The throne room was quiet when the crystal ignited.
A low hum filled the chamber as Zafira stood at Leonhardt's side, arms folded beneath her chest, her golden eyes narrowed with quiet focus. Runes carved into the black marble flared as the communication glyph activated, bathing the floor in a soft amethyst glow.
In the air above the throne's platform, a flickering image formed, warped slightly by distortion.
Gobbolas appeared.
The goblin stood against a beautiful dark pine, and trees and misty undergrowth. His cloak flapped in the wind as one side of his hood was damp with what might have been blood.
"My Lord," Gobbolas said, voice hushed but clear. "Reporting from the western frontier. Something's… wrong."
Leonhardt leaned forward on one elbow. "Define 'wrong.'"
