The meeting room felt colder now, the sunlight outside failing to touch the polished wood or stone. Alan stood at one end, the nobles circling him like carrion birds.
They pressed for information—not about Grigor's borders or taxes, but about the far north.
"We know there's a new power rising," Lady Geruth said, eyes narrow. "Rumours of a demon king—some say he's a foreigner, not even of this world."
Alan's jaw tightened. "You mean fairy tales and old men's stories."
The youngest noble sneered. "Do not insult our intelligence, Duke. You're to prove your loyalty. Give us everything you know. Names. Weaknesses. Allies. If you're truly with us, you'll answer."
Alan's fists clenched under the table.
He felt that pressure again, swirling beneath his skin. The urge to snarl, to tear, to burn these mortals from the inside out.
But he held it down until he felt the whisper.
Tell them.
Give them everything.
Betray him.
His vision swam. Voices blurred. The world spun.
