Trump, his strength slowly returning, stood with a quiet resolve, his steel-blue eyes fixed on Warren. The air was thick with unspoken promises, Cassandra lingered nearby, her expression a mix of relief and unease, still reeling from her father’s revelation about his hidden ailment. Dr. Jonathan Gon had excused himself, his awe-struck gratitude tempered by the humbling realization that he was a bystander in a story far larger than himself. Now, only the three remained—Trump, Cassandra, and Warren, the man whose miraculous skill had shifted the course of their lives.Trump cleared his throat, his voice steady but carrying a gravity that demanded attention. “Warren, you asked about the Trump's family symbol. It’s time you saw it for yourself—and understood what it means.” He glanced at Cassandra, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “And you, Cassandra… there are things about our family you need to know. Things I’ve kept from you too long.”Cassandra’s brow furrowed, her heart quickeni

Trump’s eyes darkened, a shadow of caution crossing his face. “The mystics who crafted it were called the Seven of the Veil, a sect said to commune with the Underworld itself. The ring chooses its bearer through trials—tests of will, skill, and sacrifice, sometimes just potential and that's rare. As for the truth… there’s a place, a mountain deep in the Ironspire Forest, infested with dangers: cannibalistic human vampires, beasts that defy nature, and worse. On May 13th of next year, climb that mountain. At its peak, you’ll find a stone cup. Cut your hand, let your blood fill it, and pour it into a hole at the summit. A door will open—out of nowhere, marked by lightning. Seven disciples, descendants of the Veil, will appear. They’ll guide you to the answers you seek and reveal the true extent of the Crown’s power.”"Ironspire Forest,” Warren said softly, committing the name to memory. “May 13th. I’ll be there.”Cassandra’s heart pounded, her eyes darting between her father and Warren.

Cassandra, too, felt a pang of unease. She studied Warren, searching for a hint of his intentions. The Cranes were not just wealthy—they were a force, their influence a web of secrets and power that rivaled the Trumps’. If Warren planned to cause chaos at Victor Crane’s wedding, he was walking into a lion’s den. “Please don’t do anything reckless,” she thought, her heart twisting with worry. She wanted to say it aloud, to beg him to reconsider, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she offered a tentative smile. “Stay safe, Warren,” she said softly.Warren inclined his head, his expression unreadable but his eyes softening for a moment. “I’ll be fine, Ms. Trump,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll see you both soon.” With a final wave, he turned and exited the private room, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft thud.As Warren descended the grand staircase to the hotel’s lobby, the noise from the second floor grew louder, a chaotic symphony of celebration that grated against

Warren stepped into the banquet hall, the grandeur of the space hitting him like a physical blow. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over tables draped in silk, their surfaces laden with roses and champagne flutes. The air buzzed with the laughter and chatter of Ironspire’s elite, but to Warren, it carried the sour tang of hypocrisy. As he crossed the threshold, the crowd parted slightly, their eyes—some curious, some scornful, others predatory—tracking his every move. The ring on his finger pulsed with a faint warmth, grounding him against the fury simmering in his chest. He had earlier dissolved his planns to cause chaos by attending Victor Crane’s wedding, but Victor’s arrogance in the lobby had ignited a fire he couldn’t extinguish. If they wanted to parade their triumph, he’d give them a reckoning they’d never forget.Victor and Rachel entered behind him, their arrival met with a roar of applause. Rachel’s gown shimmered like molten starlight, each step a calculated display o

Beat him up! Kill him!” Michael’s voice cracked with venom, his hand clutching his swollen cheek as he struggled to rise. The crowd, a sea of tailored suits and glittering gowns, parted like a tide, their whispers turning to gasps. No one moved to help Michael, their eyes fixed on Warren, who stood unflinching at the center of the storm. His presence, once unremarkable, now radiated a quiet menace that made the air feel heavier, the lights dimmer.On the stage, Victor’s lips curled into a sadistic smile, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped possessively around Rachel, who sat rigid, her face a mask of conflicting emotions—guilt, fear, and something dangerously close to awe. “Look at him,” Victor sneered, his voice low but carrying over the murmurs. “Making a fool of himself. No one’s going to save him now.” The guests, emboldened by Victor’s confidence, tittered nervously, their earlier mockery of Warren now tinged with unease. They sens