I stared at the scene before me.
A seething, jealous elf. A bored, sadistic queen. A confused, angry beast. A suicidal, dramatic idiot.
And a twelve-year-old Dwarf who had just, with a single, simple demand, thrown my entire command structure into chaos.
I was a degenerate circus clown, performing a high-wire act over a pit of very angry, very pointy monsters.
My mind raced.
This was a test. A brilliant, vicious, and exquisitely cruel test.
If I chose Isabelle, I would be publicly declaring her as my most trusted, my most beloved. I would be confirming Chloe's deepest, most paranoid fears. The quiet cold war between them would become a very loud, very hot war. And my private chambers would likely become a beautifully decorated, blood-soaked warzone.
