While Fenric was living his simple life someone was living a total different life.
In a lavish mansion that had once echoed with laughter, flirtation, and excess, silence now reigned.
Prince Drake—once the empire's most flamboyant and notorious royal—sat slouched in a velvet chair, his once-pristine tunic wrinkled and partially unbuttoned. A goblet of wine slipped from his fingers and shattered across the marble floor, staining it crimson.
"Useless," he spat, flinging another empty bottle across the room. It hit a polished statue of his younger self and cracked the porcelain cheek.
His golden hair, usually styled with obsessive perfection, hung in a messy curtain over his eyes. Dark circles marred his once-impeccable face. No women. No servants. No parties. No power.
No freedom.
"Fenric…" he growled, the name leaving his throat like venom. "You dare turn the court against me… in front of the Emperor… in front of everyone?!"
