"Fulfill your end of the deal." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze glinting in the dim candlelight. "And this city is yours to rule."
Varenthia.
A city where power belonged to those ruthless enough to take it. A city built on ambition, betrayal, and control. And if he played his role perfectly—if he bent to this bastard's will for just a little longer—he would have it.
His own domain. His own rule.
Aldric's fingers pressed harder against the table, his gaze locked on the flickering candlelight as it cast long, shifting shadows over the map.
This city is yours to rule.
That was the sole reason he had betrayed House Veltorin.
Not honor. Not duty. Not the weight of tradition shackled to his name.
Power.
His own.
Not borrowed from some decrepit bloodline. Not handed down by fate or family name.
His own rule, carved out with his own hands.
His lips curled into something that was neither a smirk nor a frown—just a quiet, bitter edge.
