"And in return, you will provide me with metals that can withstand intense heat," the man said calmly. "You know what I can do, so don't go back on your word."
Drogo Walter's fists clenched at his sides.
Of all people, it had to be him.
Every instinct in Drogo screamed against this alliance, but instinct didn't matter anymore—not when the pressure was crushing him from every direction. Not when his own blood had become his greatest enemy.
His father.
That old man had climbed his way to power with poison and smiles. Drogo remembered it clearly now, even if no one else dared speak of it—the slow decline of his grandfather, the sudden illness, the way his father had subtly ensured no healer arrived in time. Then came the declaration: the former Duke was senile, unfit to rule. The title passed hands smoothly, without any bloodshed.
And now that same paranoia had turned inward.
