Dominance of Veiled Hearts

[[Prince Marceau POV]]

Water dripped in steady, rhythmic silence, each drop falling into the bath with an almost taunting patience. The prince stared at his reflection, half-submerged in the tepid water, his gaze cold and unblinking. His well-toned body glistened as water flowed down his chest, 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 passing moment.

Above him, stars twinkled in the dark night, mocking him with their calm. Michaelli's jaw tightened as he looked beyond the bath, his eyes locked on the distant sky. The peaceful scene was an insult to the turmoil that roiled within him. His body, full of vigor and energy, demanded an outlet—an all-consuming restlessness he couldn't ignore. Every fiber of his being burned with frustration, the pressure building inside him, forcing him to release it as soon as possible.

That insolent man. Michaelli's thoughts darkened further, his lips curling in silent contempt. He had been lucky—unbearably lucky. Were it not for his knowledge, the prince would have had no hesitation in ending him right there with his own hands. 

His fingers gripped the edge of the bath, knuckles whitening as his mind spun. That little bird had tested him, and though Michaelli had laughed, he could feel the bitter taste of wounded pride lingering in the back of his throat.

Tuk's words had struck a chord—not of fear, but of intrigue. His defiance was something I could use. No man challenges me without suffering the consequences, but Tuk... He had the knowledge I needed. His comparison of love to the Arcanographica suggested that both could be decoded and understood. And if that were true, love could be controlled.

The others are useless in this conversation. These men of historians, strategy, and duty—are completely out of their depth. I feel a familiar surge of contempt for their lack of insight. They can barely fathom the concept of love, let alone comprehend it. Tuk stands alone in his understanding, which makes him valuable. For now.

And then, in my past, my mother's death... Tuk's reaction, however, shows he still believes in bonds that go beyond necessity. He doesn't understand. Love, family—these things are merely stepping stones to power, to survival. I killed because it was required.

"Your Highness, everything has been prepared," said the shadow of his warrior, appearing before him. I stand, preparing to go out in my bathrobe.

Love didn't save me; strength did. Yet, here Tuk stands, trying to explain a concept I've dismissed all my life. His frustration is amusing. This world's lack of love surprises him, but why would we waste time on something so intangible? If love has value, it's only as a tool. If there's something to be learned from it, I'll learn it and use it to my 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.