Dominance of Veiled Heart

Chapter 47

[[ After three weeks ]]

The Grand Court of Marceau was as harsh and cold as the desert winds outside. Towering black stone columns stretched to the sky, their jagged surfaces swallowing the golden sunlight that bled through the high windows, casting long, eerie shadows across the polished obsidian floor. The air was thick with tension—cloaked nobles adorned in silks threaded with gold, warlords with hardened faces lined by years of battle, and scholars whose keen eyes flitted across the scene, all gathered like wolves circling a wounded stag.

At the heart of the court stood Prince Michaelli, tall and proud, his expression unreadable. His victories on the battlefield had etched his name into legend, but today, he faced a battle he could not win with swords—the selection of a royal concubine. A war of expectations, of shackles disguised as duty. A war he loathed.

Beside him, wrapped in a deep red cloak that draped over her small frame like a whisper of defiance, stood Tuk, his love advisor. Though she was smaller than most in stature, her presence commanded attention, unwavering and undeniable. But as she took a breath to steady herself, Michaelli caught the slightest tremor in her hand, quickly hidden beneath the folds of her cloak. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, yet it spoke volumes. In her hands rested an ancient scroll, its surface sealed with a dragon’s mark—the Arcanographica.

From the high throne, Emperor Marcus spoke. His voice, aged but unwavering, thundered through the grand hall, rattling against the stone like a war drum.

"Imperial Prince," he declared, his gaze as cold as the marble beneath his feet, "You have brought glory to Marceau, but the empire needs more than victories. It needs an heir. You cannot keep running from this."

A murmur rippled through the assembly, greedy eyes gleaming like polished gems in candlelight. The daughters of noble houses stood poised, their hands delicately folded, their gazes filled with veiled ambition. Each one a carefully groomed prize, each father a calculating hand in the game of power.

Michaelli’s jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his sides. He despised this—being reduced to a tool, a means to an end. But before he could open his mouth, Tuk stepped forward.

Her voice, though soft, sliced through the murmurs like a blade.

"Your Imperial Majesty," she said, lifting the scroll with deliberate grace, "Let the Arcanographica guide us. To defy its will is to defy fate."

The hall fell into a tense silence, thick as honey. Even the Emperor’s gaze sharpened. The scroll, a relic of Marcellus Arvad, the empire’s founder, was revered beyond question. A tether to a forgotten era of power.

Tuk broke the seal. The whisper of parchment unfurling sent a hush through the court, as if the very air held its breath. Then, she recited, her voice steady, unwavering, the cadence of prophecy laced with something older than time itself:

"I, who hold the wealth and power of the mighty one, bless each piece to the strong heart. With a promise bound in my hand, no one with a sinful heart shall hold the power within our hearts."

The letters shimmered, glowing gold against the brittle parchment as if reacting to her voice. A collective gasp rippled through the room. The weight of something unseen pressed against the gathered audience, as if the very stones of the court recognized the magic’s presence.

Tuk pressed on, unfazed:

“A heart given by force shall birth a shadow, and from that shadow, ruin will rise.
Only she who walks through the storm of desire and emerges unburned
May stand beside the dragon’s chosen without breaking his heart or his will.”

Unease coiled through the chamber like smoke. The words stirred something primal—fear, reverence, uncertainty. What shadow? What storm?

Tuk met the Emperor’s gaze, and though her voice remained steady, it carried the weight of a challenge.

"Your Majesty, let us obey the scroll. Let only those pure of heart step forward and face the trial."

The room teetered on the edge of anticipation, a knife balanced upon its tip.

"What trial?" demanded Duke Velmar, his voice cutting through the tension like a whip. His daughter stood beside him, her chin raised high, lips pressed into an entitled smirk. "This is foolishness!"

Tuk’s lips curled slightly. She pointed the scroll to the duke—the Seventh Scroll, the Blessing to the Strong Heart. She unrolled it on the floor, and a circle of shimmering light formed around it.

"The scroll will decide," Tuk said simply. "Let the women cross this ring. If their hearts hold greed or false desire, the scroll will reject them."

The Emperor’s eyes gleamed with intrigue. A slow smirk tugged at his lips.

"Very well," he murmured. "Let the trial begin."

A taut silence gripped the court, as if the very stones themselves were bracing for what was to come. No one moved, hesitant to be the first to test the ancient magic. Even the nobles, usually so quick to push their daughters forward, seemed to hesitate.

Then, Lady Arlis took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, and strode forward, her silken gown trailing behind her in regal waves. As she crossed the threshold, the air seemed to thicken, a faint shimmer flickering at the edges of the ancient markings—

—and then a searing blast of heat erupted, hurling her backward. Flames devoured the hem of her gown, the silk curling into embers. A shriek tore from her throat as she collapsed, her pride burning alongside the smoldering fabric.

Gasps choked the court. Michaelli remained still, his gaze slipping briefly to Tuk, who had flinched at the violent outburst but swiftly composed herself, eyes narrowing as if already calculating the nature of the trap. A flicker of approval crossed his features—surprised, but not shaken.

The second woman stepped forward, a general’s niece. The instant her foot touched the glowing ring, frost spiderwebbed across her gown. Her lips parted in a silent gasp as her breath turned to mist, ice licking up her skin like a frozen vice. She crumpled, convulsing, her lips tinged blue.

Then another.

And another.

Scorching fire, suffocating cold, shadows that coiled like vipers—one by one, they all failed.

By the time the twelfth woman fled in tears, the court was in chaos.

Michaelli exhaled through his nose, a ghost of amusement flickering in his gold-tinged eyes. He slid a glance at Tuk, who remained composed, her hands folded as if none of this was remotely surprising.

"You enjoy causing trouble," he murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear.
Tuk’s eyes didn’t lift to meet his, but the faint smirk that played at her lips did not escape him.

"I enjoy solving problems," she answered softly. "Especially yours."

A low chuckle rumbled in Michaelli’s chest. She was dangerous—but he couldn’t deny he was impressed. She had turned the whole court into her stage.

As the nobles scattered, licking their wounds, the golden light of the setting sun bathed the court in warm hues. Yet between Michaelli and Tuk, the air remained cool, charged with an undercurrent neither acknowledged aloud.

When all the noble daughters had failed, the Emperor looked irritated, silently reassessing Tuk. Then, his voice cut through the confusion.

"Enough!" he roared, and the hall fell silent. His sharp gaze settled on Tuk. "It seems the scrolls have yet to deem any woman in my empire worthy of carrying the prince's heir. For now."

The words ‘for now’ hung heavy in the air.

Tuk stepped forward, her voice steady. "That is precisely why I have suggested an alternative solution, Your Imperial Majesty." She met the Emperor’s gaze with unwavering confidence. "In my hometown, we believe that a heart can be moved through ‘courting.’ The results may not be immediate, but once the first signs appear, no heart—no matter how strong can resist."
The Emperor’s eyes narrowed. "And what would be the result of that?"
Tuk smiled. She let the weight of her words settle before answering, "An heir, blessed by the Holy Dragon himself."
A beat of silence.
Then, the Emperor’s laughter echoed through the grand hall. Amused—or perhaps convinced before he gave a nod of approval.
The trial ended, but the tension did not.
As the nobles departed in whispers, their pride bruised and their schemes shattered yet, between Michaelli and Tuk, the air remained cool and sharp.
"You’ve successfully made enemies," Michaelli murmured as they walked. "They’ll come for you now."
Tuk, unshaken, replied simply, "I trust in His Imperial Highness’s protection. I will rely on you from now on."
 
Michaelli chuckled his steps unhurried as they walked side by side through the shadowed halls. His voice dropped low, a teasing whisper brushing her ear, "Thank you, Bait."

Tuk shot him a sharp glare, clearly irritated—until he reached out, tapping her head with two fingers. A simple touch, fleeting yet deliberate. Her breath hitched, and though she tried to mask it, the faintest squirm in her step betrayed her.
 
Michaelli caught it. His smirk deepened, slow and knowing. The corner of his mouth tugged into a small, victorious smile.
 
But as the playful silence stretched between them, something unexpected stirred within him—a flicker of warmth, subtle and unfamiliar, yet persistent.
 
It wasn’t admiration.

It wasn’t trust.

It was something else.
 
For years, Michaelli had mastered the art of control—over his enemies, his court, his fate. Yet now, as he watched Tuk move ahead, unshaken despite the enemies she had made, he felt the first crack in his carefully built armor.
 
This game had been his to play. His to win.
 
And yet, for the first time, he wondered—was he still the one holding the strings? Or had he unknowingly set himself on a path where he was no longer in control?