exhausting waste of time, and he had made every effort to banish the doubts from his mind.

Recently, however, the situation had become impossible to ignore. The truth had begun manifesting physically, becoming undeniable to anyone with eyes.

The mage’s swollen, violently reddened lips.

Every time they crossed paths in the corridors, Mailot felt as though he might lose his damned mind. Even when he made a conscious effort to look elsewhere, human curiosity had its limits. Whenever he encountered the mage, the boy was almost invariably accompanied by Eydric, the massive soldier assigned to watch him, and Eydric’s horrified gaze was always fixed on that exact spot on the mage’s face.

Mailot was a ruthless workaholic who demanded equally punishing standards from everyone under his command. He would not have batted an eye if one of his subordinates appeared with swollen eyelids and cracked lips after several sleepless nights.

In the case of this particular mage, however, the matter was different.

To begin with, the boy’s appearance was… extraordinary.

Rather than becoming something the castle staff might gradually grow accustomed to, his innate allure seemed to intensify with each passing day. His dark hair, which had been wildly disheveled upon his arrival, was now lustrous and impossibly soft, falling around his face in carefully tended waves.

Does the bathing water in Osterbrache suit him that well?

The entire affair was so bizarre that Mailot had found himself contemplating such pointless domestic questions.

Against an otherwise flawless face, those painfully swollen lips formed a peculiar blemish that drew an agonizing amount of attention.

Above all else, Mailot was gripped by the sinking, terrifying certainty that he knew exactly who was responsible.

Carrying the morning reports into Lucien’s private quarters, Mailot surveyed the chamber in utter bewilderment. Stripped of everything except the most essential, utilitarian furniture, the once-grand room felt hollow and lifeless.

It had not always looked this way. Lucien possessed exceptionally refined tastes and was hardly inclined toward asceticism. He had never hesitated to spend royal gold on his own comfort. Between the vast revenue flowing from the Izeland mines and the immense personal fortune accumulated by successive Lords of Carlot, the prince had more than enough wealth to indulge his every whim. This very chamber had once been filled with priceless ceramics, woven tapestries, and gold ornaments, appearing more opulent than the King’s official office.

Coincidentally, every one of those lavish decorations had disappeared at precisely the same time His Highness brought the mage into the fortress.

Mailot found himself thinking about his lord’s clothing. Lucien had indeed preferred plain, unadorned garments since childhood, but never because he valued comfort or simplicity.

Twelve-year-old Lucien, blessed with a face so devastatingly beautiful that he resembled a vengeful angel painted across an ancient fresco, had once said, “If I wear too much, they’ll look at the clothes instead of me. I hate that.”

Even at such a tender age, the boy had been impossibly brazen. He had wielded that beautiful face like a weapon, charming and subjugating everyone from the former Lord of Carlot to the crotchety, battle-hardened aristocrats and cynical old men of the Council of Elders. Through that calculated manipulation, he had seized the title of Lord of Carlot at an unprecedented age, squandered the region’s treasury exactly as he pleased, and eventually marched all the way to Osterbrache.

Mailot was still surveying the hollow chamber with a heavy, complicated heart when the inner door opened and Lucien emerged. After spending the early morning exercising with the knights on the training grounds, the prince’s ash-blond hair remained damp from a hasty bath. A rich, intoxicating floral fragrance drifted through the air with every powerful movement.

Mailot frowned.

Was that not a scent far too soft for a grown man of royal blood?

“You never used to wear fragrances like that, Your Highness,” Mailot observed, unable to keep the judgment from his voice.

Lucien glanced over the sealed documents the scholar had brought. “This one seems to provoke the best response.”

From whom?

The question arose naturally in Mailot’s mind, but his lord offered no further explanation. Somehow, however, Mailot felt he already knew the horrifying answer.

Irritation surged through his veins, threatening to drive him mad. He cleared his throat unnecessarily, and the subject that had been circling his thoughts like a vulture finally slipped free.

“That mage, Your Highness.”

Lucien, who had been briskly reviewing the parchment, froze. Slowly, he lifted his gaze.

“Have his lips not looked rather swollen lately?”

The moment the words left Mailot’s mouth, profound regret washed over him.

Why did I bother mentioning it?

The response he received, however, was even more absurd than the silence he had expected.

“Why are you looking at his lips?” Lucien demanded, his voice dropping an octave.

Feeling considerably less embarrassed now that he had come under attack, Mailot answered with sharp reproach. “The mage walks around the fortress with his face exposed, Your Highness. How could I possibly avoid looking at it?”

Lucien fell silent.

At that perfectly logical and self-evident explanation, the prince’s expression hardened into something Mailot could not recognize. It was as though, throughout all his brilliant strategic planning, Lucien had never once considered the possibility that other men might look at the mage’s uncovered face.

Did I make a fatal mistake by mentioning it?

Just as a second wave of regret threatened to drown him, Lucien shook his head as if dispelling a fog and lowered his gaze to the documents.

“I’ve been pampering him. That is why he is progressing so well.” Lucien spoke with complete, flat indifference, as though discussing the autumn weather or that evening’s dinner. “Putting that much effort into raising a single mage is hardly a hardship.”