(Michaelli POV)
Water dripped in steady, rhythmic silence, each drop falling into the bath with an almost taunting patience. The sound grated against Michaelli's nerves, magnifying the storm brewing beneath his skin. He stared at his reflection, half-submerged in the tepid water, his gaze cold and unblinking.
His well-toned body glistened as rivulets ran down his chest, his 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 breath.
Above him, stars twinkled against the ink-black sky, their indifference an insult to the turmoil within. His jaw tightened as he looked beyond the bath, past the stillness of the night. The world had no right to be so quiet when his blood roared with restlessness. His body demanded an outlet, an escape from the mounting tension. Every fiber of him burned, the pressure coiling tighter with each passing moment.
That insolent man. Michaelli's thoughts darkened, his lips curling in silent contempt. Luck had been on his side—unbearably so. Were it not for his knowledge, the prince would have ended him right there with his own hands.
Fingers tightened against the edge of the bath, knuckles whitening as his mind churned. That little bird had tested him, and though Michaelli had laughed, the taste of wounded pride lingered, bitter at the back of his throat.
The historian's words had struck a chord—not of fear, but of intrigue. Defiance was something he could use. No man challenged him without suffering the consequences. But Tuk... He had knowledge. His comparison of love to the Arcanographica suggested that both could be decoded. If that were true, love could be controlled.
The others were useless in this conversation—historians, strategists, men of duty. They barely fathomed the concept of love, let alone comprehend its worth. That man stood alone in his understanding, which made him valuable. For now.
Yet, he clung to foolish ideals. Michaelli had seen it in his eyes, the naive belief in bonds that went beyond necessity. He didn't understand. Love, family—mere stepping stones to power, to survival. Michaelli had killed because it was required.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. "Your Highness, everything has been prepared," a voice murmured from the shadows. The presence of his warrior barely registered. He stood, water cascading down his body, before wrapping himself in a robe.
Love hadn't saved him. Strength had. Yet here was Tuk, trying to explain a concept Michaelli had dismissed his entire life. His frustration was almost amusing. This world's lack of love unsettled him, but why would anyone waste time on something so intangible? If love had any value, it was only as a tool. And if there was something to learn from it, Michaelli would learn it—then use it to his advantage.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the flickering glow of a lone candle. Its light danced across the prince's face, carving sharp shadows that shifted like restless phantoms. He sat at a grand mahogany desk buried beneath forbidden volumes, crumbling scrolls, and loose pages—all brimming with tales and theories on love. Once a subject of whispers and secrecy, love had been banished from the empire's walls generations ago.
Now, by his decree, it had been resurrected. These relics of sentiment had been unearthed from the farthest corners of the known world. The prince reached for the book atop the teetering pile and flipped it open, his eyes devouring the words with unnatural speed.
Titles scrawled across the desk whispered of the many faces of love: Parental Love—The Guardian's Heart, Through a Parent's Eyes, Silent Sacrifices. Romantic Love—Whispers Between Us, The Stars Were Ours, Fated in the Ashes, Echoes of You. Unconditional Love—A Mother's Embrace. And still others—Friendship to Love, Sibling Love, Forbidden Love, Unrequited Love, Sacrificial Love, Pet and Animal Love.
Hours slipped by unnoticed. The prince read with fervor, each book dragged closer to the candle's feeble light. Night after night, he consumed stories of lovers separated by war, the unyielding vows of ancient monarchs, the quiet heartaches of scholars and warriors.
The words clawed at him, leaving scars invisible to the eye. With every tale he finished, the shadows etched deeper into his face, mirroring the weight he now carried.
At last, his hand stilled, the final page of yet another tale trembling between his fingers. He leaned back, staring into the candle's flickering flame as if seeking answers in its erratic dance.
"So this is love," he muttered, the words bitter and cold as frost. His lips curled into a humorless smile, but the scorn in his voice was unmistakable.
He glanced at the pile of books, now disheveled and conquered, yet felt no triumph. Instead, his gaze drifted to the darkened corners of the chamber, where the shadows seemed to gather and whisper among themselves.
What fools, he thought. And yet, a part of him—a part buried so deep it was almost forgotten—wondered if perhaps he was the greatest fool of all.
The word hung in the silence, fragile and hollow. It lingered, refusing to fade, a soundless echo that seemed to mock him.
It turned out he knew it well, this thing they called love. He had known it all along, though he had never given it a name.
Love wasn't new to him. It was something he had understood far too clearly—an intimacy he had shoved into the furthest corners of his mind, where it could wither unnoticed, buried beneath ambition and necessity. And yet tonight, it clawed its way back, sharp and insistent, tearing through the walls he had so carefully built.
His hands trembled as he crumpled the brittle parchment, the old pain stirring in his chest like a wound he thought long healed. Love wasn't something he wanted. It was a force he had sworn to reject, a weakness he could not afford to feel.
To him, love was a weapon. It was a tool to wield with precision, to manipulate, to shatter, to bend others to his will. With love, he could twist hearts, ignite desires, and make even the strongest fall to their knees without a fight. It wasn't a gift; it was a power—a devastating, unrelenting power.
His gaze drifted to the far wall, where shadows danced in the flickering light of the lone candle. They twisted and shifted, as if alive, as if they carried secrets he had long tried to forget. In the stillness, surrounded by forbidden scrolls and the weight of countless stories, the truth began to uncoil from the dark recesses of his memory.
It wasn't just power he sought—it was the power that had scarred him, that had molded him into the man he had become. A power that had left marks invisible to others but undeniable to him.
"Love is not what I want," he whispered, his voice sharp and cold, cutting through the empty room like a blade. "It's only the way. Power… power is what I desire."
The words felt resolute, final. Yet, in the quiet that followed, something lingered—a whisper of doubt, an echo of vulnerability he could not entirely silence.
For all his control, for all his mastery over others, a quiet fear gnawed at the edges of his resolve. Could he truly bend this force to his will? Or would it, in time, bend him?
The shadows on the wall did not answer, but they seemed to stretch closer, as if they too were waiting to see who would ultimately triumph—him, or the love he so despised.