Carlos hesitated. He looked at the dark liquid of the crystal cup in front of him, seeing his own distorted reflection—gaunt, desperate, and frightened. He was a gambler, yes. He was greedy. But murder? The murder of his own brother, the head of the family, the man he had grown up with? It was a line he had never thought to cross.
"But Derek is the Grand Duke," Carlos said, his voice weak and trembling. He looked up at Liam, his eyes pleading for a way out, for a different path. "The King just made him a Commander. He put him in charge of the war. He has the Royal Guard. He has the Thompson Army. He is surrounded by steel and loyalty."
Carlos swallowed hard, his throat dry.
"How could someone like me do anything?" Carlos asked, his voice cracking. "I have no sword. I have no men. I am just... Carlos. The exile."
Liam poured Carlos a fresh cup of wine, filling it to the brim. He did it slowly, the liquid glugging softly, watching the level rise with hypnotic precision.
