Dominance of Veiled Heart

Chapter 11 (Part 2)

I exhaled in relief, my entire body trembling as I realized the object that had flown past me wasn’t a severed head—just a dented metal helmet, ripped from some fallen knight. It clattered to the ground beside me, harmless now, though the fear still clung to my skin like ice.

I stayed frozen, curled up in my hiding spot, muscles locked tight as I strained to listen. The chaos had quieted here, a temporary lull in the storm of battle. But I couldn’t let my guard down—not when I was still trapped in the middle of a warzone. The air was thick with the stench of blood, so heavy it twisted my stomach into knots.

"Damn, he's a monster," I whispered.

From where I was crouched, I could see the prince cutting down the last of the enemy soldiers. He moved like flowing water, each strike precise, effortless. Even as he wiped the blood from his face, his expression never changed.

I didn’t know if I should feel relieved or terrified. The only reason I was still breathing was because he had killed almost everyone near me. That thought alone made my stomach churn. I buried my face in my knees, letting the snow soak through my clothes.

I felt... empty.

I had only wanted to buy a nice pair of shoes. That was all. I had been sitting at home for weeks, overworked, exhausted, and just looking for a small piece of happiness. Now I was here, choking on the smell of death, trying not to die in a world that wasn’t mine.

The life I wanted to return to felt impossibly far away.

Why am I even trying to survive?

Tears stung my eyes. I let out a shaky breath, forcing myself to swallow them down. Crying wouldn’t help. I slapped my cheeks lightly, shaking my head.

'Get it together.'

I forced myself to think—really think. I had to figure something out.

Then, something clicked.

The battlefield, the bodies, the blood-soaked snow—this scene… I had seen it before.

My breath hitched.

No. Not in real life. In a story.

I racked my brain, trying to remember. It had been a twisted novel, where the main character kept reliving the chaos she had unknowingly set into motion. She had clawed her way through the madness, finding small hints, hidden threads that eventually led her to a way out.

If this world worked like that… there had to be an escape.

In those stories, there was always something—a necklace, a ring, an ancient relic, something that unlocked the path home. But I had nothing. My bag, my shoes, everything I had when I arrived was gone. Desperation clawed at my throat as I scanned the battlefield, searching for any kind of sign.

'Please, please, let this be like a story. Let there be a way out.'

Maybe there was a hidden door. Maybe there was some clue I had missed. My eyes darted upward, searching the sky, as if a glowing portal would suddenly appear. I even jumped a little, half-expecting to stumble into some invisible tear between worlds.

But there was nothing.

No secret passage. No magic key. No escape.

This isn’t a story.

This is real.

"So, you managed to dodge death, but you're still crazy in the head, huh?"

The prince’s voice cut through my frantic thoughts, sharp and unimpressed.

I barely had time to flinch before he tapped the hilt of his sword against my skull—not hard enough to wound, but enough to sting. I winced, the sharp pain grounding me, dragging me back into the freezing, blood-soaked reality I couldn’t escape.

His gaze was as cold as the snow beneath us.

"Leave the bodies. We move forward," he commanded.

He didn’t wait for a response.

Turning, he called out to one of his warriors. "Pierce, leave your group to clean up this mess."

Then, with effortless grace, he mounted his horse. His eyes flickered over something—maybe the remains of the battlefield, maybe me—but he didn’t linger. Without another word, he led his remaining men forward, deeper into the heart of the empire.

And I… I had no choice but to follow.

The Homonhon palace was a breathtaking contrast to Marceau's fortress. While Marceau's palace exuded gold and brute power, the Diamond Palace shimmered with an almost ethereal elegance. The moment I stepped inside, my breath caught. The walls, adorned in silver, blue-grey, and white, sparkled like facets of a diamond, casting a soft, otherworldly glow that seemed to shift with every step I took.

Slender arches and graceful columns wove together strength and delicacy, a marvel of craftsmanship that defied logic. The polished floors gleamed beneath me, mirroring the light from ornate chandeliers that scattered a prismatic glow across the vast halls. Cool, fragrant air wrapped around me, laced with the scent of exotic flowers, as if the very palace breathed beauty. For a fleeting moment, I felt as though I had stepped into a dreamscape, where time moved differently, where reality blurred at the edges.

Then, something caught my eye—something more than just beauty. Embedded into the palace’s very design were intricate markings, woven into the silver inlaid patterns on the pillars and archways. At first glance, they resembled those of Marceau, but one key difference made my breath hitch: a dragon coiled around the symbols. The image sent a ripple of unease through me. My thoughts drifted to the scrolls.

They spoke of a realm guarded by dragons. They mentioned pieces, a rightful space. The words gnawed at me. Could they be referring to the way between worlds? The dragon’s power. The prince’s obsession. It all began to fit together, like fragments of a long-forgotten puzzle. And my sudden arrival here? Undeniable proof that a way out might exist—if I could decipher it in time. 

I focused, trying to recall what I had uncovered over the past few months.

📜

Inscribe: 𝖫❍57 5❍ⵡ𝖫 ᗵ#❍ 𝖫❍❍|< 7#𝖸 ᑭ𝖫4☽3, 74|<3 4 ᑭ13☽3 4Ⲡ☥ 6ⵡ1☥3 ᗵ17# 4 6𝖫1ᗶᑭ53. 𝖫37 7#3 6ⲅ347 ☥ⲅ46❍Ⲡ 6ⵡ4ⲅ☥ 𝖸❍ⵡⲅ ᑭ𝖫4☽3 4Ⲡ☥ 17 ᗵ1𝖫𝖫 5#❍ᗵ 𝖸❍ⵡ 7#3 ⲅ16#7=ⵡ𝖫 5ᑭ4☽3.

Translated: Lost soul who seeks their place, take a piece and guide with a glimpse. Let the great dragon guard your place, and it will show you the rightful space.

The symbols twisted before my eyes, but one stood out—a dragon’s claw. Slowly, the text unraveled in my mind: Lost soul who seeks their place… take a piece… the dragon guards your rightful space.

The prince had boasted of immense power hidden within the scrolls, and now I understood his obsession. After studying the eighth part of the scroll, which spoke of a promise bound to the strong heart, a realization struck me. The pieces. Could they be the scrolls themselves?

📜

Inscribe:

|, ᗵ#❍ #❍𝖫☥ 7#3 ᗵ34𝖫7# 4Ⲡ☥ ᑭ❍ᗵ3ⲅ ❍= 7#3 ᗶ16#7𝖸 ❍Ⲡ3. B𝖫3553☥ 34☽# ᑭ13☽35 7❍ 7#3 57ⲅ❍Ⲡ6 #34ⲅ7. ᗵ17# 4 ᑭⲅ❍ᗶ153 81Ⲡ☥ 1Ⲡ ᗶ𝖸 #4Ⲡ☥, Ⲡ❍ ᗶ4Ⲡ ᗵ17# 4 51Ⲡ=ⵡ𝖫 #34ⲅ7 ☽4Ⲡ #❍𝖫☥ 7#3 ᑭ❍ᗵ3ⲅ 1Ⲡ ❍ⵡⲅ #34ⲅ7.

Translated: I, who hold the wealth and power of the mighty one, blessed each piece to the strong heart. With a promise bound in my hand, no man with a sinful heart can hold the power in our heart.

Leon’s words echoed in my mind, deepening my unease. The prince’s belief in the scroll’s magic suddenly seemed less like superstition and more like a calculated pursuit. The author of these inscriptions had knowledge from both the past and the future. Were they guiding someone—someone like me—back home?

The throne room loomed ahead, grand and imposing, yet my thoughts were elsewhere—on the pieces of a puzzle dangerously close to completion. But as my gaze lifted to the throne, reality slammed back into place.

The prince sat there, exuding absolute authority, as though the seat had long awaited him. Silver and crystal adorned the magnificent throne, its flawless facets capturing every glimmer of light. It was a symbol of grandeur, of restrained elegance. And yet, the atmosphere had shifted—thickened. A presence entered, commanding attention. My breath stilled.

The man who strode in was unlike any I had ever seen.

He was beauty incarnate—his golden hair catching the light like spun sunlight, his blue-grey eyes fathomless, piercing through flesh and bone as if reading the secrets within me. Strength and grace coiled in his every movement, deliberate and calculated.

And yet, he was bound.

Thick silver chains shackled his wrists and ankles, tethering him to the will of Marceau. This wasn’t just any citizen of Homonhon. He was a prisoner.

Something within me twisted—unease mingling with a strange, inexplicable pull. My eyes refused to leave him.

“He’s… stunning,” I murmured, barely recognizing my own voice.

But reality hit hard. He is not my ally.

Whatever power he possessed, it was now under Marceau’s control. He was a tool, not a savior. And whatever danger he posed, it was aimed at me as much as it was contained by the prince’s will.

A knot of fear coiled in my chest. Did he know something of the scrolls? Of the dragon?

What if he’s the key?

He might be the missing piece—the one who could either complete my puzzle… or shatter it entirely.