Alaric's POV
The blood in my glass had started to cool, its warmth fading, yet the metallic scent still lingered—rich and sharp. I swirled the crimson liquid once more, my gaze drifting lazily toward Rion, who still stood at attention.
Rion straightened, eyes glinting faintly beneath his hood. "Most of the witches have been warned, my lord. They know not to take up the offer of helping him. The word has spread. Even the bold ones are keeping their distance."
I hummed softly, the sound echoing against the high, cold stone walls. "Good. Fear keeps people loyal better than gold ever could."
"But," Rion continued carefully, "Evander doesn't trust anyone enough to approach them anyway. Even if a witch dared to make a deal, he would hesitate. He's too cautious, too paranoid."
I tilted my head, smiling faintly. "As he should be."
"The ones he trusts will not be around when he needs them," Rion added.
