The heavy doors of the Grand Court groaned shut behind her, their final clang reverberating through the long stone corridor like a judge’s gavel sealing her fate. The echoes of nobles’ whispers and the Emperor’s laughter dissolved into silence, leaving behind only the distant crackling of torches and the rhythmic pound of her own heartbeat.

Nixon and the others went to the prince, discussing things that were now inaudible to her ears. Tuk politely dismissed herself and waved goodbye to the prince while he remained surrounded by people. The air was thick with the scent of melting wax and old parchment, cloying and heavy, pressing down on her lungs. Shadows from the flickering flames wavered against the cold stone, stretching long and distorted, like reaching hands grasping for something just out of reach. Tuk’s boots barely made a sound against the polished floor, but to her own ears, each step rang out like the toll of a bell, an accusation of the impossible thing she had just done.

Her heart pounded against her ribs. She forced herself forward, spine straight, breath even, every motion deliberate. Hands folded. Face calm. Nothing to betray the way her insides churned like a storm-tossed sea. Not until she passed the grand hall did she allow herself to exhale, her breath shuddering in the cavernous quiet.

The moment she was sure she was alone—

Her knees buckled.

A strangled gasp escaped her lips as she slid down the wall, her legs useless beneath her. The cold stone at her back did little to steady the tremor in her limbs. Her fingers clutched at the front of her tunic, pressing hard against the frantic hammering beneath, as if she could contain the riot inside her chest.

The scroll in her grip felt colder than before, its eerie stillness far more unsettling than when it had pulsed with unbidden power. She turned it over with trembling fingers, her vision swimming as she stared at the intricate etchings, the ancient words burned into its surface.

"What… the… heck… just happened!?" she whispered, the words barely escaping her lips, quivering with disbelief.

Her wide eyes flicked back to the scroll—the Seventh Scroll of the Arcanographica. The very thing that had upended the Grand Court in an instant. It had reacted.

No, it had answered.

Her hands shook as she gripped it tighter, as if expecting it to leap from her grasp and erupt into another unpredictable spectacle.

"You… You weren’t supposed to do that!" she hissed at the scroll, voice raw with the weight of what had transpired. "I was just reading you! Displaying you! I never said—‘Hey, let’s blast some noble ladies with fire and ice for fun!’"

Heat flooded her face—not from the lingering embers of the summoned flames, but from sheer, overwhelming shock.

Because the truth was—she hadn’t known it would react.

She had been bluffing.

Completely.

Her plan was to help the prince in order to gain favor and a strong ally. It was a gamble, but she had tried to study every possible scenario that could happen. Unfortunately, witnessing the scroll burn women alive was not on her list. She had only read what was written, hoping it sounded grand enough to stall the court. She had even prepared an intricate explanation, a cascade of words to convince them of the weight of history and wisdom.

"And then—somehow—it had worked."

The instant the final word left her lips, the scroll in her grasp shuddered. A deep, resonant hum vibrated through her fingertips, crawling up her arms like an unseen force awakening from slumber.

Light—blinding, searing—burst from the etched symbols like fissures splitting through ancient stone. The Grand Court gasped as arcs of fire coiled into the air, licking at the ceiling with an almost sentient hunger. Frost bled from the other side, crackling as it spread across marble, the air turning brittle with biting cold.

Screams erupted. The noble ladies scrambled backward, skirts dragging across the floor as flames danced too close. One stumbled, her shriek piercing as frost raced up her sleeve, turning fabric brittle. Another flung herself away from a curling tendril of fire that singed the edge of her gown.

Tuk barely breathed.

The fire. The frost. The unseen force that sent them sprawling.

None of it had been her doing.

She was bluffing. She had only been bluffing.

And yet, the scroll...

Her fingers curled into fists against her trembling knees.

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Yet beneath the panic, beneath the disbelief, beneath the wild pounding of her heart—

There was something else. A whisper of exhilaration. A terrifying, untamed hope that burned at the edges of her fear.

...The scroll itself held real power.

Not just knowledge. Not just words. Power.

Was this why they were sealed away? If a single scroll could bend reality, could it also bridge the gap between worlds? Could it send her home—even without the dragon’s heart?

No. She needed the heart. The scroll itself had mentioned to 'learn the heart.' If only she knew where that princess was…

A sharp shiver racked her frame, exhaustion pressing in from all sides—the weight of pretending to be strong, standing against men twice her rank, facing the Emperor’s cold, assessing gaze, and, most of all, fighting for Michaelli while hiding the truth about herself. Her shoulders sagged, her body feeling impossibly small against the vastness of the palace around her.

"I wanted to be a duke’s daughter," she muttered, voice hoarse, "or at least an ally because of the stories I used to read. But damn, I thought my heart was going to stop when Duke Velmar’s daughter caught on fire. I can’t believe I just made an enemy of a duke!"

A nervous, breathless laugh bubbled up unbidden, spilling past her lips before she could stop it. She slapped a hand over her mouth, her pulse hammering anew.

Then—

A shift. A presence.

The quiet scuff of a boot on stone.

Tuk’s breath stalled in her throat.

Slowly, she turned her head, her pulse roaring in her ears like an oncoming tide.

There, half-shrouded in the dim light, stood Prince Michaelli—arms crossed, golden eyes gleaming with unreadable intent. The torches cast dancing shadows across his sharp features, the shifting darkness around him almost an extension of his presence. And on his lips… that infuriatingly smug smirk.

Tuk froze, still sprawled on the ground like a discarded rag doll.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

Michaelli’s smirk deepened. His voice, smooth and laced with amusement, broke the silence.

"So…" he drawled, extending a hand to her. "Not as steady as you looked in the court, are you?"

Heat surged to her face—mortification, indignation, and the overwhelming urge to throw the scroll at his royal head.

"W-Well," she stammered, scrambling to her feet, still wobbly as she took his hand. "Even warriors’ knees shake after battle. It’s normal!"

His grip was firm—steady—the pad of his thumb brushing against her skin in a slow, idle motion. A fleeting touch. A ghost of warmth.

If she had been paying attention, she might have noticed the way his fingers lingered for just a moment too long. But her mind was too busy scrambling for a retort.

"Warriors usually know their weapons," he said dryly, nodding toward the scroll still clenched in her hand. "You looked just as surprised as everyone else."

Her grip tightened around his fingers.

He noticed.

"I—" she started, then caught herself, her pride bristling. Her lips pressed together.

Then she lifted her chin.

"Even the greatest warriors are sometimes surprised by their weapons," she countered, narrowing her eyes. "That doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use it."

For a moment, something flickered across his expression—was that curiosity? No… something else. Something unsettlingly close to respect.

"I believe you," he said simply. "You’ve already won one battle for me today."

Then, his gaze dropped to their still-clasped hands. A teasing lilt entered his voice.

"How long do you plan on holding my hand?"

Tuk’s eyes widened. She immediately let go, realizing too late that she had been gripping him the whole time.

The prince chuckled, stepping closer, closing the space between them.

Her heart skipped a beat.

"I’ll take this now," he murmured, effortlessly plucking the scroll from her other hand.

"You might accidentally release that dinosaur you once called Barney." His tone was all mockery and mischief. "That would be a disaster."

Tuk’s face burned.

With a swirl of his cloak, he turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing into the distance.

The moment he disappeared, Tuk sagged against the wall, exhaling sharply.

She slapped a hand to her cheek.

‘I swear,’ she muttered, barely above a whisper, ‘that man is going to kill me—if the scrolls don’t do it first.'