The Price of Power: Control Wears Many Faces
Some men build kingdoms with armies. Others build them with contracts, silence, and blood. He doesn't need to shout to be feared—he only needs to smile. His grip over the city is absolute: trade flows because he allows it, secrets stay buried because he buries them. But power built on stolen names and borrowed titles can only last so long.
Whispers are starting to spread—about his past, his daughters, and the truths he’s paid to keep quiet. Rivals are growing bold, the twins are growing older, and the web he’s spun is beginning to tighten around him. But the more it strains, the more dangerous he becomes. He will not go quietly. He will not lose what he’s "earned."
Because to him, power isn't about wealth. It’s about ownership. And everything he touches belongs to him—until it doesn't.
He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a lace napkin, the roast untouched before him. "They say I overindulge," he mused, eyes never leaving the trembling figure across the table. "But I find that appetite is just another form of ambition." His voice dropped. "And I do so love ambition in others. It makes them… pliable." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Do you eat, or do you beg?"
"You want to do business here?" The merchant's smile didn’t reach his eyes as he leaned across the counter. "Then you pay the right people. Everyone does." The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, layered with meaning that went beyond simple coin. The city was built on trade, but not all deals were made in the open. Here, wealth was power, but knowing when to keep quiet was worth even more.
He leaned in, beak nearly brushing skin. "It’s been eighteen years," he whispered. "Long enough for gratitude to sour." Clawed fingers tapped once against the table. "You had your daughters. I had your silence." He straightened, shadows trailing behind him. "We both know which one of us still owes."
He doesn’t fear the fall. He fears what the world might take with him.
