The Prince Who Slipped Away
One by one, the distinguished guests of foreign nations began to arrive, and a modest banquet was held at the Imperial Palace to help them wash away the fatigue of their journey.
But Llewellyn, who had little interest in such affairs, chose instead to sneak out of the palace in the dead of night.
Here he was treated as an honored royal guest, but back in the Everan royal court, he was far more often called an explorer than a third prince. He prided himself on having weathered every kind of hardship imaginable—even the young knights of his own kingdom could no longer defeat him. Slipping unnoticed out of a palace preoccupied with banquet preparations was hardly a difficult feat for a man like him.
Who in their right mind would stay cooped up in this stuffy palace anyway?
Having escaped through a gap in the wall, Llewellyn made straight for the bustling commercial district. Soon, the din of revelry and music drifted faintly into earshot, and beneath the deep night sky, a dazzling night market revealed itself.
"Ha! THIS is why I travel!"
The moment he let out his cry of delight, he plunged into the festival crowd. The thoroughly drunk were singing their lungs out to the beat of the instruments, and the tables that lined the streets were packed with people.
Amid the smell of liquor and the clamor of chatter, a scuffle broke out somewhere as drunken brawlers were dragged off by the Security Department—but if anything, that only heightened the festival's merriment. And so not a soul recognized the foreign prince moving through the crowd. In his plain clothes, flitting from place to place, Llewellyn looked like nothing more than an utterly ordinary tourist.
That's the spirit, my good self!
All his secret preparations behind the chamberlain's back had paid off. He could squeeze in at any table, eat and drink to his heart's content until morning came, and then simply slip into his kingdom's diplomatic delegation when they left the palace on official business on their way back in.
Nibbling on a skewer bought from a vendor's tent, Llewellyn set about exploring the surroundings in earnest. The main festival hadn't even started yet, but the atmosphere was already well and truly heated. Dragon or whatever—forgetting all about it for the moment, Llewellyn let himself melt into the mood of the place.
Or rather, he tried to.
"……They say they killed a dragon?"
"It was already dead, apparently. From what I heard, it came pouring out alongside those monsters stitched together from beast and monster corpses."
An unwelcome topic reached his ears, and Llewellyn turned his head reflexively. In the middle of a lively drinking session, a cluster of travelers sat huddled together, deep in rambling conversation.
"They say they were monsters no one had ever seen before. You know, the kind those fanatics who've recently been going on about some evil god supposedly sent."
"They were made? That's even possible?"
"That's exactly why they call it an evil god. I picked up the story while trading in another territory—apparently they're truly wicked beings. They sweet-talk the weak into opposing the imperial family."
A conversation that had started with a dragon slid, in an instant, toward talk of an evil god.
An evil god, you say?
It was a word straight out of old fairy tales. Llewellyn's ears perked up.
Come to think of it, hadn't there been talk of a mob cult starting to stir within the Empire?
Which was exactly why he'd been nagged half to death to be careful with his movements and not do anything reckless. From the sound of it, that mob was made up of the evil god's followers.
Far more absurd than any dragon was that single word—evil god. Interest crept up on him, and he leaned his ears in closer still. And because of that, he failed to notice the sound of someone staggering drunkenly toward him.
WHAM!
A hard blow to the shoulder sent his half-eaten skewer tumbling to the ground. He looked up with wide, blinking eyes to find a menacing man, his face flushed scarlet with drink, glaring down at him with a twisted scowl.
"The hell are you supposed to be, little brat?"
"……Brat?"
At the irritating word, Llewellyn's expression hardened in turn. The hulking man stalked closer, growling ferociously.
"Hey, if you bump into someone, you apologize. And judging by the look of you, you're some rich family's precious little heir, aren't you……"
"Weren't you the one who came charging over and bumped into me? The apology ought to come from you, not me."
"Strange way of talking. Foreigner, are you?"
The huge man tilted his head at a sharp angle. As the mood turned ugly, the people around them began to murmur. Llewellyn curled his lips into a crooked smile and provoked him further.
"And if I am?"
"Then clearly they don't teach manners in your country. Someone ought to teach you a lesson."
Having declared this, the man cracked his knuckles with a menacing pop, pop and stalked closer, step by step.
"Hey, knock it off! He's just a kid, isn't he?"
"You're too drunk, friend!"
"Let go of me!"
People rushed in to break it up, but the man shoved them off with brute force. Only then did the thick blade at his hip come into view. Not that it changed anything.
Knocking down one overgrown drunkard of a man was as easy as eating cold soup. As the fellow's hand closed around his hilt, Llewellyn gripped his own sword, ready to draw.
That was when the murmur behind the man swelled, and the crowd began recoiling in alarm, scrambling backward in a hurry.
"Tch. Why're you all crowding up the road. Annoying."
An irritable voice bored into his ear. The man who had been picking a fight with Llewellyn whipped around toward the sound.
"Now what?"
Only upon turning did he belatedly notice that the very people who'd been trying to break up the fight moments ago were now standing far, far away.
The newcomer didn't look especially threatening. He was of average build—if anything, he looked even more like a whelp than the brawler had.
So the man stomped his foot down all the harder.
"You little punks, getting bold just because—urk!!"
"Ugh. If you've had your fill of drink, just go inside and sleep it off."
The moment the man got a proper look at the young man's face, he couldn't help but break into hiccups of terror.
Beneath the lights that blazed brilliantly against the night, snow-white hair caught the glow—along with somewhat sharp eyes, golden irises brimming with irritation, and a strikingly handsome face that, once seen, could never be forgotten.
Llewellyn was every bit as stunned.
Wait, that's the rude bastard I ran into earlier.
Then why was everyone reacting like that? The same people who'd been on edge, bracing for a brawl moments ago, were now gazing at the drunkard with something dangerously close to pity.
The silver-haired young man arched an eyebrow and drawled, "What. Want a round?"
"N-no, not at all! My apologies, sir! Have a good evening!!"
As if the alcohol had evaporated from his system in an instant, the man bowed at a perfect right angle and fled headlong into the crowd.
What just happened?
He was watching it with his own two eyes and still couldn't understand it. That beast of a man, who'd seemed ready to tear someone apart, had just tucked his tail and bolted.
While Llewellyn stood gaping, someone who appeared to be the silver-haired youth's companion appeared.
"What, already over?"
Arthur, arriving a beat late, addressed the young man—Arendt.
"What did you do to make him run off like that?"
"I didn't do anything."
Arendt shrugged. "Oh, now that I think of it…… I've gotten into a few scuffles lately whenever I went outside. I did clean up a back alley or two each time, so maybe it's because of that?"
"……I believe I told you not to pull that kind of stunt outside the palace."
"Why not? Isn't my salary technically for beating up bad people? I'd say I honorably protected the Empire's citizens."
"No, you did NOT!"
Arthur clutched the back of his neck, but Arendt pretended to listen without hearing a word. Their long coats had hidden it until now, but both were in uniform. With so many distinguished guests arriving at once, they were apparently patrolling even beyond the palace walls in case of emergencies.
Oh, right—that's not the important part.
He had to flee before they figured out who he was.
"Thank you for your help. Well then, I'll be on my……"
"Hold it."
But just as he tried to slip away, an icy voice caught him by the ankle. The lackluster gaze turned his way held a trace of irritation as well. It seemed Llewellyn—who had caused this whole situation and snagged the knight's attention—was deeply displeasing to him.
Paradoxically, that prickly reaction put Llewellyn somewhat at ease. It meant, at the very least, that the knight hadn't recognized him.
Llewellyn forced his face into a stiff smile. "Uh, right. So, um. Is there a problem?"
"Do you happen to know this saying?"
But the answer that came back was a bizarre question.
"What saying?"
"'You don't avoid someone because you're afraid of them—you avoid them because they're filthy.' It means you shouldn't take the bait of a drunken lout like that."
A look brimming with pity swept the prince up and down. That air of condescension was so blatant that Llewellyn's mood soured in an instant, but he wrenched the corners of his mouth into a smile regardless.
"Haha…… I do have a bit of a hot temper, you see. Thank you for the help."
"No need for thanks."
The fellow gave a careless shake of his head. "If my eyes don't deceive me, it looked like you were about to draw your sword too."
"Huh?"
"Don't tell me you were planning to start a slashing in a crowded place like this?"
"A s-slashing? Of course not. I only carry it for self-defense……"
"That doesn't look like a sword trained to the level of mere self-defense."
This time it was Arthur who stepped in. At some point, he had been staring intently at Llewellyn's callus-hardened hands.
"You've trained a fair while to get hands like that, haven't you? That drunkard from before—you could've floored him without breaking a sweat."
"And you don't exactly look drunk, yet you went out of your way to stir up trouble. Doesn't that strike you as suspicious?"
"It does."
To the question turned on himself, Arthur nodded along obligingly.
I'm doomed.
Llewellyn dragged his lips into an even wider smile.
"Suspicious? Me? I was just passing through and got caught up in his nonsense, that's all."
"I overheard earlier—you're a foreigner? Sorry, but the Empire's been on edge lately."
Arendt, it seemed, had no intention of letting the flimsy excuse slide. "You'll need to come with us for a moment. It won't take long."
"Now, hold on—"
"We'll just verify your identity and send you right on your way, so no need to worry."
Now Arthur was closing in too, pressing him step by step.
Are knights incapable of flexibility in every nation under heaven?
Curses clawed their way up his throat. His heart told him to raise hell—do you have any idea who I am?—but if he did, he'd be the one in trouble. If word got out that he'd caused a scene all the way in the Callion Empire, his father would most certainly not let it pass. For now, quietly letting it slide was the wisest course.
Not that these two look likely to let me go that easily.
In situations like this, running was always the best option.
Having made up his mind, he was just setting off—
"What. Leaving?"
The toneless voice came again.
"Go on, run. Being surrounded by people dressed up in formal wear just means listening to them drone on about nothing worthwhile. Frankly, playing by yourself out here is a lot more fun."
"……"
His scalp prickled. The foot that had already edged forward crept back to its original spot of its own accord.
"Um……"
"But naturally, you understand you'll have to take responsibility for that too, right? You're not a child anymore—you're an adult."
The glib excuse welling up in his throat was cut off before it could escape. On the breathtakingly handsome face before him, a clear sneer had settled at some point.
"Am I wrong?"
"……"
Llewellyn had no choice but to revise his earlier assessment.
That bastard knows exactly who I am—and he's doing all this on purpose.