Ricardo had long suppressed the memories of that night, but now, trapped in this cold, suffocating dungeon, they clawed their way back to the surface like a buried curse finally unearthing itself.
He had been young, barely in his mid-twenties, full of resentment and self-loathing. No matter what he did, he would always be the weakest among his brothers, the least talented, the least favored.
The heir should have been Dareth, the eldest, or even Galren, whose strength was unmatched. But circumstances had twisted fate, and somehow, Ricardo had been named Duke. He had not earned it.
He had not fought for it. He had only inherited it because of their deaths. That night in the Sirius Kingdom, he had been drunk beyond reason, stumbling through the unfamiliar, misty woods after an evening spent drowning in self-pity.
