Faeroth grumbled to himself as he walked, the tap of his staff against the floor echoing around him. He resisted the urge to scratch an itch beneath his silver scales. It was acting up more than usual, to the point that it felt like hot needles were pricking beneath his skin, but he would not debase himself in front of others. His tail lashing irritably behind him was bad enough.

He did resolve to have the alchemists brew a stronger remedy when he returned to the palace. A man such as he should not suffer something so pedestrian as an itch, regardless of the source.

His honor guard of four dragonblood elites walked with him, two to either side. Their black and silver weapons and armor stood out against the black and red of the few Lochmire elites they passed, though there weren't many to compare. Truly, was the Lochmire Chosen's forces spread so thin that he was relying on urks to guard him? Or did he just prefer the company of the mindless brutes?

Faeroth stopped at the doors to the Chosen's council room, where two actual elites were waiting. They moved to open the doors, but before they could, Faeroth flicked his staff forward. The smoky silver orb resting atop the birch wood pulsed with silver light, and the doors threw themselves open.

Emir Zaman had gathered all of his subordinates. Catalina Zhao, bard and spymaster. Garem Westmin, assassin and enforcer. And General—no, wait. This was a different general than the last one Faeroth had met. He wondered what had happened to the previous one. Of them, only Zhao had gone without attendants. Zaman and the general both had elites at their sides, and even Westmin had that girl hiding in the rafters, though Faeroth suspected he wasn't supposed to have seen her.

"Chosen Faeroth," Emir greeted. "Welcome to Lochmire. What can I do for the most favored and glorious of Digax's humble servants."

The orcblood had addressed Faeroth as "Chosen." Which was one of his titles yes, but not the highest. Emir was attempting, however subtly, to reduce the political gap between them. To treat Faeroth as a peer. That would not do.

"Subject," Faeroth greeted, adjusting his glasses on his snout. "I come on behalf of His Majesty, King Digax, as part of an inspection of all the provinces of our great kingdom. As I'm sure you're aware, the time of annual tribute to our glorious king will soon be upon us all, and I have been dispatched to ensure that there are no…problems."

Faeroth's tail lashed behind him. The itch was still irritating him.

"None at all. You may assure His Majesty that Lochmire will continue to pay tribute, as we have every year since my proper ascension to the position."

'Proper ascension' indeed. After Zaman's initial takeover, he had been lax in collecting tribute to Digax. It had taken Faeroth, with an army at his back, in order to instruct Zaman on the full breadth of his new duties. Zaman had blamed the late payment on the turbulent transition of power, and had practically broken the province open to collect enough of value to make Faeroth and his army go away.

"I see," Faeroth said. "What's this then that I hear of unrest within your territory, hm? Strained battle lines along your borders?"

"A terrible calamity befell my province last year, causing a surge of undead," Emir said. "We have managed to contain the plague at the border with the Blackthorn province, but the Chosen has continued to neglect the crisis and ignore my requests for—"

"We are not discussing the Blackthorn province." Faeroth said. "We are discussing yours."

"Yes, well. Because of the ongoing crisis, there have been some…difficulties, and malcontents have sprouted in populace here and there. Further complicating the matter is the presence of multiple outsiders in their ranks, making them difficult to suppress by the usual means. But they are of no threat, and I suspect my forces will have them handled within the season."

"Not so!"

A new voice echoed in the room, and all heads turned to the newest arrival of the meeting. Gidus of the Light looked as he ever did—a bent, withered old man with a long, scraggled beard, and a dingy blindfold wrapped around his bald, wrinkled head. But his chest was swelled with defiant pride, and he held his own gnarled stick of a staff in the air like a king wielding a scepter before a declaration.

"Tremble in your castles tyrants, for your days of power are at their end! Even now, brave heroes from beyond the furthest shores have come, and they shall not rest in their quest until you have been dragged into the Light, and the people you hold beneath your boot heels breathe free once ag—"

Faeroth groaned as he pointed his staff at Gidus.

A deafening boom shook the entire castle, and every window in the council room shattered at once as a smooth beam of white hot fire bigger than Gidus's whole body rushed out. Gidus vanished, along with the hallway behind him, several walls, and a chunk of a tower in the city itself as Faeroth's blast stretched out across the city and into the horizon. When it faded, it left behind a tunnel of molten slag burrowing straight through the castle, and a tiny, rapidly fading, golden speck on the horizon that Faeroth knew from experience would be Gidus, still alive.

At the very least, his itch had stopped.

"Irritating gnat," he growled. He was familiar with Gidus. The raving old man was, as he understood it, harmless, as it took only a single command of the King's Authority to bring him to heel. But frustrating to kill. He had taken several such blasts from Faeroth over the years, been locked in the House of Bells, and even once been ordered by the King's Authority to remain still while he was entombed at the bottom of the deepest chasm in Xykesh.

So far, nothing had taken.

The rest of the gathered council stared in mute horror. At the devastation, and the lone man that had caused it. Even Garem Westmin's stony face had hardened. Several of them were bleeding from the ears, and the castle itself was grumbling with new instability.

One of Faeroth's honor guard brought the butt of his warhammer down on the ground, and as simply as that, it was as if the blast had never happened. The castle stone was pristine, the windows were whole, and the occupants of the room could hear again.

"It's been some time since the old man had the gaul to approach me directly," Faeroth noted, a thrum of intrigue underpinning his voice. "I wonder if there's anything to his ramblings."

He'd been speaking more to himself at first, but now he turned on Emir, who was still staring slack jawed at his "peer."

"These outsider malcontents you mentioned," Faeroth said. "What can you tell me about them?"