“Your Highness,” Nixon greeted as the prince strode into his pavilion, his movements sharp and deliberate. “Have you received the letter from His Majesty, the Emperor?”

The prince paused, his hand moving to unbuckle the clasp of his armor. “I did. Another summon, I presume. Let me guess—it's about the incident in Terrado or that little courting rule I recently enforced.” His tone dripped with disdain.

Nixon hesitated but pressed on, trailing behind him. “Your Highness, I thought it prudent to have the historian deliver the message directly—”

The prince stilled, his movements freezing for a fraction of a second before he turned his head just enough to glance at Nixon. His voice was low, like the rumble of an approaching storm. “Why?”

Nixon swallowed hard but continued. “There’s a possibility he was sent by the enemies, or worse… the rebel, Yvethra. But if the letter remained intact, then that—”

“Nixon.” The single word, cold and clipped, cut through the air. The prince turned, removing his chestplate with unhurried precision. “Tuk is my responsibility. Not yours. Consider this your warning.”

His words hung heavily, a dark promise lingering in the air. Nixon stiffened, bowing her head as the prince continued to remove his armor, leaving him in the stark simplicity of his undershirt.

“If you can find someone capable of replacing his role,” the prince added, his voice like ice, “then, by all means, do as you please.”

“Apologies, Your Highness.” Nixon clasped her hands and bowed deeply before retreating, her steps hurried and silent.

The prince turned toward the reserved bathroom, his expression unreadable, yet the weight of his authority lingered long after he disappeared from sight.

That night, Tuk struggled to find rest. The encounter with the vicious Onyxariel had stirred memories she had long buried—fragments of a war she desperately wanted to forget.

'I hope I don't encounter a beast like that again..' she silently thought. The echoes of war cries, the sickening splatter of blood, and the sight of shattered limbs haunted her dreams, dragging her back into the nightmare she desperately wanted to ignore and thought she had escaped but it didn't.

[[ The Prince POV ]]

“How is it?” Michaelli’s voice cut through the stillness of his pavilion, sharp and precise.

From the shadows, Shadral emerged, his voice low and measured. “Your suspicions were correct, Your Highness. Shall I handle it?”

A slow, dangerous smile curled on the prince’s lips. “No. Not yet,” he said with a soft chuckle. “It’s been a while since someone this bold approached me. Let’s see how far she thinks she can go. For now, I’ll play along but keep watching her.”

“As you command, Your Highness.”

The shadow disappeared, leaving Michaelli alone. He leaned back, drumming his fingers against the edge of the report sent to his chamber, his grin unwavering. His thoughts lingered on the so-called “historian.”

Clever. Very clever. But why? What’s her goal? How long can she keep up this charade?

If she truly comes from Yvethra, she’s far more dangerous than I anticipated. The people of Yvethra were infamous for achieving the impossible—taming manticores and mastering the art of concealment. They were formidable enemies, but her knowledge was too valuable to ignore. She was far more advanced than the other historians.

If only I had someone with the power of a beast tamer, he mused. But there’s no use dwelling on what I don’t have. Right now, she doesn’t know that I’ve uncovered her identity. That gives me the upper hand.

All I need to determine is her true intention. Is she after my life, the scroll’s power, or the empire itself?

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

[[ Tuk's POV ]]

The next morning, anticipation hummed through the camp like an electric current as the announcement of the hunt’s dedication ceremony took center stage. Nobles gathered in clusters, their fine garments rustling as they exchanged speculations in hushed, excited voices.

Atop a small platform, the announcer unfurled a scroll with deliberate precision. “I dedicate this hunt to Lady Evelyn,” the announcement declared, his voice ringing across the clearing like a peal of thunder. His eyes briefly flicked to a young woman at the edge of the crowd, whose pale complexion flushed with shock.

Lady Evelyn, draped in a simple but elegant gown, stood at the center of a storm of whispers. Gasps rippled through the crowd, envy igniting in the eyes of the other nobles as though the world had inverted itself and rain now fell upward.

The announcer continued his tone steady but laced with significance. “His Highness, the prince, cannot personally attend the dedication due to an urgent situation. However, by his command, his hunt the onixaryl is hereby dedicated to Lady Evelyn of House Alaric.”

From her position far from the event yet can hear the announcement near the forest's edge, Tuk stifled a snort, her expression a mask of forced politeness. She slid a glance toward Michaelli, who lounged beneath the sprawling branches of an ancient oak, looking as if he’d never encountered the concept of urgency in his life.

Urgent situation, my ass, she thought. If lounging under a tree counts as "urgent," then I’m now the queen of Marceau.

This was the first hunt dedication she had witnessed live, and frankly, it was as disappointing as her ill-fated romance plot expectations. Shouldn’t there be some grand, heart-fluttering spectacle? A romantic gesture worthy of bards? Instead, it felt like an open ending to an action fantasy—anticlimactic and unsatisfying.

“I’m giving up on romance,” she grumbled, scanning the area for somewhere to sit. “I should focus on survival. For some reason, I’ve become a magnet for unfortunate events. I don’t know if I’m cursed or if this world is just written to give me daily trauma.”

The wind stirred through the towering trees, carrying the earthy scent of moss and pine. The peaceful calm of the forest was almost surreal, a stark contrast to the chaos of the previous day’s hunt—a hunt she had miraculously survived.

I don’t think I’ve ever thanked him, the "good" part of her brain mused. How could I? Every word that comes out of his mouth annoys me, the "evil" side retorted with a snarl.

Maybe I should repay him in some way… after all, he has saved me twice now, the good side offered.

No need for grand gestures, the evil side cut in. Offering my expertise is plenty. Yes, that’s it. No extra effort required. Just stay still, breathe, and do absolutely nothing.

For once, both sides seemed to agree. The good Tuk and the evil Tuk reached a truce. And that, my friends, is how you thank a prince without lifting a finger.

The rustling leaves seemed to sigh in collective relief, as if even they were glad the drama had subsided. Tuk allowed herself a small, satisfied smirk. At least she’d gotten even with that treacherous horse for abandoning her mid-hunt. Somewhere out there, its hooves gleamed in the most obnoxious shades of neon pink.

“Next, Lord Nixon,” she muttered under her breath, her tone dripping with malice as a few wicked ideas began to form. “I’ll make sure to get even with you soon.”

Her gaze wandered back to Michaelli, lying in the grass like a man without a care in the world. They were supposed to leave soon, yet here he was, resting for reasons she couldn’t begin to understand.

What is he thinking, lying here instead of staying in his pavilion? she mused. Does he enjoy keeping people guessing, or is this just his version of ‘me time’?

Leaning against a nearby tree, Tuk felt the rough bark steady her. For the first time in what felt like ages, the endless weight—the schemes, the frantic pace, the constant fear of failure—seemed to lighten, if only for a moment.

How long has it been since I’ve breathed like this?

Her old world, full of glowing screens and endless deadlines, felt like a distant nightmare. She’d worked tirelessly, like a horse afraid of being left behind. It was a relentless race for stability—a stable career, a stable life—and yet the worry never ended. There was no way to predict whether you’d rise or fall.

No matter the time, past or present, there’s no such thing as a fair world, is there? Tuk thought bitterly. Life had always been unfair, and she was one of those unlucky enough to endure it.

And yet, in this world of violence and beauty, where power ruled everything, she found herself treasuring these rare moments of peace. Even if danger was always lurking, she somehow felt safer under Prince Michaelli’s wings. It was strange—a balance between feeling protected and always being one misstep away from disaster. Life here was like playing a charade with everything on the line.

If I’m cursed, he must’ve received all the blessings.

Her eyes shifted back to Michaelli from a far. Even at rest, something about him was unsettling—a stillness that felt watchful, like a lion silently deciding whether to strike. I’ll never figure him out, will I? Maybe if I befriend him, I can share in some of his blessings. I will teach him that sharing is caring, she thought with a faint chuckle because its impossible.

As she stood there, breathing in the cool air of this strange yet alluring world, a thought stirred in her mind.

Perhaps there’s something worth living for here. If I can’t go back, maybe I can carve out a place for myself in this world—a place where beasts, preferably, are nowhere to be found.