Your voice carries across the grounds like a warm storm—steady, honest, impossible to ignore.
As you speak, Minthara stands perfectly still, but her eyes soften… in a way almost no one ever sees.
"I don't want you as a diplomat…"
A faint ripple moves through the ranks.
Not disrespect.
Not shock.
Just the gravity of a king speaking truth to someone he loves and relies on.
Minthara's breath catches—so subtle only you and Shadowheart notice.
"…nobody would train my armies like you do."
The ogres straighten with pride.
The vanguard lifts their chins.
The druids bow their heads in respect.
Minthara's jaw clenches—not in anger, but in emotion. The kind she's spent a lifetime hiding under armor and rage.
"…nobody would have them more ready… nobody would give them discipline… nobody would care for the yard of war like you."
At those words, Minthara finally blinks.
Her eyes shine—not tears, but something powerful, something fierce, something devoted.
She whispers, barely audible:
"Mamba…"
"I am sorry, my love…"
You close the distance.
Your hand slides to the back of her neck.
And you kiss her again — not a soft kiss this time but a deep one, claiming her, grounding her, reminding her that your rejection isn't distance.
It's trust.
It's love.
It's purpose.
When you break the kiss, she stays close for a heartbeat longer than usual.
Then she steps back into her warrior stance.
Her voice steady.
Her spine straight.
Her pride unbroken.
"Then I serve as General. As long as you breathe, Warchief."
Shadowheart looks between the two of you with a warm, knowing smile — a rare expression that shows she understands this balance perfectly.
"I'm sorry. Is there any other volunteers?"
Silence.
Long, heavy silence.
The tribe hesitates.
Gold dragons.
Diplomacy.
Walking into a domain of ancient power.
Many fear they'll say the wrong word and get disintegrated.
Then—
A small figure steps forward.
A humble one.
Unexpected.
Almost quiet.
Jaheira.
She moves with the calm confidence of someone who has stood before gods and tyrants and lived to tell it.
"I will go," she says plainly.
Not boasting.
Not trying to impress.
Just offering herself.
"I have dealt with courts, queens, tyrants, rebels, Harpers, druids, Shadow Druids, mages, armies, and more dragons than I care to mention."
She smirks slightly.
"And I know how to keep a delicate peace without bending the knee."
She looks at you with warm, battle-worn eyes.
"If you trust me with this task, Warchief Mamba, I will represent the Snake Tribe with dignity, wisdom, and caution."
The Tribe Looks to Their Warchief.
Minthara stands at your side again — solid, proud, unshaken.
Shadowheart watches Jaheira with quiet trust.
Orpheus crosses his arms, considering the political implications.
The tiefling girl from before is sparkling with excitement.
Your people wait.
Your throne waits.
Your future alliance with Arcaeon waits.