[[ Michaelli’s POV ]]

Prince Michaelli didn’t question whether Tuk was hiding something. He knew she was. The only thing left to decide was when she would slip—and how he would make her do it.

He was certain she wasn’t after the scrolls. That much, he had already ruled out. But that only raised a far more interesting question: what was her real purpose? Was she another piece in the rebels’ little game, or something far more entertaining?

After the hunting competition, Tuk was frequently summoned for discussions on court matters, often centered on the prince’s relationships—a subject that never failed to irritate him. Yet, she danced through the court’s scrutiny as if she had studied the game for years. Predictable. But even the most rehearsed performances had flaws. He only needed to press in the right place to make her crack.

Michaelli escalated his tactics, drawing her into confidential meetings where he deliberately spread false information about a neighboring kingdom’s military plans. He watched for leaks, betrayals, any sign that she wasn’t what she seemed. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months—yet no cracks appeared.

Sitting in a quiet chamber, Michaelli turned to Vision, a Crimson Rank spy assigned to watch Tuk from afar. The warrior’s luminous eyes, like shards of ice, contrasted sharply against his dark skin.

“Anything suspicious?” Michaelli asked.

“Nothing at all, Your Highness,” Vision replied. “Except for her constant grumbling in the gardens, muttering complaints about the mundane tasks you assign her, and… cursing—” He hesitated, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze.

Michaelli arched a brow. “Go on.”

“She seems harmless—incapable of handling the task of an assassin or a rebel,” Vision admitted.

Vision’s words meant nothing. Michaelli had already reached his own conclusion.

“She’s harmless?” He scoffed, leaning back. “She’s something, but harmless isn’t the word. What did she call herself again… ah, a bait.”

A slow smirk tugged at his lips as he tapped his fingers against the table. “And where exactly is this little bird pretending to be from?”

“The reports claim she’s from Elthor.”

Michaelli’s smirk was indulgent, as if savoring a private joke. “Elthor, huh?” he echoed, voice rich with disbelief.

There was no way a woman like her—stubborn, wild, and unpredictable was born in an Empire known for its delicate, obedient daughters. Tuk bent for no one.

His amusement deepened. “She was nothing like the women of Elthor. Tuk doesn’t bow, doesn’t submit, doesn’t yield.” His smirk turned razor-sharp. “And yet… I wonder how long that will last.”

“For now, your task is done. I’ll leave this matter in someone else’s hands. Continue monitoring the east.”

Vision bowed. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

---

Michaelli sat at the long table in his pavilion, absently twirling the stem of his goblet between his fingers. His mind was sharp, always calculating. Every movement, every word spoken in his presence was another piece of the larger game.

And tonight, he had a new piece to play with.

A quiet shuffle of feet near the entrance drew his attention.

Right on time.

Tuk entered, her posture composed, hands neatly folded behind her back—an image of strict discipline befitting an advisor. If he didn’t know better, he might have been fooled by the crisp precision of her movements, the measured cadence of her voice.

But he did know.

And that made this all the more entertaining.

“Your Highness, I’ve compiled the answers you requested regarding your inquiry on the ‘hearts’ conflicts.” She placed the scrolls before him with practiced ease, her voice steady.

Michaelli didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned forward, dragging his gaze deliberately over her, watching.

She stiffened.

He smirked. Too easy.

“Ah, Tuk,” he mused, his voice softening just enough to unsettle her. “Always so diligent. It’s truly… admirable.”

She hesitated, clearly caught off guard by his sudden change in tone.

“I—thank you, Your Highness,” she answered, recovering quickly.

He hummed in amusement. Cautious. Wary. She still wasn’t sure how to read him.

Good.

He tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “You’re rather skilled for a historian—far beyond what I expected. And your reflexes…” He let the last word linger, his gaze flickering to her hands just in time to catch the slight twitch of her fingers.

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Got you.

“I had excellent teachers,” she replied smoothly, but the subtle tension in her shoulders betrayed her.

Michaelli leaned back, arms folding across his chest. “I’m sure you did.” His voice dipped, teasing. “Tell me, Tuk, have you ever considered a different profession? You’d make an excellent spy.”

A sharp inhale. There it is.

Tuk masked it quickly, her expression now unreadable. “I’m afraid espionage requires a different skill set, Your Highness.”

Michaelli chuckled, watching the wary control in her stance. She was good—but not good enough.

He let the silence stretch between them, the weight of his gaze pressing against her composure. Then, ever so deliberately, he stood.

Tuk remained still, but he caught the shift in her weight—ready to move, ready to react.

Fascinating.

He took his time circling her, stepping close enough to catch the soft hitch in her breath.

Even better.

His fingers brushed the loose edge of her sleeve, a featherlight touch, barely there. “Interesting,” he murmured. “I could’ve sworn I noticed callouses on your hands the other day—not the kind a historian earns from writing.” His gaze flickered to her hands before meeting her eyes. “Have you never taken an interest in swordplay? You seem well-trained… even after the war in Homonhon.”

Michaelli smiled, slow and deliberate. Now, why would a historian need that?

Tuk swallowed, barely perceptible, her posture locked into rigid control.

His smirk deepened. So, you can be rattled after all.

(A/N: She always rattles, dude! Give her a break 😂)

Her lips parted slightly, as if searching for a reply, but she quickly schooled her expression. “Historians must be prepared for any dangers, Your Highness. I trained to defend myself.”

Ah. Clever.

He chuckled softly. So polite. So measured.

And so very obvious in her retreat.

His gaze roamed over her, slow and deliberate, just enough to make her shift under his scrutiny. “Perhaps I should spar with you one day,” he mused. “I’d like to see what you’re truly capable of.”

Tuk’s jaw tightened, but there—just for a moment—he caught it. A flicker of something else in her eyes. Panic. Uncertainty.

She was trying too hard to stay still. Too aware of his presence.

Adorable.

“I would hardly be a match for a prince,” she said carefully.

Michaelli tapped his chin, pretending to consider. “No?” His smirk widened. “You wound me, Tuk. Here I thought we were getting along.”

She exhaled through her nose, her fingers curling ever so slightly at her sides.

She was not enjoying this conversation.

Perfect.

Michaelli took a step back, just enough to give her the illusion of space. “I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied with words, then. After all, you are a historian, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

He studied her. Most historians he encountered were cautious, meek, and entirely predictable. But her? She was different.

Her knowledge was too advanced. Her confidence too controlled. She didn’t grovel, didn’t simper, didn’t fear his gaze. She knew exactly what she was doing.

And yet… she didn’t feel like a threat.

No, she felt like a challenge.

“I suppose that’s expected from an Elthorian,” Michaelli mused. “Your people are known for their intelligence.”

Tuk gave a small bow. “We take pride in it, Your Highness.”

Michaelli smirked. “I can see that.”

Another breath through her nose. Another curl of her fingers.

She was barely holding herself together.

Good.

He cocked his head. “Then tell me, historian, what do the records say about deception?”

Tuk stiffened. A small reaction, but he caught it—the brief pause before she spoke, the way her fingers flexed before relaxing.

She knew.

She knew he was playing with her.

She just didn’t know how much he knew.

Michaelli lowered himself back into his chair, watching her like a predator watching prey. “What?” he asked smoothly. “No clever reply?”

Tuk inhaled, composing herself. “Deception, Your Highness, is often used as a tool by both heroes and villains in history.”

Michaelli chuckled, resting his chin against his palm. “How poetic.”

The faintest twitch of her brow. Ah, irritation.

But she was good at hiding it.

He liked that.

A slow smirk played at his lips. “You must be well-versed in the art, then.”

Tuk’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

Michaelli leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a murmur. “You heard me.”

Silence stretched between them, taut and charged.

Then, finally, Tuk exhaled, carefully reassembling her expression. “If I may, Your Highness,” she said, voice cool and respectful, “I believe my presence is no longer required.”

Michaelli chuckled, entertained by her desperate attempt to retreat. “Oh? Have I kept you too long?”

“No, Your Highness,” she replied evenly. “But I wouldn’t want to bore you with my boring presence.”

He grinned. So polite. So measured. So obviously running away.

And he wouldn’t let her.

Michaelli tilted his head, watching her with a lazy smirk. “On the contrary, Tuk.” He let the pause stretch, savoring the way her lips pressed together. “I find you… fascinating.”

There.

A reaction.

The briefest flicker of something in her eyes—shock, suspicion, unease.

But before she could recover, he gave a dismissive wave. “Go on, then,” he said easily, watching the rigid set of her shoulders as she bowed. “But don’t disappear just yet.”

Tuk hesitated. “Your Highness?”

Michaelli leaned back, smiling. “I’d hate for my favorite advisor to vanish without a trace.”

Tuk’s lips parted slightly as if considering a response, but she thought better of it. Instead, she turned swiftly, walking away with precise, controlled steps.

Michaelli watched her go, amusement curling in his chest.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

----------------------------------------

[[ Special Ending ]]

Outside, Tuk’s legs nearly gave out. She clung to the door handle, her grip unsteady, fingers trembling despite her efforts to steady them.

Lately, the prince’s questions had become harder to decipher, each one a thread leading somewhere she couldn’t quite grasp. She had learned to brace herself before every meeting, expecting a test.

But this—this had not felt like a test.

It had felt like a hunt!