Prince, Our Prince (1)
'What kind of development is this now?'
Cleio couldn't prevent himself from being swept into the narrative.
He had resolved to accept it, yet the unexpected twist sparked resistance.
Even without adding more incidents, the future promised little peace—so this "Birthday Celebration," as if to inject needless tension, felt ominous.
'Birthday parties are always a bad omen…'
"If I refuse, will the knights drag me there by force? Quite the family tradition for a violent birthday party."
"See? I knew you'd say that. If you throw a fit and end up on the royal family's blacklist, that'll be trouble, so I volunteered as the messenger. Isn't that touching friendship?"
"Friendship, my ass. You showing up just means more eyes on me."
Listening to the bickering, Dione's face stiffened.
"Young master!"
"Tsk, look—Lady Dione's gone pale. Why do you have to run your mouth? You can do that at school, but try to restrain yourself outside."
"As the young master's inadequate guardian, I offer my apologies for his rude remark. Thank you for your generous understanding."
"There's no need to be so formal, Lady Dione. I'm hardly worth such courtesy. By the way, I may have drunk too much tea—where's the washroom?"
Arthur hadn't even touched his cup.
His words were merely a signal—to give the two of them time to talk.
As soon as Arthur left with Isiel, Dione's eyes narrowed into sharp triangles, and she pounced on Cleio.
"You're refusing a royal invitation with your own name on it? Planning to make a republican declaration or something?"
"How did you jump to that? Skipping one ball counts as a political statement now?"
"This is why you're clueless about the world! The Summer King's Birthday Celebration is the event where Crown Prince Melchior flaunts his popularity. You've already been invited—don't make waves, just go."
"So what if he's the crown prince? Am I his servant, bound to come and go at his command? Did I swear fealty or take public office?"
"What do you mean, so what! The crown prince is our beloved, beautiful prince of Albion! Hold your blasphemy, will you? You should be thanking Prince Arthur for coming in person.
You might forget that at school you're all students, but out here? Showing such disrespect to an official royal envoy could've caused a scandal!"
"Ugh…"
"When the youngest prince returns, you're going to accept the invitation immediately."
Arthur returned to the parlor.
Cleio, scowling, broke the seal on the invitation, wrote his acceptance, and signed.
Dione briskly set a record on the phonograph. One hand on her hip, she held the other out to the seated Cleio.
He stared blankly at the small hand before him.
"Uh, Dione?"
"There's no backing out now. If the young master attending His Majesty's celebration can't even dance a waltz, what will that do to my reputation as your tutor? Might as well learn while your friends are here—it'll be fun!"
'No, not even remotely.'
Dione's resolve was ironclad. A lively dance tune filled the room with a ta-dan, ta-dan.
A massive cat trotted in, watching the scene as if it were prime entertainment, mocking Cleio.
"Meoow—hiss—(You think you can defy the lady? Heh.)"
Any possible ally, like Isiel, was already absorbed in petting Behemoth's back, lost in feline bliss.
Behemoth, feigning innocence, twitched his whiskers adorably and rubbed his head against her ankle.
Cleio's pupils trembled mercilessly.
Just then, as he put the invitation away, Arthur caught his eye from behind Dione and mouthed,
"Want me to help?"
"Come on, take my hand, young master!"
Cleio gritted his teeth and gave a single, sharp nod. Arthur smiled soundlessly.
"Lady Dione."
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"Lessons are all well and good, but might you allow the young master to spend at least this day with an old friend?"
As soon as they left the Aser estate, Arthur asked, "You brought your wallet, right?"
When Cleio said yes, Arthur grabbed him by the collar and hauled him onto the rear platform of a circulating tram.
The last car had no roof or walls, just railings—the wind and rattling were fierce, and they had to shout over the noise.
"Where are we going?!"
"East side! The west has no good taverns! I'll show you how Rune Dane really drinks!"
The two boys and one girl got off at the tram's eastern terminus, ducked into a pub on the corner by the station, and ordered heaps of sausages and fries.
The ale with the greasy food was perfection.
The boys emptied their pints in no time, while Isiel sipped soda water and declined alcohol.
What began chaotically drifted into a third round before they realized it—gin for the second, sherry for the third, through increasingly shabby back alleys.
Arthur seemed to have an entire map of Rune Dane's pubs in his head; perhaps he'd snuck out of the dorms for this before.
They were all modest places for common folk, yet cozy, with excellent drinks.
By this point, Cleio pushed aside all thought of Arthur's identity—or the looming dance lessons tomorrow.
'This sherry is divine. Tart, with deep dried-fruit and nut aromas.'
He savored the last sip reluctantly.
Arthur returned with two fresh glasses.
"So, why do you hate dancing so much? You've got a lovely tutor offering to teach you—what's the problem?"
"Lovely or not, I just don't want to do it."
"For someone who doesn't look stubborn, you sure are."
"You don't look like it, but you sure have a filthy mouth."
"Hey, if we're comparing who's worse, would I win, or would you, Mister Habitual Blasphemy?"
Ignoring the prince's teasing, Cleio snatched one of the glasses from Arthur's hand and took a gulp.
It was a port wine with a thick plum aroma.
Arthur, draining his own glass, grinned.
"Good stuff here, right?"
"Yeah."
"Both the sherry and this port are shipped straight from Phedre! The owner's cousin lives there!"
"How much have you drunk around this city to know that kind of detail?"
"Call it a fringe benefit of my delinquency. I had to be a scoundrel, you see. Like you said earlier—'all eyes follow me wherever I go.'"
"—Cough!"
Cleio choked on his drink. So the bastard had remembered every single word he'd snapped in anger earlier.
'Why does he always crash in without warning… Ugh, I really need to learn to shut my mouth.'
"My situation isn't exactly a secret, but no one's ever said it to my face before. You're funny, you know that? You claim you hate attention, want to get expelled, yet everything you do draws eyes."
"Oh, come on. You don't even know the whole story, and you're painting me like some attention-hungry clown?"
"If you hate attention so much, why'd you break a Level 4 Swordsman's leg and pick a fight with three Level 5s?"
"That's not a fight! When a bunch of them jump me out of nowhere, pin me down, and try to slap a dog collar on me, you expect me to just say, 'Yes, please go ahead'?!"
"You could've tried a little restraint."
Arthur set down his empty glass, his tone dropping low.
"I don't know why you're hiding your strength, but it's too late now. Zebedi and the other students saw your magic—and so did the knights of the Royal Capital Defense Corps. Melchior knows you exist. That invitation proves it."
He tapped the front of his jacket meaningfully, where the royal seal had been tucked away.
"The crown prince has nothing better to do? Why's he fussing over one troublesome student?"
"The school's wards can keep intruders out, but they can't stop rumors from spreading."
"It's not like a mage's power rivals a swordsman's—why's everyone making such a fuss?"
"Zebedi was a pacifist. He refused to use magic that could harm anyone. But you—whether you're a pacifist too hasn't been proven yet."
It was close to midnight. Their noisy little corner in the crowded bar was perfect for a private talk.
Even so, Isiel sat on the side with a clear view of the entrance, keeping watch rather than joining in.
"Anyone with quick ears is talking about you. Albion might soon have two Level 8 mages for the first time in history."
"They're barking up the wrong tree."
"Wrong tree? Your status as a Level 3 mage is already officially recorded in the Defense Corps roster."
"Impressive, Your Highness. Even holed up in the Viscounty of Kishion, you still know everything happening across the realm."
"It's not me—it's Melchior's secret intelligence division. I just 'borrowed' a peek at some of their incredible files.
Meanwhile, you're holed up in your mansion in the capital, yet you know exactly what I'm doing. You're not close to my father, and you have no political faction… so how do you manage that?"
Suddenly, Arthur's hand shot out faster than sight and grabbed Cleio's arm, pulling him forward—he nearly spilled his drink.
"Hey—hey! What the hell, man! Use your words!"
As their scuffle grew noisy, Isiel subtly shifted her position, blocking the view of curious patrons.
Arthur raised his ether. Sparks crackled where their arms and hands touched. Cleio saw a mark appear on the back of his own hand—
A dark, gleaming blue rectangle.
An Editor's Authority.
'Wait—you can inject ether and make someone else's mark appear?!'
"This is the mark of an innate skill."
Arthur stared intently at the rectangular sigil.
"I've thought about it ever since that day in the corridor—what kind of ability it might be."
Cleio yanked his arm free, scowling. Arthur let go without resistance, the ether fading, though his gaze never left Cleio's hand.
"I've narrowed it down to two possibilities. It's either related to Analysis… or Prediction."
The guess hit so close to the truth that Cleio flinched. Arthur didn't miss the reaction.
"…And what makes you think that?"
"When you realized I was Arthur Liogran, you immediately tried to distance yourself—and when that didn't work, you tried to change something. You also recognized my sigil instantly, one that doesn't even exist in any recorded tradition."
"That's an overreach."
"'Overreach'? You're telling me not to believe what I saw with my own eyes? Stop being ridiculous. If that mark of yours isn't some special ability, then how do you explain what happened at the Trinity Auction?"
'Just when things had calmed down, why does it always have to escalate like this?!'
Cleio recalled the original manuscript.
Arthur, politically weaker than his brothers, compensated by carefully gathering capable people and making them his allies.
But—there had never been a mage among them.
'So in this new draft, did the author decide to add one? Is that what this is supposed to be?!'