Dominance of Viled Heart

Chapter 8

I couldn’t help but feel small in the grand hall of the prince’s palace, its towering ceilings stretching into infinity. The air was thick with tension as I entered, trying to steady my breath. Prince Michaelli sat on his throne, his cold gaze fixed on me, like he could see right through me.

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his expectations pressing down on me. The copy of the scroll in my hand felt heavier than ever—a seemingly innocuous piece of parchment that had caused me endless headaches for the past month.

When faced with danger, humor was my shield—a way to deflect the sharpness of reality. Nothing goes wrong if you mix some truth with lies.

His voice cut through the silence like a blade. “Historian Tuk,” he began, his tone calm but laced with menace, “it has been a month. You assured me that a few of these scrolls would be decoded by now. And yet, I see no results.”

Sweat trickled down my back. I had to be careful. I didn’t know the prince well, but I was sure this was not a man to mess with, especially when it came to the scrolls. I can’t change the past, but I could try to save myself now.

“Your Highness,” I started, forcing a smile onto my face, “I must admit that I was overly optimistic in my initial assessment. You see, when I first looked at the scroll, I thought it was written in a dialect I was familiar with. But the more I studied it, the harder it became. This job needs someone really smart.”

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “So, you’re saying you’re not skilled enough to do it?”

Yes, exactly, you crazy man! I thought, but quickly masked my frustration with a shocked face and mimicked the polite gestures Leon always used.

“Oh, no, Your Highness!” I said, my hands moving in an overly respectful sweep. “I can do it, but I need more time. The words in this scroll are tricky. Take this symbol ☥, for example—it looks like it means ‘person,’ but it could also mean ‘fire,’ or ‘a cross with rope.’ Deciding which one is right takes time.”

His eyes narrowed, like a predator losing patience. “And how much time will this take?”

I paused, carefully calculating my answer. “Well, Your Highness, with how complex it is, I’d say… several weeks per word.”

“Per word?” His voice turned dangerously soft, like the calm before a storm.

I nodded quickly. “Yes, per word. But that way, we can be really sure the translation is right. We don’t want to rush and get it wrong, do we? You know what they say, haste makes waste, and waste is… not great.”

He stared at me, silence heavy in the air. My heart raced. I needed to change the focus, fast. A grin crept onto my face.

“And, Your Highness,” I added, turning playful, “if I rushed and got it wrong, who knows what might happen? We could end up with a purple dinosaur, Barney instead of a dragon!”

His eyes narrowed. The room fell silent. “Barney?” he asked, looking confused.

I instantly regretted my choice of words. “Uh, yes, Your Highness,” I stammered, “Barney is… a friendly purple dinosaur who likes to sing and play. Lots of hugs, not much fire.”

Why did I even bring up Barney?! My face flushed. It's because of my niece! He stared at me for a long moment, and then, for the first time, a faint twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“Historian Tuk,” he said, his voice cool but with a touch of humor, “you’re lucky I find your… creativity… entertaining. I’ll give you more time. But be warned: my patience has limits. If you fail, not even purple dinosaurs will save you.”

I bowed deeply, hiding my sigh of relief. “Thank you, Your Highness. I promise to work hard on this scroll. Maybe I’ll even find a way to make the dragon a little less… cuddly.”

He waved me away, and I hurried out of the hall. As I walked out, I couldn’t help but chuckle. I’d escaped his anger—for now. With any luck, I’d figure out the scroll’s meaning before my next close call.

As I walked through the corridor, one of the warriors invited me, or perhaps the right word is dragged me, to their group. The next thing I knew, I was in a tavern where they decided to throw a celebration after winning a recent battle. They praised me for how their weapon made a big difference to their training, so I guess they invited me here to show their gratitude, which wasn’t exactly my intention.

I hesitated getting too close to these men, knowing that being in close quarters could be a double-edged sword. But I agreed, thinking it might be the perfect opportunity to avoid suspicion about my gender and get a better read on these brawny brutes who could easily crush me with a single swing.

As I walked into the tavern, the atmosphere hit me hard. The place was dark but fancy, with shiny wood glowing in the dim light. Bloody battle scenes adorned the walls, each thread telling a violent story. The air smelled strongly of drinks, cooked meats, and perfume—so much perfume that it made me cough. The warriors were already drunk, laughing loudly, and the women in silk clothes fluttered their eyelashes at them. It was all too much.

The warriors’ faces were flushed from both victory and alcohol. They filled the room with loud laughs and the harsh clink of cups. The women teased the men with sparkling eyes, playful but holding something darker. The noise was overwhelming—a mix of music, laughter, and the distinct feeling that something obscene might happen. Well, for a grown adult, I guess the right word is fun.

I sought the shadows, the wine in my hand a weak shield against the chaos. I nodded along to conversations I could barely hear over the noise. The warriors celebrated wildly, toasting old victories and future fights. But underneath their bravado, I could sense fear. They knew some of them might not survive the next battle. That thought made every drink heavier.

Hours felt like forever. Each moment dragged on in the heavy air. My heart beat faster when I finally saw a chance to leave. Carefully, I weaved through the drunk warriors. It was easy to slip away unnoticed. When I stepped into the cool night air, I felt better, though still worried about how close I’d come to danger. The quiet streets felt strange after all that noise. “Time to put my spy skills to use,” I thought, as I disappeared into the dark alleys.

Though a little tipsy, I remained focused on my goal: supplies. I strutted through the deserted alleys like I was auditioning for a role in SpyxFamily, taking each step like I was a top-secret agent on a high-stakes mission. In reality, I probably looked more like a clumsy penguin on a midnight stroll, and the few merchants who spotted me gave me the kind of puzzled looks usually reserved for people talking to their reflection.

The night was quiet. The market was closing, but the tents and lights still cast long, dark shapes across the stone paths. I took this chance to buy what I needed—things to make life in this rough world a little easier. One of the items I never thought I’d want so much: sanitary pads.

“But is there even one here?” I muttered to myself as I scanned the area.

I wandered between the shops, my attention caught by a small stand where a local seller was sealing bottles—not with corks or lids, but with cotton. The faint aroma in the air hinted it was perfume. Curious, I edged closer.

“That looks familiar,” I murmured, startling the man as I appeared beside him. He almost dropped a bottle in surprise.

“What’s this?” I asked, picking up a cotton cylinder. It was soft to the touch.

“Oh, my lord!” The seller straightened, his expression shifting to a practiced smile as he noticed my attire. “You’re lucky to find me! This is one of my latest inventions. A few drops of perfume, and the cotton will hold the scent for weeks—long enough to keep your room smelling divine!”

“Interesting,” I said, eyeing the cotton closely. “I’ll take a lot of these.”

The seller was practically glowing. “Of course, my lord! What fragrance do you prefer? Jasmine, lavender, rose—”

“Not the perfume,” I interrupted, pointing at the cotton cylinders. “These. Where did you get them?”

He seemed confused but quickly recovered. “They’re made from soft moss fibers—processed and shaped—”

“Can you customize them?” I asked, shaking a pouch of gold coins for emphasis.

“For you, my lord? Absolutely!” he said, eager. “What design do you need?”

I leaned in, explaining my idea in detail. The seller listened carefully, then disappeared into his workshop. Moments later, he returned with the result—cotton cylinders tied with thin ropes. The texture was smoother and slightly glossy. I held one in my hand, marveling at the transformation.

“Finally...” I whispered, clutching the cotton dramatically. “I’ve found you… my tampons!” My voice trembled with relief.

The seller didn’t blink, maintaining his professionalism. I bought an absurd amount of cotton cylinders, a few bottles of perfume, and a book on how to make it.

"This should counter those warriors with their freakishly good sense of smell," I thought smugly. My bag was heavier, but my wallet was heartbreakingly light.

"By the way, do you know where I can find... elixir of diwa? For a fair price?" I whispered, adding a wink for effect. I overheard the servants talk about it. They say anything made by a diwa works like magic, but it’s pricey and hard to come by. Not that I know what diwa is but I believe what locals say.

If I'm in another world, there’s gotta be one thing that’s the same— a black market, right?

As I walked back through the bustling market alleys, ready for whatever came next, I sighed. “Well, at least I’m prepared... but now I’m broke.”

“If I am going to be isekai’d, at least make me a daughter of a noble! Where's my northern duke?!” I muttered angrily as I walked back to the tavern.