The dwarf's tone was immensely grave, for he already knew the answer would fall hardest on dwarven shoulders. The leaf munchers had little value for age-old undead crime bosses as opposed to the mighty dwarven race, the king reasoned inwardly.

The Blind Grave Oracle shifted her gaze to him.

"For us to ignore the Primordial Villain's transgressions, you will hand over a hundred thousand slaves currently held within Elvardian territory."

Silence.

Advisors exchanged looks. One of the dwarven generals swallowed.

That was not a symbolic number. Prisoners of war from border skirmishes, proxy conflicts, and failed rebellions. Elvardia did not practice slavery on the level of Vraven, not even close, but it was not outlawed either. Handing them over would cost Elvardia dearly.

Ragnar's jaw worked.

"…Done," he said finally, nodding once.

A ripple went through the room.

"With that out of the way," he began,

"That only covers his past transgressions," the Blind Grave Oracle cut in.

Ragnar stiffened.

"If you wish us to look the other way in the future as well," she continued, "then we require additional compensation."

Her staff tapped the stone once.

"One hundred thousand sets of dwarven armor and weapons forged of mithril. Ten thousand of orichalcum. One thousand of adamantite."

She paused.

"All fitted for undead use."

Ragnar's eyes bulged.

Several advisors went pale. One dropped a slate. Another stared at the war table as if hoping the numbers might rearrange themselves.

"That's centuries of reserve! That's every royal smithy running day and night! The raw materials alone—"

"Done," Queen Myrasyn said.

The room froze.

Ragnar turned on her slowly, face red beneath his beard. "What."

She blinked at him three exact times. Three cute, innocent closing and opening of her eyelids.

"Done," she repeated. "It seems acceptable. Your people have been stockpiling those rocks for millions of years, no? You can pay it."

Ragnar stared, then jumped to his feet on his throne. "R-rocks?! Acceptable?! That's- that's-" He waved an arm helplessly. "Do you even know how much adamantite that is?!"

Myrasyn tilted her head cutely. "Are you poor?"

A dwarven advisor made a choking sound.

Ragnar pressed both hands to his temples. "Have you gone insane?! Do you know how many master smiths it takes to work adamantite without ruining it?!"

She considered that for a moment. "Two?"

He gaped at her.

Myrasyn smiled and returned her attention to the undead bunch. "We accept your terms. But we expect you, Oracle, to keep your fellow liches in line."

Her gaze traveled to Archlich Vozen and the Drowned King, both of whom were sitting like well-behaved boys while their mother was speaking.

"Naturally," the lich nodded, not even needing to take a look at the pair.

Truth be told, Myrasyn wasn't a ditz; she understood - albeit in very abstract terms - that her nation was to foot a large bill, only to satiate the anger of their unholy allies.

She could've agreed to hand over Quinlan Elysiar, as that was the undead's other proposed deal. But the queen, having lived for far too long a life in this horribly mundane world, was interested in someone for the first time in thousands of years.

She believed him to be a worthy ally to court. A gamble worth risking. And when the elven queen decided someone was worth such a gamble, something as mundane as money, metals, or manpower was irrelevant to her.

Furthermore, as explained, it wasn't like Quinlan Elysiar was a money sink without upsides. His mere presence and that of his allies saved both Elvardian lives and expensive siege ammunition. That in itself was a big deal.

The projection dimmed.

The cold weight that had pressed against the chamber lifted as the Covenant's presence withdrew. Light returned to its usual hue. The air warmed by a fraction.

King Ragnar rounded on Queen Myrasyn the instant the circle went dark.

"You cannot make decisions like that on your own. That was not a trade of apples and cloth. We rule together, Queen of the Elves! Together!"

Myrasyn smiled mysteriously. "But we are in agreement."

Ragnar stared. "Hah?"

She folded her hands again, sleeves whispering softly. "I may not concern myself with metals and furnaces. But I am good at reading people." Her eyes met his. "And you, Ragnar, were already on board the moment the words left that lich's hollow skull."

His brow twitched.

"You simply needed to protest it vehemently first," she continued. "With many huffs and puffs. Your dwarven pride demands it."

His fists clenched.

She smiled. "So go ahead. The floor is yours."

Ragnar's eyes widened. For half a heartbeat, he looked caught mid-thought. She read him like an open book, but the dwarf would never admit such a thing.

Thus, his jaw locked shut.

The rage did not leave his face, but it stalled, trapped behind stubborn silence.

Before he could properly explode, the communication artifact rang again.

A sharp, insistent chime.

Myrasyn inclined her head toward her assistant. "Accept it."

"I'm not done with you!" Ragnar shouted.

The circle flared.

Ragnar's glare sharpened, ready to tear into whoever had the gall to interrupt him.

Then the image resolved.

A man stood within the projection. Dark hair. Calm eyes. That familiar, infuriating ease to his posture, as if he were visiting a tavern rather than intruding on a war council.

Quinlan Elysiar looked directly at them.

"Queen Myrasyn," he said pleasantly, "you are as beautiful as ever."

Myrasyn's brow creased. "You have only seen me today in your entire life."

Quinlan smiled anyway.

"King Ragnar," he continued, "you look like a proper warrior king."

Ragnar did not answer. He sank back into his throne with a heavy thud, arms crossing over his chest.

"Offering pleasantries? You, Villain? What do you want?" he demanded. The words came out flat. Sulking. "You have already cost me enough."

Quinlan raised an eyebrow but did not ask further. Instead, he parted his hands. "Nothing dramatic. I simply wish to inform you that I will be leaving for a while."

Ragnar blinked.

"…What."

"An indefinite time," Quinlan added thoughtfully. "Though hopefully only the blink of an eye or two."

The chamber shook.

"WHAT?!" Ragnar roared. "We just paid a ransom fit to bankrupt three kingdoms, and you are leaving?!"

Quinlan watched him with mild interest. Then he chuckled.

"I considered how I might help my two amazing allies during my absence. And then it hit me. One of my wives possesses a class that allows her to summon mercenaries. In exchange for gold."

Ragnar's eye instantly twitched. Myrasyn's smile deepened.

"So," Quinlan continued, "if you provide me with a few coffers of gold coin, you may have free soldiers at your disposal."

"FREE?" Ragnar bellowed. "COFFERS OF GOLD?!"

Quinlan tilted his head. "Are you poor?"

Myrasyn had to hide her mouth to cover an unladylike sound from escaping.

Ragnar made a growl that alarmed several advisors.

Myrasyn, with great theatrics, blinked, slowly closing both eyes to ensure he saw it. "A blink already passed, though~?"

Quinlan smiled at the elf. "Queen Myrasyn, I must ask that you keep your mesmerizing eyes open for a few seconds longer before your second blink. Would you do that for me?"

The queen's smile turned sly. "Hmmm… I'll consider it."

"Stop flirting!" Ragnar screamed.

"I'm forever grateful," Quinlan bowed, ignoring the raging dwarf.

The connection cut.

Silence.

Ragnar sat rigid, beard bristling, breath heavy through his nose. His hands dug into the stone armrests as if he were considering ripping the throne free from the floor.

Myrasyn glanced at him.

"He said he will be back soon," she said cheerfully.

"I curse your whole damned lineage, you sleazy elven cun-"

An advisor of Ragnar's camp rushed forward to respectfully silence his king before he said something he truly should not.

Myrasyn's smile turned dangerous.

But the crisis was averted just in time.

And now, with his allies informed, Quinlan was ready to depart.

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