The flickering torchlight barely touched the edges of the war chamber—walls carved from volcanic blackstone, veins of silver mana pulsing through the floor like arteries feeding something ancient. The large round table before the throne buzzed with the echo of an argument that had spiralled into comedy hours ago.
Lina, Speaker of the Council, had tried three times now to maintain order. She failed each time.
"I'm simply saying," Snaggle muttered, tapping his claw against the table with irritating rhythm, "the treasury can't keep conjuring gold just because your 'God-Touched Goblings' want sapphire inlays on their chamber pots."
"Bah! You talk like a miser, Snaggle." Griv leaned back, boots kicked onto a half-finished map. "Let the wee ones have their sparkle. They'll grow up stabbing humans with sharper morale."
Snaggle twitched. "That is not how morale works, you walking fungus."
"Says the bean counter too afraid to enter a real dungeon!"
