Fenric reached for the nearest ledger again, flipping it open with a careless flick of his wrist. "The moment my arrival reaches him, he'll send something. Not a letter. Not a messenger. Something theatrical enough to make everyone in the room think they've just invited by him for an partnership"
Aria tilted her head. "And you'll… play along?"
He looked up at her, his silver-irised gaze sharp as a drawn blade. "No. I'll play ahead. The moment you follow his script, you've already lost. Drake's greatest strength isn't his influence—it's his ability to convince you that every move was your idea."
She gave a low hum, stepping closer to glance over his shoulder at the scrawled numbers on the page. "So we're not just fighting the Mortal Fangs."
Fenric's lips curved in a humorless smile. "No. The mercenaries are pawns. Ragos' Dagger is the knife. Drake is the mind that decides where it cuts."
