The Family Estate

Dawn found Alistair in the estate's coffers, the ledgers spilling across a splintered table.

Cecily hovered at his shoulder, her fingers stained with ink as she cross-referenced debts and bribes. "Harlin, the grain steward," she whispered, tapping a page. "He's been selling harvests to bandits at half-price."

Alistair's lip curled. Amateur. In his past life, he'd fired executives for lesser fraud. He circled the name in blood-red ink. "Summon him. And the others."

By midday, the manor's courtyard buzzed with uneasy stewards, their greed outmatched only by their stupidity. Alistair straightened his doublet, the Devourer's hunger pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Time to reap.

The stewards stood in a ragged line, sweating under the autumn sun. Alistair limped forward, leaning heavily on a cane—a prop, like the vacant smile he'd perfected.

"Lord Harlin," he drawled, holding up a ledger. "Why do our grain stores vanish each winter, yet your mistress wears Myrish silk?"

The man paled. "M-My Lord, the rats—"

"Rats." Alistair tossed the ledger at his feet. "Indeed. And here I've documented every rodent's name."

Gasps erupted as he exposed each fraud: stolen taxes, phantom laborers, embezzled ore. One steward lunged, only to freeze as Alistair's cane cracked across his shin.

"Guards," Alistair barked, dropping the feeble act. "Strip them of titles. Confiscate their assets."

By dusk, new stewards—merchants handpicked by Cecily—stood in their place. That night, the estate's coffers swelled with reclaimed gold.

In his chambers, Alistair bit into an enchanted silver coin, its magic a fleeting spark on his tongue. Phase one complete.

Whispers spread like wildfire. In taverns and market stalls, merchants marveled at shipments arriving on time, bribes unasked, contracts honored. Coins clinked where once there'd been silence. By week's end, a phrase buzzed through the trade districts, half-jest, half-awe: The Reformed Montfort Duke.

Alistair heard it first from a spice trader bowing too deeply, his eyes lit with wary hope.

"He's halved the port tariffs for honest merchants," grunted a grizzled ironmonger, slamming his tankard on the tavern table. "My profits doubled."

"A trick," sniffed Lady Irissa, a minor noble sipping poisoned wine at the next booth. "That glutton couldn't count to ten without swooning."

The ironmonger leaned in. "Then explain the roads, my lady. Bandits cleared. Patrols paid extra to avoid bribes." He dropped his voice. "My cousin in the capital says the Crown's noticed."

Across the room, Cecily listened, her hood shadowing a smile.

Later, in the manor's vault, Alistair inspected a crate of Vaelyrian saffron—smuggled, enchanted, delicious. He crushed a thread between his teeth, savoring the mana's honeyed burn.

"They're calling you 'reformed,'" Cecily said, entering.

"Good." He swallowed the magic, his veins humming. "Let them argue over what that means. Doubt buys time."

A knock interrupted them. A servant bowed, offering a sealed letter. The crest: a snarling griffin. The King's seal.

Cecily inhaled sharply.

Alistair broke the wax, scanning the contents. "The Crown requests a trade audit. 'To celebrate Montfort's… revitalization.'"

"A test?"

"A invitation." He tucked the letter into his coat, next to a dagger. "Prepare the ledgers. And Cecily—triple the patrols."

Power, he was learning, tasted better than any feast.

The King's audit loomed, but Alistair's focus narrowed to the crate delivered at midnight—its contents reeking of iron and wild magic. Cecily gagged as she pried it open. "Wyvern liver. Enchanted for alchemy. The hunters said it's toxic raw."

Alistair's hands trembled, not from fear, but anticipation. "Leave me."

When the door shut, he faced the liver—a hulking, violet mass pulsing with residual mana. The Devourer's voice slithered through his mind: Feast.

The knife sank into the liver with a wet shlack. Alistair gagged at the first bite—copper and rot flooding his mouth—but forced himself to chew. Magic erupted, fiercer than herbs or spices. His veins lit like forge-heated wires, muscles writhing beneath fat. For ten agonizing seconds, power roared through him, sharpening his senses until he could count motes of dust in the moonlight.

Then—nothing. The liver turned to ash.

He collapsed against the wall, drenched in sweat. His hands glowed faintly before fading. Too brief. Too weak. The Devourer hissed, unsatisfied.

Footsteps outside. Alistair scrambled to hide the ash, stuffing the crate with rags. Cecily entered, eyeing his shaking hands. "Well?"

"Inform the hunters their liver was… subpar," he rasped. "Demand a full wyvern next time."

She hesitated. "Is this worth the risk?"

He stared at the ash. "What's left if I don't?"

Nights blurred into a cycle of gritted teeth and ash.

Alistair's chambers reeked of charred magic—failed experiments with griffin talons, phoenix feathers, even a dwarven runestone. Each left him shaking, drained, but hungrier.

Cecily smuggled in thicker curtains to mask the stench and bandaged his blistered tongue without questions.

On the seventh night, after a mage-bat's heart dissolved into cinders on his tongue, he slumped against the wall, the Devourer's voice a ceaseless growl: More. Faster.

He stared at his reflection in a blackened dagger. Patience, Leonard Ashford whispered in his mind. You didn't build Titan Industries in a day.

At dawn, Alistair stood in the crypts beneath the manor, where ancestral swords glowed with dormant enchantments. He pressed a palm to a blade's hilt—a Montfort heirloom, its magic leashed by old oaths. The Devourer stirred, eager, but Alistair withdrew. Too risky. Too visible.

Instead, he slipped into the chapel, where the chaplain's "holy" wine was spiked with healing draughts. A sip seared his throat, its magic a trickle compared to the wyvern liver. But this time, he focused, willing the energy into his fingertips. The glow lasted five seconds. Control.

Cecily found him there, clutching the empty chalice. "The steward Berrick is skimming silver again," she warned.

"Let him." Alistair wiped his mouth, the Devourer's hunger cooling into calculation. "We'll need proof. Leverage."

"And the magic?"

He glanced at the chalice. "A tool, not a crutch. I'll master it sip by sip. Bite by bite."

She nodded, but paused at the door. "You're different. Not just the body. The… eyes."

Alistair smiled faintly. "Good."

Alone again, he bit into a stolen mage-apple, its core dissolving into ash. One day, he vowed, I'll devour the sun.

***

Berrick's greed became a spectacle. Silver vanished from the vaults, wine stores "spoiled," and guards loyal to Alistair reported whispers of bribes from rival nobles. Cecily compiled ledgers of discrepancies, her notes precise as scalpels. "He's selling secrets to House Veyn," she said, sliding a parchment across Alistair's desk. "Enough to hang him."

Alistair traced the damning figures, the Devourer's hunger curling into cold delight. "No. Hanging's too quick. Too kind."

He rose, his bulk now tempered by lean muscle beneath tailored silks. "Summon Berrick. And bring the Veyn correspondence—unsealed."

The steward arrived smug, his doublet straining over stolen gold. "My Lord," he simpered, "to what do I—"

Alistair tossed the ledger at his feet. Pages fanned out, detailing every embezzled coin, every treasonous letter. Berrick's face drained to parchment-white.

"I'll have you flogged," he blustered, "for slander!"

"Flogged?" Alistair leaned forward, the Devourer's aura thickening the air. "The King's auditors arrive in a fortnight. Imagine their interest in this." He flicked a Veyn seal onto the desk.

Berrick froze. Treason against the Crown meant execution—and the annihilation of his bloodline.

"Or," Alistair murmured, "serve me, and your 'indiscretions' remain… flexible."

"Serve you? A bloated—"

Alistair's hand shot out, seizing Berrick's wrist. Magic flared—a flicker of stolen wyvern strength—and bone creaked. "Feed House Veyn lies. Report their plans to me. Or watch your children beg in the gutters."

Berrick's defiance crumbled. "Y-Yes, My Lord."

As he scuttled out, Cecily emerged from the shadows. "Will he comply?"

Alistair stared at the trembling door. "Greed and fear are old friends. He'll sell his soul to keep them both."