Chapter 37

A few nights later, Kosha finally set foot inside the library.

The chain of events began when he stepped out of Lucien’s chambers and nearly collided with Mailot in the parlor. The middle-aged scholar had been deep in conversation with Eydric, but he broke off mid-sentence and fixed Kosha with a stare so intense that it immediately made him uncomfortable.

Kosha had grown somewhat accustomed to their frequent encounters, yet Mailot’s piercing scrutiny had lately become an oppressive burden. He offered an awkward nod of greeting and tried to hurry past, only for the scholar to stop him with a question delivered at point-blank range.

“Is His Highness… asleep?” Mailot asked.

“Yes. You can check for yourself, should you wish.” Kosha’s shoulders tensed defensively.

Mailot waved the matter aside as though the prince’s slumber were entirely irrelevant. “Never mind that. More importantly, is the bedroom rather hot?”

“Pardon?” Kosha shook his head, thoroughly bewildered by the abrupt change of subject. “No, it isn’t.”

A sly, knowing smile tugged at the scholar’s lips. “Your face is quite flushed. I wondered whether the temperature in there might be a little too high.”

“…Oh.”

The pink already coloring Kosha’s cheeks deepened at once into a scorching, mortified crimson.

The chamber had not been hot in the slightest. If anything, Lucien preferred his sleeping quarters distinctly chilly. The ferocious blush staining Kosha’s face had arisen from entirely different and infinitely more embarrassing causes.

“No, no. It isn’t hot at all,” Kosha stammered, frantically averting his eyes. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Lately, I’ve spent an absurd amount of time rolling around in Lucien’s bed.

Naturally, none of it had happened of Kosha’s own volition.

The simple, agonizing truth was that Lucien seemed to adore kissing him.

The prince was devastatingly skilled and utterly without hesitation, catching Kosha off guard and claiming his lips with casual, breathtaking ease. He did it while standing in corridors, while seated at his desk, and now even while tangled among the heavy silk sheets. Kosha found it impossible to refuse the gentle demand for a “goodnight kiss.”

To Kosha, a goodnight kiss was an innocent ritual of affection, a gesture he had received from his parents throughout his childhood. Those kisses had naturally been chaste presses of lips to his forehead or cheek, places where tender, reverent affection properly belonged.

After agonizing over the prince’s request, Kosha had finally leaned down and placed a tentative kiss on Lucien’s forehead. The prince had gone completely still, as though taken by surprise, before his lips curved into a faint and unexpectedly fragile smile.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the predator returned.

Lucien caught hold of Kosha, pulled him down, and rolled them both across the mattress until the flustered mage lay pinned beneath him.

The first time it happened, shock had nearly driven Kosha to blast the royal across the room with defensive magic. Fortunately, because he had never attempted to telekinetically hurl anything as massive as the prince, he managed to rein in his panic before his spellcaster’s instincts could calculate how much mana such a treasonous act would require.

Or perhaps his mind had simply short-circuited, leaving his mana dormant while the rest of his senses drowned beneath the onslaught.

Lucien always smelled intoxicatingly wonderful, a blend of clean soap and subtle musk, while the plush mattress and soft, enveloping bedding felt like the most luxurious trap imaginable. When Kosha had anxiously worried that his unkempt robes might soil the pristine white linens, Lucien had merely brushed the concern aside and murmured that it was perfectly fine.

Kosha adored the soft, indulgent way the prince reassured him. Pathetically so.

Throughout the harsh and grueling life Kosha had endured, there had always been infinitely more things that were not fine than things that were. Yet lately, with Lucien offering quiet reassurance for every minor anxiety as though it cost him nothing, the scales seemed to have miraculously tipped.

Whenever such dangerous, tender thoughts surfaced, Kosha’s heart battered so violently against his ribs that he could scarcely breathe. A racing pulse was familiar to a man accustomed to terror, but this fluttering, unsteady rhythm was entirely alien.

How could he not feel profound dread when his traitorous heart beat so wildly for the very source of his torment?

It was an inescapable gravity. He was falling for Lucien completely, hopelessly, and without a single tether to save him.

Kosha was painfully aware of how shamefully easy he had become. The moment the prince asked for a kiss, he surrendered, parting his lips without even the pretense of hesitation or coy resistance.

He vaguely remembered an old proverb warning that a young man should never give himself away too freely, but the man asking was Lucien.

How could anyone resist when the prince coaxed him in those devastatingly gentle tones and smiled at him with such brilliance?

Lucien was the only person in the entire world who treated him with such intoxicating softness. The prince might be universally adored, a man who scattered affection freely throughout the court, but to a lonely pariah like Kosha, encountering such overwhelming warmth felt like a once-in-a-lifetime miracle.

Flustered by his own runaway thoughts, Kosha stared desperately at the floorboards.

Mailot had silently watched the colorful procession of emotions sweep across the mage’s expressive face. At last, he let out a dry, incredulous scoff.

“Pretext, my foot,” the scholar muttered. “Just look at you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pretext or not, you’re certainly playing your part exceptionally well.” A thin, enigmatic smile curved Mailot’s lips.

Kosha blinked, entirely uncertain how to respond to the sudden, piercing jab.

Mailot flicked one hand dismissively and pitched his voice into a tone of deliberate, diplomatic lightness. “No, never mind. I wasn’t truly speaking to you. I stopped you because I have a practical question.”

The scholar leaned closer. “You require a grimoire, do you not? Eydric mentioned as much.”

Kosha’s eyes widened at the unexpected change of subject.

Eydric was the person he encountered most often within the castle, so their conversational rapport had naturally deepened. Neither the anxious mage nor the taciturn knight had much inclination toward idle or affectionate chatter, but they frequently found themselves discussing the theoretical mechanics of magic.

Although Izeland harbored a deeply ingrained cultural prejudice against spellcasters, Eydric mercifully shared none of it. During their brief exchanges, Kosha would occasionally demonstrate a simple, harmless cantrip, prompting the knight to ask broader questions about the nature of arcane power.

Eydric’s pragmatic inquiries usually concerned large-scale offensive bombardment spells, undoubtedly a grim remnant of his experiences on the battlefield.

Such devastating magic was exceedingly complex and physically taxing. Considering that Kosha had only just begun to recover his fractured mana, he had found it difficult to offer satisfactory answers. His desperate need for a grimoire had naturally surfaced during one of his frustrated laments over his lack of advanced theoretical knowledge.

But I told Lucien about my need for a grimoire days ago.

Kosha’s brow furrowed.

Did Mailot truly know nothing until Eydric mentioned it?

Shifting uncomfortably beneath the scholar’s gaze, he answered, “Yes, I desperately need one if I’m to proceed, but His Highness explicitly said some ‘preparation’ was required before we could acquire it.”

“Ah, yes. ‘Preparation.’” Mailot arched a cynical eyebrow, a faint and knowing smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Of course. I’m sure that’s what he called it.”

Kosha stared at him, utterly lost.

“Do you even know where the arcane archives are kept within this fortress?” Mailot asked, thoughtfully stroking his chin.

Kosha answered with a blank, silent shake of his head.

“They are divided among three primary locations.” The scholar slipped effortlessly into a professorial tone. “The Royal Library in the central keep and the archives in the North Tower, which currently houses the Gaecrux delegation, are both heavily guarded. Even His Highness cannot easily enter either location without attracting significant and unwanted political attention.”

“Oh… I see,” Kosha murmured.

“The library in the first tower of the East Wing, however, is an entirely different matter. It originally served as the late Queen’s private collection, which means it has largely slipped from public notice. One might confidently say that it lacks vigilant watchdogs.”

The intricate web of royal politics meant absolutely nothing to him, but Kosha gave a compliant nod.

“After the Queen’s passing, the eldest princess inherited the entire collection. Fortunately for us, she is presently away from the capital.” Conspiratorial intent glinted in Mailot’s eyes. “Her absence has made security throughout the East Wing noticeably lax, especially at this hour.”

Kosha remained silent as a dreadful suspicion began to bloom in his chest.

“Which means that, should you wish to retrieve your books, I can escort you there now.”

The slow-to-react spellcaster did not seem to grasp the thinly veiled offer beneath the courtly euphemism, so Mailot delivered the blunt truth like a hammer striking a nail into solid oak.

Kosha fluttered his long eyelashes, struggling to process the rapid proposition.

“His Highness is, well… rather helpless once night falls, so what else are we supposed to do?” Mailot adjusted his cuffs with an irritated sigh. “I assume his present affliction is why he spoke so tentatively about venturing out to procure the texts. Frankly, navigating his nocturnal moods has become exhausting even for me.”

His expression sharpened. “Make a decision. Are you going to fetch the grimoire, or are you not?”

Pressed by the ever-impatient scholar, Kosha blurted out the first practical concern that came to mind. “I don’t even know which arcane texts might be housed in that particular collection.”

“Neither do I,” Mailot countered. “But do we truly possess the luxury of choice? We must go and examine whatever is available.”

“Yes, that is undeniably true.” Kosha worried at his lower lip. “So… I do want to inspect them. But…”

Even in his heightened state of anxiety, the hesitation anchoring his feet arose from the brutal survival lessons ingrained in him since childhood.

“Do I not need His Highness’s explicit permission before leaving his chambers?”

Verify, verify, and verify again.

In every action, one had to know precisely who bore responsibility and whose authority supported the decision. It was a suffocating law of survival repeated until his ears had nearly bled, a sacred tenet for navigating the lethal currents of the royal court.

Mailot was one of Lucien’s most trusted confidants, so Kosha did not presume that their political positions would differ. Even so, the possibility of provoking the royal’s wrath terrified him.

Mailot fell uncharacteristically silent. He studied the trembling mage for a long moment before responding with deliberate slowness.

“Yes, well. Why not act autonomously for once? If any political consequences arise from this excursion, I will personally assume full responsibility.”

“…….”

“I firmly believe we cannot afford to prolong this disastrous state of affairs for another night.” Mailot’s tone hardened with resolve. “It is the sacred duty of a loyal retainer to correct the debilitating mistakes of his lord.”

The statement was intensely ambiguous and hovered perilously close to treason, leaving Kosha entirely out of his depth.

Desperate for a second opinion, he cast a pleading glance at Eydric. The stoic knight remained rigid, clearly possessing no authority to voice dissent against the senior retainer.

Eydric finally broke his silence and offered a troubled, resigned smile. “When His Highness is incapacitated or absent, Mailot holds absolute decision-making authority over the household. Furthermore, from a tactical perspective, this precise hour offers our best opportunity to infiltrate the East Wing.” The knight folded his arms, the leather of his armor creaking faintly. “Should you choose to proceed, I will provide an armed escort.”

Wouldn’t that force him to undertake dangerous, unsanctioned guard duty?

Kosha swallowed hard, profoundly doubting his fitness to make such a monumental and potentially treasonous decision.

Yet Mailot’s harsh assessment remained indisputably accurate. Curing Lucien’s affliction was paramount, and to accomplish that, the clumsy, half-trained mage desperately required proper academic resources.

Arcane grimoires were magically sealed and could be deciphered only by those who possessed active mana, making delegation impossible. Kosha had to go in person and select the texts himself.

Curing the prince takes absolute precedence.

Even if his traitorous heart desperately wanted to scurry back into the warmth of the bedroom and cling to Lucien’s side a little longer, he could not abandon his professional duty.

Resigning himself to the terrifying inevitability of it all, Kosha gave a stiff, jerky nod.

***