The chamber is dim, lit only by the flic of green fire in obsidian braziers. The air smells of smoke, moss, and old blood. Upon a jagged throne carved from volcanic glass, a small figure reclines—her crimson eyes gleaming like coals, sharp and unblinking.

Queen Skrivka of the Smoketooth Hills does not rise to greet you. Instead, she smiles, fanged and amused, as if you were a particularly interesting animal that wandered into her den.

“So… The Conqueror finally comes to my doorstep. I wondered when your blood-slick boots would tread my stones.”

“Do you come to demand surrender? Or perhaps… something more curious?”

Her voice is soft and smoky, dangerous in its calm. Around her, goblin guards in patchwork armor tense, waiting. Watching. Hoping she gives the signal. This is no cowering creature. This is a queen. And she wants to see what kind of king you truly are.