The young lord of the West Ridge lounged in his private chamber, fingers greedily skimming over piles of gold coins, silver ingots, and ornate jewels stacked on the table before him.
The sound of clinking metal was like music, each coin slipping through his fingers a reminder of the months of plundering he'd orchestrated.
"Hah… all mine."
He murmured, smirking as he tallied the totals in his ledger.
But just as he was about to close the book with satisfaction, a sudden chill raced up his spine. His fingers froze mid-count.
The door slammed open with a deafening bang. One of his men stumbled in, face pale and drenched with sweat.
"M-My lord! You have to run! Now!"
The young lord's brows furrowed.
"What's gotten into you?"
"It's them! The Grand Duke—Kyle Armstrong—he's coming here! Him and his people—they don't care what they have to do, they'll tear through everything until you're destroyed!"
The man gasped, nearly tripping over himself as he crossed the room.
