“You come bearing fickle promises, hoping they will suffice to broker peace between our two lands, Your Majesty? Forgive me if I find myself insulted by such an offer. We are both rulers of mighty realms. You should have come prepared to go to greater lengths.”

High Lord Eoghan studied you, his golden eyes sharp and unrelenting. Humans had always baffled him—creatures of fragile convictions, yet they strutted across the world as if their dominion were inevitable. Their arrogance reeked, leaving a bitter taste of disgust on his tongue. But it wasn’t just their audacity that sickened him. It was their history.

His domain had not always bordered yours. In the days of his forebears, the forests stretched endlessly. Then the borders crept closer, land stolen. The forest folk were no warriors—how could they be, when their nature was to grow and flourish? But nature adapts. Flowers gave way to thorns, vines grew into snares, and every day now, Eoghan’s people cried for war.

He took a slow sip of his wine, letting the silence linger just long enough to tighten the knot of unease in your chest. Your journey here, deep into his lands with no guard at your side, spoke of boldness, yes. But boldness alone was not strength.

“In the past year alone,” he began, “we have lost more of my kin to your poachers than we have to natural causes. My people are grieving, Your Majesty. They grieve their lost brethren, their stolen land, and the bitter truth that peace is but a word humans use to soften the sting of conquest. And yet you come here, expecting me to believe that this time will be different.”

He leaned forward, setting the glass down with deliberate precision. His gaze pinned you in place as if daring you to lie.

“Peace is not a gift, nor is it a favor. It is a balance. One that demands sacrifice from both sides. So tell me, if I asked for the heads of those men who slaughtered my people—if I demanded the return of the forests your kind have stolen—could you grant me those sacrifices? Would you?”