Dominance of Veiled Heart

Chapter 19

"Ah… I need a drink," Tuk muttered, staring blankly at the moon. She slouched on a stone bench in the open-air garden, the cool night breeze skimming over her skin but doing little to calm the storm in her mind.

Her conversation with the prince still echoed, sharp as a blade in her thoughts, leaving her both stunned and exasperated. She had known Prince Michaelli was intelligent—dangerously so—but this? The man was a genius in everything.

Tuk groaned at the sky, frustration curling in her gut. "Does he even have a weakness?"

She let her spine curve against the bench, arms thrown over her head in surrender. "Am I supposed to just keep up with him? What does he even want from me?" Her own voice felt small against the vastness of the night.

She replayed his cryptic words, picking them apart like a puzzle she couldn’t solve. He hadn't appointed her just to teach him about love—no, this was about positioning her close enough to see what others missed. A strategist.

Tuk scoffed, the sound bitter in her throat. I’ve been strategizing how to not get killed since I got here. How’s that working out for me?

A dull throb pulsed at the base of her skull. She squeezed her temples, willing the tension away. "I need to stop overthinking and start drinking." But where? The towering palace walls loomed around her, making her feel trapped. "Only Spider-Man could get past those," she muttered.

Her eyes lit up. The kitchen. There had to be something there.

Tuk slipped through the dimly lit corridors like a mischievous thief, arriving at the servant's kitchen with no shame in her purpose. She shamelessly invoked the prince’s name to claim a bottle of liquor from an unsuspecting servant, only to regret it the moment it hit her tongue.

The liquid seared down her throat, punching her gut like a clenched fist. She gagged. "Ugh. No wonder men drink this. Their guts must be lined with iron."

Her gaze flicked to a pitcher of fruit juice sitting nearby, and an idea struck like lightning. A grin stretched across her face.

"Why didn’t I think of this sooner?"

With newfound purpose, she scrambled through the kitchen, gathering supplies. As she worked, she caught sight of a servant using a small mechanical device to ignite the stove. Tuk’s breath hitched. Is that a lighter?

Her fingers itched. That would come in handy.

She sidled up to the startled kitchen worker. "Mind if I borrow this for a bit?"

The servant blinked. "That's… only for kitchen use, my lord."

Tuk gave an innocent smile. "Well, it’s for the prince." Before they could protest, she plucked the gadget from their hand and darted away like a child with stolen candy.

"Welcome to the isekai world, shembot," she cackled under her breath, gleefully mixing the fruit juice with the liquor. She moved with the reckless precision of a mad scientist, her mind buzzing with unspoken laughter. Is this the power the prince was talking about? I am going to use his name everywhere then!

She was mid-shake when the sound of boots echoed through the hall.

"Hey, historian! What are you doing?"

Tuk squinted at the approaching figure, trying to place the face.

"Who?"

The man barked a laugh. "Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already! It’s Bucky, the Machete. We fought together, remember?"

Recognition clicked. "Ah! The red cape guy. Tall. Looks great." She paused dramatically, then dipped into an exaggerated bow. "Thank you for saving my life, mighty warrior."

Bucky waved a hand. "No need for all that. I’m more interested in what you’re doing. Celebrating something?"

Tuk’s grin curled, mischief and exhaustion mingling in her gaze. "Oh, just a little something. I’ve been assigned as the prince’s new advisor. So, I thought, why not toast to that, huh?"

The warriors exchanged uncertain glances.

"That’s… good news?" Bucky ventured, though his hesitant tone made Tuk chuckle.

"Oh, it’s something, alright." She lifted the ice block and slammed it against the table, shattering it into jagged shards. The warriors flinched at the sharp crack. Tuk ignored them, sweeping the pieces into her drink with an exaggerated flourish.

"Join me?" she offered, pouring the liquor into a pitcher and flicking the lighter to set it ablaze. The flames curled upward, momentarily bathing her face in flickering light before she blew them out.

Bucky’s jaw dropped. "W-wait! You’re letting the spirit escape!"

Tuk smirked. "Exactly." She poured the liquor into their mugs. "I’m not allowed to get drunk, so I’m making it less potent while still keeping the taste. Genius, right?"

Bucky barked out a laugh, slapping the table. "You’ve got a weird brain, historian! But sure, I’ll drink to that."

The warriors hesitated for only a second before following suit, raising their mugs.

"Now, gentlemen," Tuk declared, standing tall, "you don’t just chug it. You have to cheers first!"

They blinked at her, waiting for instruction.

"Raise your mugs! Like this." She lifted hers high. "And say Tagay!"

"TAGAY!" the warriors shouted in unison, their voices bouncing off the kitchen walls as their mugs clinked together.

Tuk took a hearty swig, exhaling in satisfaction. Ah, that hits the spot.

The warriors followed, and within seconds, excited exclamations filled the air.

"This… this is amazing!"

"The flavor’s richer!"

"What do you call this?"

Tuk grinned, planting her hands on her hips. "This, gentlemen, is called SHEMBOT!"

Laughter erupted. The tension in her chest eased as the kitchen turned into a riot of clinking mugs, stories, and reckless toasts.

And then—

Tuk’s eyes flicked toward the corner of the kitchen. A spoon.

Her grin widened.

"Wait, wait," she said, swiping the spoon off the counter and holding it up like a makeshift microphone. "A proper toast needs music."

The warriors gave her dubious looks, but Tuk was already standing on the nearest bench, clearing her throat.

"I hope you’re all ready for the most legendary performance of your lives."

Bucky crossed his arms, smirking. "You sing?"

Tuk snorted. "Nope. But neither do you guys, so we’re even."

A roar of laughter rang out before someone slammed a fist on the table. "Alright, let’s hear it, historian!"

And with that, Tuk belted out the first lines of We Are the Champions. Off-key. Loud. Horrifically so.

The warriors groaned. Someone threw a piece of bread at her.

But soon, they joined in.

Their voices were a disaster—a chaotic blend of too-low growls and ear-piercing shrieks. Tuk nearly choked on laughter as she tried to keep up, waving her spoon like a conductor leading the worst choir in history.

The night blurred into raucous singing, mismatched harmonies, and laughter that made her ribs ache.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Tuk wasn’t strategizing. She wasn’t playing a role or watching her back.

She was just here, drowning in bad music, cheap liquor, and the warm, reckless joy of being alive.