Clearly, people did care. Around him, several dwarves lurched to their feet.
"An elf?" one shouted, fist slamming against the table. "The greatest smith? That is a lie forged by a madman!"
"I'll sooner castrate myself with a blazing hot anvil than accept that reality!" another shouted.
The elves who heard such shouts stared daggers at the dwarves in one synchronized movement. A few even had their hands hover near their staves.
Queen Myrasyn remained still, but her eyes shifted toward the loud dwarf screaming about castrating himself rather than live in a world with an elf being on top of the smithing world with a calm that somehow sliced deeper than any blade.
The room inside the projection churned with offended pride and unspoken challenges.
The Drowned King wasn't done.
