[[ After three weeks ]]

  The Grand Court of Marceau was as harsh and cold as the desert winds outside. Towering black stone columns stretched to the sky, their jagged surfaces swallowing the golden sunlight that bled through the high windows, casting long, eerie shadows across the polished obsidian floor. The air was thick with tension—cloaked nobles adorned in silks threaded with gold, warlords with hardened faces lined by years of battle, and scholars whose keen eyes flitted across the scene, all gathered like vultures awaiting their share of the feast.

  At the heart of the court stood Prince Michaelli, tall and proud, his expression unreadable. His victories on the battlefield had etched his name into legend, but today, he faced a battle he could not win with swords—the selection of a royal concubine. A war of expectations, of shackles disguised as duty. A war he loathed.

  Beside him, wrapped in a deep red cloak that draped over her small frame like a whisper of defiance, stood Tuk, his love advisor. Though she was smaller than most in stature, her presence commanded attention, unwavering and undeniable. There was steel in her gaze, sharp and unyielding. In her hands rested an ancient scroll, its surface sealed with a dragon’s mark—the Arcanographica.

  From the high throne, Emperor Augustus spoke. His voice, aged but unwavering, thundered through the grand hall, rattling against the stone like a war drum.

  "Imperial Prince," he declared, his gaze as cold as the marble beneath his feet. "You have brought glory to Marceau, but the empire demands more than victories. It needs an heir. At twenty-eight, you have long surpassed the court’s expectations. As the last heir of Marceau, you need to fulfill your duty. You will not evade this duty any longer."

  A murmur rippled through the assembly, greedy eyes gleaming like polished gems in candlelight. The daughters of noble houses stood poised, their hands delicately folded, their gazes filled with veiled ambition. Each one a carefully groomed prize, each father a calculating hand in the game of power.

  Michaelli’s jaw clenched. The emperor knew why he was the only one left. Why, despite his many sons from countless concubines, the throne had only one rightful heir. The memory was a sickness, festering beneath his skin, refusing to fade.

  Blood on the sand. Their screams lost in the deafening roar of the crowd.

  For a fleeting moment, the grand hall twisted into something else. Shadows shifted, warping into the stone walls of the arena—where, under the unyielding gaze of the empire, the sons of Augustus were made to fight for survival.

  The sickening grins. The raucous cheers. The twisted amusement flickering in the eyes of nobles as they watched princes slaughter one another like beasts for sport.

  And among them, his brother.

  "If you can’t hold your sword, you’ll die."

  Michaelli still remembered the weight of the blade in his trembling hands, how his brother had guided it to his own heart, his expression unreadable yet calm. A fleeting, final kindness in a world that demanded cruelty.

  He hadn’t understood it then. Only that he had to survive. That if he hesitated, he would be next.

  The ghost of that moment curled around him now, cold fingers gripping his throat. The past and present blurred. The nobles' smiles no different from those who had once watched him struggle for his life.

  He forced himself to breathe. Forced the tremor from his hands.

  Before he could speak, a voice cut through the murmurs.

  "Your Imperial Majesty." Tuk stepped forward, her movement graceful yet deliberate. Her voice, soft but sharp, sliced through the air like a blade.

  She lifted the scroll with reverence, the ancient parchment catching the candlelight. "Let the Arcanographica guide us. To defy its will is to defy fate."

  The hall fell into a tense silence, thick as honey. Even the Emperor’s gaze sharpened. The scroll, a relic of Marcellus Arvad, the empire’s founder, was revered beyond question. A tether to a forgotten era of power.

  Tuk broke the seal. The whisper of parchment unfurling sent a hush through the court, as if the very air held its breath. Then, she recited, her voice steady, unwavering, the cadence of prophecy laced with something older than time itself:

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  "I, who hold the wealth and power of the mighty one, bless each piece to the strong heart. With a promise bound in my hand, no one with a sinful heart shall hold the power within our hearts."

  The letters shimmered, glowing gold against the brittle parchment as if reacting to her voice. A collective gasp rippled through the room. The weight of something unseen pressed against the gathered audience, as if the very stones of the court recognized the magic’s presence.

  Tuk pressed on, unfazed:

  “A heart given by force shall birth a shadow, and from that shadow, ruin will rise.

  Only she who walks through the storm of desire and emerges unburned

  May stand beside the dragon’s chosen without breaking his heart or his will.”

  Unease coiled through the chamber like smoke. The words stirred something primal—fear, reverence, uncertainty. What shadow? What storm?

  Tuk met the Emperor’s gaze, and though her voice remained steady, it carried the weight of a challenge.

  "Your Majesty, let us obey the scroll. Let only those pure of heart step forward and face the trial."

  The room teetered on the edge of anticipation, a knife balanced upon its tip.

  "What trial?" demanded Duke Velmar, his voice cutting through the tension like a whip. His daughter stood beside him, her chin raised high, lips pressed into an entitled smirk. "This is foolishness!"

  Tuk’s lips curled slightly. She reached the scroll to the duke—the Seventh Scroll, the Blessing to the Strong Heart. She unrolled it on the floor, and a circle of shimmering light formed around it.

  "The scroll will decide," Tuk said simply. "Let the women cross this ring. If their hearts hold greed or false desire, the scroll will reject them."

  The Emperor’s eyes gleamed with intrigue. A slow smirk tugged at his lips.

  "Very well," he murmured. "Let the trial begin."

  Lady Arlis was the first. She strode forward, her silken gown trailing behind her in regal waves. But the moment she crossed the threshold—

  —a searing blast of heat erupted, hurling her backward. Flames devoured the hem of her gown, the silk curling into embers. A shriek tore from her throat as she collapsed, her pride burning alongside the smoldering fabric.

  Gasps choked the court.

  The second woman stepped forward, a general’s niece. The instant her foot touched the glowing ring, frost spiderwebbed across her gown. Her lips parted in a silent gasp as her breath turned to mist, ice licking up her skin like a frozen vice. She crumpled, convulsing, her lips tinged blue.

  Then another. And another.

  Scorching fire, suffocating cold, shadows that coiled like vipers—one by one, they all failed.

  By the time the twelfth woman fled in tears, the court was in chaos.

  Michaelli exhaled through his nose, a ghost of amusement flickering in his gold-tinged eyes. He slid a glance at Tuk, who remained composed, her hands folded as if none of this was remotely surprising.

  "You enjoy causing trouble," he murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear.

  Tuk’s eyes didn’t lift to meet his, but the faint smirk that played at her lips did not escape him.

  "I enjoy solving problems," she answered softly. "Especially yours."

  A low chuckle rumbled in Michaelli’s chest. She was dangerous—but he couldn’t deny he was impressed. She had turned the whole court into her stage.

  As the nobles scattered, licking their wounds, the golden light of the setting sun bathed the court in warm hues. Yet between Michaelli and Tuk, the air remained cool, charged with an undercurrent neither acknowledged aloud.

  When all the noble daughters had failed, the Emperor looked irritated, silently reassessing Tuk. Then, his voice cut through the confusion.

  "Enough!" he roared, and the hall fell silent. His sharp gaze settled on Tuk. "It seems the scrolls have yet to deem any woman in my empire worthy of carrying the prince's heir. For now."

  The words ‘for now’ hung heavy in the air.

  Tuk stepped forward, her voice steady. "That is precisely why I have suggested an alternative solution, Your Imperial Majesty." She met the Emperor’s gaze with unwavering confidence. "In my hometown, we believe that a heart can be moved through ‘courting.’ The results may not be immediate, but once the first signs appear, no heart—no matter how strong—can resist."

  The Emperor’s eyes narrowed. "And what would be the result of that?"

  Tuk smiled. She let the weight of her words settle before answering, "An heir, blessed by the Holy Dragon himself."

  A beat of silence.

  Then, the Emperor’s laughter echoed through the grand hall. Amused—or perhaps convinced before he gave a nod of approval.

  The trial ended, but the tension did not.

  As the nobles departed in whispers, their pride bruised and their schemes shattered, the golden light of the setting sun bathed the court in warm hues. Yet, between Michaelli and Tuk, the air remained cool and sharp.

  "You’ve successfully made enemies," Michaelli murmured as they walked. "They’ll come for you now."

  Tuk, unshaken, replied simply, "I trust in His Imperial Highness’s protection. I will rely on you from now on."

  Michaelli chuckled his steps unhurried as they walked side by side through the shadowed halls. His voice dropped low, a teasing whisper brushing her ear, "Thank you, Bait."

  Tuk shot him a sharp glare, clearly irritated—until he reached out, tapping her head with two fingers. A simple touch, fleeting yet deliberate. Her breath hitched, and though she tried to mask it, the faintest squirm in her step betrayed her.

  Michaelli caught it. His smirk deepened, slow and knowing. The corner of his mouth tugged into a small, victorious smile.

  But as the playful silence stretched between them, something unexpected stirred within him—a flicker of warmth, subtle and unfamiliar, yet persistent.

  It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t trust.

  It was something far more dangerous.

  For years, Michaelli had mastered the art of control—over his enemies, his court, his fate. Yet now, as he watched Tuk move ahead, unshaken despite the enemies she had made, he felt the first crack in his carefully built armor.

  This game had been his to play. His to win.

  And yet, for the first time, he wondered—was he still the one holding the strings? Or had he unknowingly set himself on a path where he was no longer in control?