Bryan’s pov
The minute my father called for a “game to strengthen bonds,” I knew he was about to humiliate somebody. Probably me.
He waved his hand, and the servants brought in a long oak table draped in black velvet. Scrolls. Tokens. Detailed war maps painted on parchment. It looked like a political battlefield—and it was.
He called it “Alliance or Ambush.”
Rules were simple:
Draw a scroll. Read the scenario. Make a move.
Each decision earned or lost points.
This wasn’t a drinking game.
It was a strategy.
Diplomacy.
Power flex, dressed as entertainment.
Of course.
He never missed an opportunity to parade us like prize dogs.
“Let’s see which of our great leaders has the sharpest mind tonight,” my father boomed with a proud grin. “And which ones... need sharpening.”
Everyone
