Three weeks before the hunting event, Prince Michaelli ventured to Hibrido—the forgotten prison where the empire’s most despised criminals were sent to suffer, never to die. The air was thick with the scent of cold iron and despair.
“Still refusing to cooperate, Pierce?” The prince’s voice, calm yet cutting, echoed off the damp stone walls. He lounged in an ornate chair, incongruous against the bleak surroundings, tapping a fire burner rhythmically. Each tap punctuated the tension in the room, a quiet drumbeat of impending doom.
Pierce, bloodied and frostbitten, glared back defiantly. His breaths came in ragged gasps, water dripping from his matted hair. The warrior—once a star in the prince’s elite Crimson Group—had been subjected to endless cycles of drowning and ice-cold torture. Yet, even now, he refused to speak.
The prince’s smirk widened, a predator toying with his prey. He raised a hand lazily, signaling the guards. They seized Pierce and forced him back into the icy water. Michaelli watched, eyes glinting with a dangerous light, as the man thrashed beneath the surface. He let the tension build, his foot tapping a slow, relentless rhythm. Finally, he gestured again, and the guards pulled Pierce out, coughing and sputtering.
“You were one of my finest,” the prince drawled, his voice almost wistful. “Six years ago, during the Elthor Invasion, I saw greatness in you. Handpicked, trusted. You wielded power others could only dream of.” His eyes narrowed, voice hardening. “Yet here you are, a traitor. Tell me, Pierce, who do you serve?”
Pierce’s swollen lips curled into a weak smile. “You… will never… know.”
The prince’s expression remained impassive, but his eyes darkened. “We’ll see.”
---
Pierce’s betrayal had sent ripples through the elite group. His talents had earned him power, respect, and a place among the elite. Yet, in recent months, Pierce's loyalty wavered. The prince had trusted his instincts, honed by years of navigating treachery and deceit. The prince’s instincts had never failed him; assigning Vision, another Crimson member, to observe Pierce had confirmed the betrayal. After the war in Homonhon, where Pierce abandoned him and a battalion, the truth surfaced: he had been leaking information. His betrayal wasn’t just personal; it was strategic. Someone powerful was pulling the strings, but Pierce’s silence protected them. He shielded his master’s identity while failing to protect his own.
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The prince’s mind turned over the list of suspects. Leon? Unlikely. Marco? Sharp but loyal. Rowell? Too timid, confined to dusty historian chambers. And then there was Tuk—an enigma. Recently appointed on a whim, the historian’s background was patchy at best. No ties to the Crimson Group, yet his behavior was… odd. Calculated. Could it be part of an intricate plot?
Days turned into weeks as the prince scrutinized Tuk more closely, even appointing him as his 'love advisor'—a role that had never been part of the original plan. It was a clever ruse. Tuk's every move, every word, became data. Patterns. Some days, his actions spoke of loyalty; other times, suspicion hung in the air. The prince didn’t trust the old reports from Pierce—everything could have been a carefully constructed lie.
To dig deeper, he summoned Shadral, the most meticulous of the Crimson warriors—known only as “The Veil.” Shadral was a shadow, a whisper in the dark. Yet, the findings were infuriatingly sparse. Tuk’s past was a patchwork of self-reported details, as though he had materialized out of thin air with little more than impressive skills and a passion for ancient texts.
Just who are you, Tuk?
The prince’s instincts, honed by years of betrayal, wavered in a way that both irritated and intrigued him. Tuk was hiding something. He was sure of it.
The tests began—subtle questions, traps laid in casual conversations. Subtle tests, questions wrapped in casual conversation—Tuk evaded them all with a practiced ease. His intelligence was undeniable, his composure unshakable. The prince’s curiosity deepened into a dangerous fascination. Was this man really just a historian? Or a carefully concealed dagger waiting to strike?
Nixon suggested Tuk might be a spy for the Emperor, but the prince wasn’t convinced. Tuk’s actions didn’t align with those of an assassin; He was cautious, almost evasive, as if avoiding the prince, not aiming to kill him.
And then, the hunting event unfolded. Just seconds after pulling him away from Onyxariel, he felt a strange, unfamiliar sensation coursing through his body yet he reacted differently.
--
Back in the dimly lit pavilion, Michaelli sat at his desk, papers scattered like fallen leaves. His gaze was distant, thoughts far from the words on the parchment.
“How is it?” The question sliced through the silence.
A voice emerged from the shadows, soft and deadly. “Your suspicions were correct, Your Highness. Shall I proceed?”
A slow, dangerous smile curled on the prince's lips. “Not yet,” he chuckled softly. “It’s been a while since someone this bold approached me. Let’s see how far they think they can go. For now, I’ll enjoy the charade.”
“As you command, Your Highness.”
The shadow vanished, leaving the prince alone. He leaned back, drumming his fingers on the reports, his grin never fading. His thoughts lingered on the so-called ‘historian.’
"Interesting." the prince mumbled as he looked at his hands who managed to hold him for a few seconds.
The final revelation from Shadral’s report shifted everything: Tuk might be a woman.
He could have confronted her immediately, ripped away the mask. But something held him back. Her audacity thrilled him. If she was hiding this, what else lay beneath the surface? The game had become a dance—each step a calculated move, each glance a challenge.
In the court, he watched her. How she navigated the fawning historians, the prying eyes. How she maintained her focus, her façade unbreakable. Yet now, he saw the cracks.
Leaning back, his smirk widened. Tuk thought she was clever, hiding in plain sight. How far would she go? How long could she maintain the charade?
“What’s your game, Tuk?” he murmured, eyes sharp and predatory. Loyalty, betrayal… or something far more dangerous?
The answer lay hidden behind that guarded smile—taunting, teasing, waiting to unravel.