Emperor Meriel leaned forward on his towering throne of woven sun-gold.
The projected image flickered aggressively as the immense, divine heat of the distant capital tried to push its way down the magical wire.
"The weather," Meriel rumbled, a slow, highly condescending smile touching his sculpted lips.
"You always were an incredibly dramatic boy, Kai."
"You spent your youth reading forbidden void scrolls in the dark while the true princes practiced the spear."
"Now you sit inside my secondary clay keep and call yourself a storm."
"A storm that just butchered your southern vanguard," Kai reminded him, taking a slow, unhurried step toward the floating projection.
"A vanguard of cheap provincial mercenaries and obsolete brass toys," the Emperor dismissed smoothly.
"You have conquered a salt plain and a few yellow clay silos."
"Do not confuse the outer sheep-pens with the throne room, little rogue."
