The moment the doors of the council chamber swung open, the grand anteroom erupted into a chaotic storm of clamoring noble courtiers.
Dozens of robed chancellors, wealthy merchant-barons, and aristocratic retainers swarmed into the colonnade, their voices overlapping in frantic inquiries.
Duke Rowan of the northern frontier pushed his way through the gathering crowd, his woolen mantle brushing against Captain Seret's battered breastplate.
"Captain Seret, my northern foundries require the first salvage rights to the Beast King's auxiliary bone carapaces," Duke Rowan demanded with urgent, gravelly authority.
"The northern mountain passes face endless winter incursions from ice drakes, and those solar-tempered plates could reinforce our defensive battlements for twenty years," the northern duke insisted, his weathered face set in grim lines.
