Prince Michaelli’s suspicion toward Tuk never wavered. Even now, as he summoned her—not for a report, not for research, but to prepare tea of all things. Her audacity remained intact.

He had given her countless opportunities to poison him. Yet she hadn’t taken a single one.

If her goal isn’t my death, then what is it?

Perhaps he wasn’t trying hard enough.

“I apologize if this sounds audacious,” Tuk began, her tone polite but clipped, a businesslike smile plastered across her face. “But I’m not a servant, Your Highness.”

“I’m aware,” the prince replied smoothly, not bothering to glance up from his papers. “And I didn’t ask.”

Tuk’s smile tightened. A faint flush crept up her neck. “Right,” she muttered. “Shall I call a servant to prepare your tea, then?”

“No.”

His voice dripped with mockery as he finally looked up, his smirk sharp as a blade. “I want you to make it.”

Her lips parted, ready with a retort—but she forced it down with an exhale. Without another word, she turned to the tea station in the corner of the room.

Her steps were deliberate.

Her silence was pointed.

The soft snap of the tea caddy echoed in the stillness. Each movement was precise, borderline aggressive, as she prepared the brew with the air of someone wielding a weapon rather than a teapot.

Michaelli’s lips twitched in amusement. He turned to Nixon, who stood nearby, clinging to his ledger like a lifeline. “How are the crystals?”

Nixon adjusted his glasses, scanning a thick volume. “The situation remains unresolved despite our offerings to Cyralune. If anything, the creatures have grown more mischievous. Several collectors have lost their way to the Cave of Crystaliana.”

The prince’s fingers drummed against the desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Tuk approach with a tray. She placed a steaming cup before him with the careful grace of someone trying very hard not to fling it at his face.

Michaelli picked up the cup, took a sip while reading the report, and instantly regretted it.

His entire face contorted. He pulled the cup away, eyeing the murky liquid as if it had personally insulted him.

“What is this?” he demanded.

Tuk’s brow lifted, her polite mask firmly in place. “Tea, Your Highness.”

“This isn’t tea.” He set the cup down sharply. “This is—this is leaves floating in water. How do you expect me to drink this?”

“How should I know?” Tuk shot back. “I’m not a servant trained in the art of tea-making.”

Her tone was so composed, so painfully neutral, that it took Nixon a moment to process the sheer audacity of her words.

Michaelli stared at her.

Tuk stared back, unrelenting.

A slow smirk crept onto the prince’s lips. “Are you trying to poison me?”

“I assure you, Your Highness, if I wanted to poison you, I’d use something far more effective.”

Silence.

Nixon choked on absolutely nothing. His soul quietly left his body.

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Michaelli’s gaze lingered on Tuk, studying her as though peeling back layers, searching for the crack in her façade.

Her patience was already wearing thin today, and the fact that she was on her period was not helping. She inhaled sharply, forced a serene smile, and folded her hands neatly before her.

“Well?” she asked sweetly. “Are you going to finish your tea, Your Highness?”

Michaelli tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “Tell me, Tuk. Is this an assassination attempt or a diplomatic offense?”

Tuk shrugged. “Depends. Are you still breathing?”

Nixon’s grip on his ledger tightened to the brink of tearing it in half.

Michaelli leaned back, utterly entertained, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair. “You have an impressive lack of fear.”

“Oh, I have fear.” Tuk smiled. “I just prioritize my dignity over it.”

The prince let out a soft chuckle, one that sent a strange flicker through Tuk’s chest. He lifted the teacup again but didn’t drink. Instead, he swirled the liquid thoughtfully.

“You are aware,” he said smoothly, “that if this tea were any worse, it might qualify as an act of treason?”

Tuk crossed her arms. “You’re aware that if you wanted decent tea, you should have asked someone who knows how to make it?”

Michaelli hummed, unconvinced, but clearly entertained. Then, with all the arrogance of a man who had never suffered consequences for his whims, he pushed the cup toward her.

“Drink it.”

Tuk blinked. “Excuse me?”

“If it’s good enough for me, surely it’s good enough for you.”

For a moment, she hesitated. This was another game of his. A test.

And damn it—she hated to lose.

Maintaining perfect eye contact, she reached for the cup. Lifted it. And took a sip.

Instant. Regret.

The bitterness attacked her tongue like a vengeful spirit. She struggled not to gag. Not to cough. Not to betray a single ounce of weakness.

She swallowed.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Then she set the cup down with the same composure as a war general delivering bad news.

Michaelli watched her.

Tuk met his gaze with unwavering, deadpan calm.

“Well?” he prompted, amusement dancing in his eyes.

She inhaled.

Paused.

Then, with perfect composure, she said—

“…Exquisite.”

Nixon made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a muffled scream.

Michaelli barked out a laugh, his shoulders shaking with genuine amusement. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, eyes gleaming with interest. “Oh, Tuk. I might just keep you around for my own entertainment.”

Tuk, still battling the aftertaste of her own atrocity, mustered a tight-lipped smile.

“You already do, Your Highness.”

And with that, she turned on her heel, determined to salvage what little dignity she had left—leaving Michaelli smirking behind her and then

"oh, wait."

She froze, forcing her expression into polite neutrality before turning back. "Yes, Your Highness?"

Prince Michaelli leaned back in his chair, tapping a sealed letter against his knuckles. "I received another summons from the emperor." His tone was laced with irritation. "I expected doubts about our so-called 'courting,' but it seems we've only stoked the flames. The high court has summoned us."

Tuk shot him a wary glance, but her gaze barely flicked toward the letter. "What do you mean 'us,' Your Highness?" she asked, her voice edged with suspicion.

Michaelli’s response was maddeningly casual. "You are my love advisor."

Tuk’s ears burned at the title. She despised it—every mention of 'love advisor' made her skin crawl. "With all due respect, why must I be involved?"

The prince's golden eyes sharpened. "Because it’s your duty to help me avoid this predicament, is it not?" He leaned forward slightly, his voice smooth but pointed. "As an imperial prince, refusing to choose a Prime Consort—an heir-bearer—would be political suicide. I bought time through military victories, bargaining my triumphs for their silence. But now that the dust has settled, the court strikes again. We framed ‘love’ and ‘courting’ as vital steps using the Arcanographica, which stalled the selection—until now."

Tuk’s fingers curled slightly. The look on her face practically screamed, Why don’t you just bed someone and end this mess? But before she could voice anything, Michaelli’s gaze flickered dangerously, catching the thought she didn’t say aloud.

"Choose your words wisely, little advisor," he warned, his smile turned cold.

Tuk swallowed. The shift in his demeanor sent a shiver down her spine.

A cough from Nixon broke the tension. "Your Highness, regarding Cyralune—perhaps we should assign Lulusia?"

Michaelli’s eyes didn’t leave Tuk, but he addressed Nixon. "Lulusia?"

"As a hybrid and Crimson Rank, she may be able to communicate with the Cyralunians more effectively. It would be... a gentler approach."

Michaelli pondered for a moment, his gaze flicking toward the flickering candlelight. "The Cyralunians guard Crystaliana fiercely—they are deified protectors, after all. A commander would be overkill, but... Lulusia could handle it. Very well. Send word to her."

Nixon bowed, swiftly gathering signed orders before exiting the room.

Silence returned.

"Well?" Michaelli prodded.

Tuk’s voice, unusually hesitant, broke through. "You mentioned the high court. Does that mean... the emperor himself will be there?"

The prince’s expression was unreadable. "Indeed. And Duke Velmar, the Marquess... the entire high court. It’s my trial, after all."

Tuk paled. The weight of his words sank into her bones. This wasn’t just another ploy—this was a battlefield far worse than any warfront. The emperor, the high court, the nobles who wielded power like weapons... this was a political coliseum, and she was about to be thrown into the pit. Fear cracked through her mask.

Michaelli’s sharp eyes softened—just a fraction. "I know it’s sudden. But you’ve proven your worth. I trust you can handle this, as you have handled everything else."

Tuk’s voice wavered. "Your Highness... I’m not confident. I thought my duty was decoding the scrolls—the ones I know nothing about. I don’t understand why we’re racing to decipher them or what power they hold... I just... I feel blind. Without answers, I—"

The prince stood without a word and moved to the tea set. The clink of porcelain filled the room, soft and deliberate. He returned, placing a cup before her.

"Sit," he ordered gently.

Tuk obeyed, confusion tightening in her chest. Michaelli’s voice dropped to a serious cadence. "Ask me. What do you wish to know?"

Tuk’s heart pounded.

This was it. Her chance to uncover the scrolls’ secrets—the power that could lead her home. Drinking the tea and becoming his amusement was worth it.