“What do you want, Aldric?”

He leans forward, all pretense of casualness gone.

“I want to be spared. Seraphine’s soul, Thornwen’s soul – they’ll fuel your immortality. But not mine.” He pours himself another glass with steadier hands. “I keep the gold flowing, the merchants happy, the questions unasked. And in return, I get to live.”

You consider him. This soft, greedy man who would sell his fellow founders for a few more decades of wealth.

“And Thornwen? Has she raised suspicions?” you hear yourself ask.

Aldric’s smile falters. Just for a moment.

“Thornwen suspects nothing. She’s too busy with her trees and her flowers.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Though I wonder sometimes if she’s truly as naive as she seems. There’s something in her eyes when she looks at you. Like she’s waiting for something.”

He shrugs. “No matter. She’ll be easy enough when the time comes. As will Seraphine. And then it’ll just be the two of us, eh? The Shieldborn and the Golden, ruling Eldermoor forever.”

His laugh echoes off the gold-lined walls.

“Well. You’ll rule forever. I’ll just rule until I die of natural causes, fat and rich and old.” He raises his glass. “To partnership. To profit. To the preservation of what matters most.”

He drinks. You don’t.