"Good." She turned away, walking gracefully toward the door. "So work hard. Make me proud."
She paused at the threshold, not even looking back.
"Massage my shoulders when I return. My nerves are frayed from cleaning up your mess."
Then she disappeared down the hallway.
Drake remained frozen on the floor, knees weak, sweat running down his temple. His hands trembled as he stared at his reflection in a shattered shard of the broken mirror.
"I will work hard, Mother…" he muttered, his voice barely holding together. "Just keep them away from me…"
Because if the elders from the Ragos Dukedom got tired of waiting, he knew exactly what they'd do.
Replace him.
Just like that. A whisper in the dark. A slip of poison in his wine. A letter forged in his name confessing to high treason. The Ragos family didn't groom heirs—they carved them from marble, mercilessly discarding any statue that cracked.
