Alaric sat in the gardens of his manor, beneath the shade of an old oak tree.
The afternoon was perfect, cool breeze carrying the scent of late-blooming roses, sunlight filtering through leaves in scattered gold patterns, the distant sound of fountain water providing gentle background music.
He lifted his teacup and sipped.
The jasmine bloomed across his tongue, sweet and calming.
Perfect.
His free hand reached for the portfolio resting on the small table beside him. He opened it with careful fingers and withdrew a document.
The Vernacite mine contract.
His eyes scanned the official seals, the signatures, the legal language that transferred ownership from Dorian Margrave back to the original holder.
Back to him.
Where it had always belonged.
He smirked, crimson eyes gleaming with quiet triumph.
Seven days.
That's all it had taken to reclaim what Valtair thought he'd won.
He folded the contract and slipped it into his coat pocket.
