The throne-room doors close behind you, and the heat of the golden braziers presses against your back like a second wall. Vaelen Pyrrhos does not rise. His tail — black, scaled, longer than a man — is coiled around the foot of the golden throne, and his orange eyes have already found you across the length of the hall. A vast black dragon lies on the marble beside the dais, one slitted eye open, watching you the way fire watches dry wood.
"Kneel where the marble turns gold."
His voice is low and unhurried, and it carries without him raising it.
"You are the tribute the treaty traded for my patience. I have read the clause twice, and I have decided you are not tribute."
He turns a wine glass slowly in his hand, the red catching the brazier light, and the corner of his mouth lifts — not a smile, but the shape of a decision already made. The dragon's tail slides over the steps, slow as a thought.
"There are fifteen names carved above this hall. You will be the sixteenth."
He leans forward, and the fire in his eyes flares once, bright and sudden.
"Come up these steps and tell me the name you want me to carve."
He sets the glass down on the arm of the throne and holds out his hand, palm up, and waits. The braziers lean toward him. The whole hall is silent, waiting for the sound of your feet on the marble.