Patience was a word Kabil didn't understand.
He was built for the easy life. He enjoyed strong wine, soft company, and the kind of cruelty that didn't require much effort. To him, winning was something he deserved just by being born, not something he actually had to earn.
And that's why being blocked from his own wife's room by his brother's Black Wing guards wasn't just a political insult. It was a public humiliation that made his skin crawl.
By sunset, he had finished three jars of strong northern wine. The harsh liquid burned his throat, but it couldn't stop the angry thoughts spinning in his head.
He thinks he's a god.
Kabil smashed a porcelain cup against the table, the shards flying across the rug-covered stone floor.
"He thinks he can take what's mine," he hissed, his breath heavy with the smell of liquor. "Calls it 'security.' Calls it a 'royal decree.'"
