The news hit Alastair Greenvale like a punch to the skull.
The Royal Stabilization Mandate.
Alastair stood in the center of his command tent, fists clenched so tight they were trembling. Throbbing veins spread across his forehead, climbing like angry vines. The parchment in his hand crumpled, then tore as he squeezed.
He hurled it across the tent.
A rack of maps crashed to the ground next. A quill jar followed. The desk went over with a violent shove, scattering reports, ink, and pencils across the floor.
"This is what he thinks of me?" Alastair growled, voice raw. "This is what that decrepit bastard thinks of his own duke?"
He kicked the fallen desk again, hard enough to dent the wood. "I'm not incompetent! I can deal with this conflict! In fact, I'm winning! The Consortium is in a state of near collapse!"
