The house was quiet, too quiet, except for the faint clinking of glass against wood as Axel poured himself another drink. His bloodshot eyes were hollow, his lips quivering as he swallowed the bitterness of whiskey the way some men swallowed grief. Days had rolled into nights, and nights into more nights of drinking, until even his strongest men avoided his chambers.
He had shut everyone out and locked himself away with only bottles for company, drowning in regret, rage, and loneliness.
But this night, something felt different. His body felt weaker, his breaths shorter. He reached for the tumbler with a shaky hand, his legs wobbling under his weight. The drink slipped, crashing to the floor, shards of glass scattering across the polished tiles. He staggered forward, clutching his chest a
