ALARIC POV
The Alpha King's council chamber smelled of old leather and ambition.
Alaric stood at attention near the door with the other guards. His crimson and gold uniform was pristine. His posture perfect. His expression neutral.
Everything a loyal royal guard should be.
Inside, he was smiling.
Six months. That's how long it had taken him to work his way from a provincial guard to a position in the capital. To get close to the King himself.
Six months of careful manipulation. Strategic networking. Calculated risks.
But it was worth it.
Alpha King Damian sat at the head of the long table, listening to Lord Varion drone on about grain taxes. The King looked tired. Strained. Like he carried a weight no one else could see.
Good. Let him suffer.
Alaric's hatred was a cold, patient thing. Not the hot rage of youth. But something sharper. More refined.
