The peace was starting to get on my nerves.
It was a deep, profound, and soul-crushingly boring peace.
My kingdom was a well-oiled machine, a beautiful engine of conquest humming with the quiet, efficient thrum of impending world domination.
And I, Ragnar Vhagar, its magnificent, all-powerful, and increasingly restless king, was starting to go existentially insane.
"This is unacceptable," I announced to the quiet of the Crystal Spire's throne room.
My voice, now a smooth baritone that was excellent for brooding monologues, echoed pleasingly off the walls.
"My bloodlust has dwindled to a mild sanguinary curiosity."
"I almost complemented a goblin on his choice of skull-based centerpiece yesterday."
"This cannot stand."
Pixia, my tiny, flying spreadsheet of a pixie, zipped over to my shoulder. She had been diligently cataloging the different resonant frequencies of the throne room's crystals, a task she seemed to find immensely satisfying.
