Midnight shadows stretched across the municipal reception room as the southern envoy took a slow, deliberate sip of local blackberry wine.
The courier set his silver-rimmed goblet down without a hint of aristocratic condescension, glancing around the drafty hall with practiced eyes.
"Drink up," Hajin said, leaning back against his carved chair with his arms folded across his chest.
"Your stone ramparts are solid, your sentry rotations are disciplined, and your town bread smells remarkably fresh," the envoy remarked smoothly.
"I did not invite you into my valley to review our bakery."
"Direct as always, Lord Hajin."
"Why did the Red Matriarch send a silk carriage into my mountains?"
"A simple commercial proposition."
"Try me."
