Water dripped in steady, rhythmic silence, each drop falling into the bath with an almost taunting patience. The prince stared at his reflection, half-submerged in the tepid water, his gaze cold and unblinking. His well-toned body glistened as water flowed down his chest, muscles taut with frustration. With a sharp flick, he swept his damp hair away from his face, but the motion brought no relief. The irritation gnawed at him, deepening with each passing moment.

Above him, stars twinkled in the dark night, mocking him with their calm. Michaelli's jaw tightened as he looked beyond the bath, his eyes locked on the distant sky. The peaceful scene was an insult to the turmoil that roiled within him. His body, full of vigor and energy, demanded an outlet—an all-consuming restlessness he couldn't ignore. Every fiber of his being burned with frustration, the pressure building inside him, forcing him to release it as soon as possible.

That insolent man. Michaelli's thoughts darkened further, his lips curling in silent contempt. He had been lucky—unbearably lucky. Were it not for his knowledge, the prince would have had no hesitation in ending him, right there with his own hands. The fact that he was still breathing only intensified Michaelli’s irritation, each drop of water echoing his restrained anger.

His fingers gripped the edge of the bath, knuckles whitening as his mind spun. That little bird had tested him, and though Michaelli had laughed, he could feel the bitter taste of wounded pride lingering in the back of his throat.

The memories of earlier events clawed their way back to the surface. The question I pose—“What is this love everyone speaks of?”—hangs in the air like a blade poised to strike. My court is silent, paralyzed, unsure of how to navigate the depths of this new, seemingly trivial inquiry. But nothing is trivial when it concerns my empire, my rule, and my power. I lean forward, my eyes fixed on Leon, watching his discomfort grow under the weight of my gaze. He stumbles through his words, calling love a “type of power.” Power. Now that’s a language I speak fluently. But this kind of power, one that cannot be seen or held—it’s frustrating.

Power must be understood. I thrive on knowing how to use everything to my advantage, and this notion of love as something elusive is intolerable. How can there be a form of strength that I do not possess? It irritates me, but also ignites something deeper—a challenge. If love is a weapon, then I will master it, like every other weapon I’ve wielded.

Then comes Nixon’s announcement about Richard. Dead. Useless. He should have put a physician near him. The one man who may have known something about this heart has been snuffed out. Convenient for him, but an inconvenience for me. I don’t waste time on feelings of loss or regret. His death only reminds me that even my court, my men, can miscalculate. Nixon’s praise falls flat. Praise is worthless in the face of failure.

A sharp breath escaped Michaelli’s lips as the cold water sloshed around him. His irritation deepened with the memory of how effortlessly Richard slipped from his grasp, leaving only a void of information. But that void was filled with something else: Tuk. And Tuk, bold as he was, had dared to claim that Michaelli did not understand love.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I shift my attention to Tuk, who boldly states the one thing no one else in this room dares to utter: I don’t understand love. And worse, he compares it to the Arcanographica—the one riddle I haven’t yet solved. The laugh that escapes my lips is bitter and cold. There’s audacity in Tuk’s words, and for that, I almost admire him. But it’s also an insult, a challenge. He thinks he knows something I don’t? Then I will learn it, prove him wrong, and crush this arrogance with ease.

I had allowed that insolent laugh to escape my lips, but inside, I already plotted. Tuk’s words had struck a chord—not of fear, but of intrigue. His defiance was something I could use. No man challenges me without suffering the consequences, but Tuk... He had the knowledge I needed. His comparison of love to the Arcanographica suggested that both could be decoded and understood. And if that were true, love could be controlled.

The others are useless in this conversation. These men of historians, strategy, and duty—are completely out of their depth. I feel a familiar surge of contempt for their lack of insight. They can barely fathom the concept of love, let alone comprehend it. Tuk stands alone in his understanding, which makes him valuable. For now.

And then, my past—so casually revealed. My mother’s death is a fact, not a burden. Tuk’s reaction, however, shows he still believes in bonds that go beyond necessity. He doesn’t understand. Love, family—these things are merely stepping stones to power, to survival. I killed because it was required.

"Your Highness, everything has been prepared," said the shadow of his warrior, appearing before him.

I stand, preparing to go out in my bathrobe. Love didn’t save me; strength did. Yet, here Tuk stands, trying to explain a concept I’ve dismissed all my life. His frustration is amusing. This world’s lack of love surprises him, but why would we waste time on something so intangible? If love has value, it’s only as a tool. If there’s something to be learned from it, I’ll learn it and use it to my advantage.

The room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a lone candle casting long, wavering shadows across the prince’s face. He sat at a grand mahogany desk cluttered with forbidden volumes, scrolls, and loose, yellowed pages—all filled with tales and theories of love, a subject banished from the empire's walls long ago. Now, by his order, they’d been unearthed, acquired from every corner of the known world.

Hours ticked by, and his reading grew fervent, each page drawn closer to the light as he studied in grim silence. Night after night, he devoured stories of lovers separated by wars, the binding vows of ancient rulers, the heartaches of scholars and warriors. And with every tale he consumed, the shadows on his face seemed to deepen. His jaw clenched as he turned to yet another account, this one more raw and heart-wrenching than the last.

Finally, he leaned back, staring blankly into the depths of his chamber. "So this is love." he muttered, his voice laced with scorn. The words lingered in the air, brittle, hollow. Love was nothing he hadn’t seen before—nothing he didn’t understand. But he had long since discarded it, exiled it to the edges of his mind where it could fester in silence. And yet, tonight, it crawled back, refusing to be ignored.

His hands trembled as he crumpled the paper in his grasp, an old ache pulsing in his chest. Love was not a feeling he wanted to rekindle, but a force he wished to wield—a power that could break, subdue, or manipulate, like any other weapon. With love, he could twist the desires of those around him, and make them bow willingly to his ambitions.

His gaze settled on the far wall, where shadows danced with a sinister grace. There was a secret buried in the darkness, one that tugged at the edges of his mind. It turns out he’d known it for years, hidden it even from himself. But here, in this midnight solitude, as he sat amidst these forbidden texts, the truth gnawed at him. It wasn’t just power he sought—it was a power he feared, one that had broken and reshaped him long ago.

"Love is not what I want," he whispered harshly to the empty room. "It’s merely the path. Power is what I desire."