Tuk’s heart pounded, a relentless drum against her ribs. This was her only chance. The prince was offering her an opportunity to ask—there was no way she’d let it slip. This was what she had always wanted: the truth about the scrolls.

  “I want to know what the Arcanographica really is, Your Highness.”

  The prince studied her for a moment, tapping his fingers idly against the table. The soft, rhythmic sound filled the silence between them, a quiet warning of his contemplation.

  “In order for me to protect you using the scrolls, I need to know what they truly are,” Tuk added, her voice steady despite the tightness in her throat. “Not just what we’ve been told—but the real truth.”

  Michaelli sighed deeply, the exhale slow and measured, as if weighing the weight of the knowledge he held. He lifted his cup, the delicate porcelain clicking softly against his ring as he took a deliberate sip of tea. The scent of spices and something floral drifted between them before he leaned back in his seat.

  “For you to understand, I need to start from the beginning,” he said. Then, his golden eyes flickered with something unreadable, like molten metal shifting under the fire’s glow. “Do you know the history of Marceau?”

  Tuk froze. A chill crept down her spine, as if the air had suddenly turned colder.

  “N-no, Your Highness,” she admitted, swallowing against the dryness in her throat.

  The prince arched a brow, his expression unreadable. “Where did you say you were from again?”

  Tuk blinked. “…The Kingdom of Ellis, in Elthor.”

  Michaelli tilted his head slightly, watching her too closely for comfort. “You sound unsure.”

  Tuk straightened, forcing herself to appear composed despite the weight of his scrutiny pressing down on her shoulders. “Well, since my kingdom is gone, I don’t know how to properly address it anymore. Besides, I currently reside in Marceau. In your palace.”

  Michaelli smirked. The curve of his lips was almost playful, yet there was an edge beneath it—something sharp, something knowing. “You’re good at dodging things. So quick-witted. I like that.”

  Tuk tilted her head slightly, uncertain whether it was a compliment or a veiled accusation.

  “Even so, not knowing Marceau’s history is suspicious,” he continued, his tone dipping into something quieter, more dangerous. “Everyone knows what this empire stands for, yet you claim you don’t?”

  “I’ve never been fond of history, Your Highness,” she admitted, fingers curling slightly against her lap. “I was always too busy surviving the present to dwell on the past.”

  The prince regarded her for a long moment before exhaling sharply. The tension in the air thickened, wrapping around Tuk like an unseen force.

  “Very well. I’ll tell you myself.”

  He set his cup down with a quiet clink, then began.

  “Long before Marceau became an empire, it was nothing more than an unforgiving desert, a land where only the strongest survived. Nomadic tribes roamed the dunes, warring over the few sources of water and shelter. Life was harsh, ruled by survival. Weakness meant death. Emotions had no place.”

  Tuk listened intently, each word sinking into her bones like a whispered omen.

  “Amid this chaos, a powerful warrior, Marcellus Arvad, emerged. Unlike other warlords who sought only plunder and power, he had a vision: to unite the desert under a single banner and bring order to the sands. He waged war not just with weapons but with strategy, forcing rival tribes into submission, laying the foundation of what would become the Land of Marcellus.

  Under his rule, desert cities flourished, built on discipline, resilience, and unwavering loyalty. But at the heart of his philosophy was one unshakable belief: love is a weakness that leads to ruin.”

  Michaelli’s fingers drummed against the table, slower now, more deliberate. “I didn’t learn this from the histories people commonly know. The truth was locked away in the restricted archives, accessible only to the ruling family.”

  Tuk’s breath hitched slightly, but the prince continued.

  He leaned back. “Marceau was never a kingdom of poets or dreamers—only conquerors. Marcellus Arvad saw emotions as the greatest weakness. One betrayal. One moment of hesitation. That’s all it takes to turn a ruler into a fool.”

  A heavy silence filled the room, pressing against Tuk’s ribs like an invisible weight. Then he continued, his voice smooth as silk.

  “The histories speak of Marcellus as a visionary, but the hidden texts tell a different story. He didn’t just ban love—he had proof. Kingdoms that burned over passion, rulers who lost everything over a woman’s tears. He established a nation where emotions were severed, and only the strong survived. “Marceau,” he murmured. “In the old desert tongue, it means ‘to sever.’ That is the foundation of our empire—cutting away weakness before it spreads.”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Tuk shivered.

  Michaelli set his cup down. “That is why love does not exist in Marceau.”

  She swallowed hard.

  Michaelli smirked, amused by her reaction. “And yet, you stood in my court and uttered the word without hesitation.”

  Tuk paled. “D-does that mean I—”

  She gasped, tightening her grip on the table’s edge, the cool wood biting into her skin. A cold dread curled around her spine, seeping into her bones. “Me introducing the word again using the Arcanographica—does that mean I could be executed?!”

  The prince smirked, a lazy, amused expression that somehow felt sharper than any blade.

  “Your fearlessness and naivety know no bounds.” His voice was a velvety taunt. “I thought you understood the risks when you spoke in my court. But I suppose your bravado comes from sheer ignorance.”

  Heat flared in Tuk’s cheeks, both from embarrassment and frustration. She clenched her jaw, refusing to let his amusement rattle her further.

  Michaelli took a sip of his tea, the porcelain clicking softly against his lips, before setting it down with deliberate ease.

  “You have nothing to fear.” His voice softened, just slightly. “No one will harm you. Not while you belong to me.”

  Tuk exhaled, though her fingers still trembled faintly against the tabletop. His words should have been reassuring—but why did they feel like a cage closing around her instead?

  “T-then… if ‘love’ is such a taboo word, why did the court accept it when I mentioned it back then?” she asked hesitantly.

  The prince’s lips curled into a slow, knowing grin. The kind that sent an icy prickle down her spine.

  “That,” he murmured, “is because of the Arcanographica.”

  Tuk swallowed, unease pooling in her stomach.

  “When I conquered Ellis, a once-princess introduced the scroll to me,” Michaelli continued. His voice turned distant, almost pensive, as if recalling something both fascinating and repulsive. “At the time, no one knew what it was or why it existed. But its power was undeniable.”

  Without another word, he lifted his teaspoon between his fingers. The silver glinted under the candlelight. Then, before her eyes, it twisted and reshaped itself into a small, gleaming dagger.

  Tuk’s breath caught.

  Magic.

  No—not just magic. A force beyond her comprehension.

  “I became a Keeper of its fragment,” Michaelli said, twirling the blade between his fingers. “It allows me to manipulate my surroundings. And more importantly…” His eyes flicked to hers. “It lets me sense others who possess its pieces.”

  Tuk’s pulse pounded in her ears. So this ‘power’ he always spoke of wasn’t just political authority—it was something far more terrifying.

  “But power always carries danger,” Michaelli continued, voice unwavering. “To bring the scroll back to Marceau and study it, I had to convince the court. So, I gave them a reason.”

  He smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

  “I tied it to history.”

  Tuk’s stomach dropped.

  “I didn’t lie,” Michaelli murmured, voice like silk. “I simply… adjusted the truth. No one knows what the Arcanographica really is, only that it was mentioned in the earliest records of Marceau’s founding. A mere whisper among the texts.” He tapped a finger against the table. “I made that whisper louder. Told them Marcellus himself had encountered its power and left behind hidden knowledge only the worthy could uncover.”

  Tuk could only stare.

  Michaelli’s smirk faded, replaced by something far colder. With an almost lazy motion, he drove the dagger into the table—deep enough that the wood groaned in protest.

  The air felt heavy, suffocating.

  “Everything you’ve learned in this room stays here, Tuk.” His voice was smooth, deliberate. “Otherwise… you won’t have the chance to regret it.”

  The dagger’s hilt still trembled from the force of his strike, but his gaze remained steady—golden, gleaming, and utterly merciless.

  He had manipulated history itself. Twisted it in his favor.

  The candlelight flickered, stretching shadows along the walls, and in that moment, Michaelli felt less like a prince—not the prince of the underworld, but something far older, like an ancient villain—untouchable.

  He’s too much, Tuk thought, her hands pressing against her lap to steady herself.

  Too much... for me to handle.