The envoy at the head of the table—a silver-bearded man draped in a robe heavy with gold-threaded embroidery—settled back in his chair. His smile spread slowly, deliberate as the ticking of a clock.
"Prince Reuben," he began, his voice smooth as poured oil, "we honor Northem by seeking partnership. But surely you must see—the craftsmen of Westalis are beyond compare. It is only the novelty, the strangeness, of these… contraptions that hinders us. Share the secret of their making, and together our kingdoms will flourish."
A younger envoy, his gaze hawk-sharp, leaned forward with a polite dip of the head. "Of course, given Northem's… current circumstances, generosity would be expected. Surely your kingdom does not mean to hoard such things when allies stand ready to strengthen you." His eyes flicked, knife-like, toward Reuben's chair. The barb beneath his civility was plain.
