In the Hall of Beginnings, beneath the great stone-vaulted roof now hundreds of feet tall, that echoed with every cough, whisper, and breath, the crowd packed every available space. There was no elbow room left—only the electric tension of anticipation. People filled the tiered seats all around the central dais, with others standing in the aisles and against the walls. Journalists manned their stations, adjusting mics, checking lenses. Drones hovered silently above, tracking the scene from a dozen angles. Civilians held their phones high, hands trembling not from fear, but sheer significance—every moment recorded, every second broadcast.
At the center of the stage sat two figures across from each other at a simple but well-crafted stone table, its surface faintly reflecting the soft gold and blue lighting above. They were being monitored live by a group of journalists perched to the side, their own tension hidden under practiced neutrality. All around, murmurs passed like wind through leaves, the people of LakeVail equal parts nervous and electrified.
And they had good reason.
On one side sat the President of the United States Empire—an older woman whose presence carried weight, not just from title, but from raw inevitability. Her clothing was garish by modern standards: a tailored, multi-colored jacket with geometric embroidery from cultures long since conquered or absorbed, high-waisted slacks of woven glimmering thread, and delicate vines blossoming with tiny white and violet flowers spiraling from her hair. Her smile was slow, unhurried, almost amused, as though none of this surprised her, as though the entire world might be an elaborate joke only she fully understood. Her hair, once famously raven black, was now stark white, the transition not hidden but accentuated—a crown of snow haloed in bloom.
Across from her sat Elmore.
Overweight by any old-world standard, but impossibly sturdy. A bear of a man with shoulders like barrel staves, thick arms crisscrossed with old scars and new strength, and hair that curled wildly from his arms, chest, and jaw in a way that no razor dared challenge. He wore what could only be described as the formal garb of a sovereign hill chief: a sleeveless tunic made of dark-stained leathers, inlaid with turquoise-wrought mithril thread in geometric patterns that caught the light like frozen lightning. His legs were sheathed in heavy hide trousers tucked into leather moccasins laced to his knee, their soles layered with quiet metal plates shaped like mountain teeth. His boots, when they moved, did so with a curious shimmer—each step like walking with the promise of thunder.
He scratched his beard idly, thick fingers rasping through the wild thatch beneath his chin, and then reached forward, offering his hand without flourish.
The President took it.
No fanfare. No pretense.
Just two leaders, each knowing that what followed would change the shape of the world.
The room quieted.
Elmore’s voice rumbled low as he leaned slightly forward in his chair, folding his large hands together on the tabletop between them. “First off, Madam President, I want to thank you for comin’ down to our neck of the woods. I know you’re not wantin’ for other places to be, but it means a hell of a lot to us that you’d come here and sit face to face.”
The President gave a warm, knowing smile, her eyes squinting faintly as she nodded. “Chief Elmore, thank you for the invitation. It’s rare these days to get a proper welcome without twenty pens ready to skewer the moment. I’ve been hearing whispers about your valley for a long time. It's good to see it with my own eyes.”
She glanced around the hall—at the towering stone vaults, the careful engravings, the hand-forged light fixtures that hummed with aether-energy rather than filament or plain fire. Then her gaze returned to Elmore, focused and sharp behind her disarming smile. “I must admit, I’m impressed. LakeVail far outstrips any other throne within American jurisdiction. There are places still clinging to the husks of skyscrapers, trying to retrofit broken systems with pre-Aither tools. But this? This is civilization reborn.”
Elmore chuckled, the sound deep and genuine, echoing faintly in the high arches of the hall. “Well, ma’am, I appreciate that. Truth is, we worked hard to get it lookin’ like this. But the buildings, the stonework, the tech—none of that would’ve mattered without the people. Folks here took to their skills like dry wood to fire. And not just the flashy stuff. We made sure folks understood the purpose behind what they got. Whether it's [Quick Stitching] or [Flame Wrangling], it ain’t just about power. It’s about what they can build with it. About comin’ together, learning from each other, and passin’ those crafts along.”
He scratched at his beard, eyes softening as he went on, “Course, it’s not just about knowin’ what you can do. You gotta be out there, takin’ on the world, pushin’ your limits. Gotta go huntin’. If you want to grow stronger, you gotta walk into the wild and prove it. No substitute for the raw edge of a real fight.”
The President tilted her head slightly, her smile never quite fading but clearly sharpening. “Isn’t it a little… hypocritical,” she said lightly, voice like silk over steel, “to preach the necessity of hunting and struggle when your people have access to a dungeon that infinitely spits out beasts?”
She let the question hang in the air a moment, letting it bite before she continued.
“You say people need to go out and push themselves, but how is that fair to the rest of the world? The beasts you fight underground—whatever’s in that dungeon—they respawn. They're bound to whatever arcane system fuels your valley. But out in the wider world? The creatures are finite. Weakened. Natural. Some border on endangered already. If every town follows your example and encourages the hunt, we won’t be leveling up—we’ll be exhausting Mother Gaia of her last remaining bounty.”
She sat back slowly, the vines in her hair giving a faint shiver as a few fresh blooms unfurled beside her temples. “Do you not see that this imbalance risks spreading far beyond your valley's stone walls?”
Elmore leaned back as the President finished her warning, his expression unreadable for a long moment. The great vaulted hall around them buzzed with the low murmurs of shifting attention—half the room hanging on her every word, the other half waiting for the reply from the mountain-born chieftain who never flinched in front of power.
Then came the whirr of small propellers.
A turquoise drone, the size of a crow and shaped like a stingray, glided down from one of the stone perches along the wall, it hovered just above Elmore’s shoulder. With the ease of long familiarity, he reached up and retrieved a small stack of smooth, sealed papers bound in copper thread hanging from its undercarriage, and laid them deliberately on the table between them.
“We’ve been doin’ our own research,” Elmore said calmly, voice firm but even. “Ten years of observation, madam. And that’s not just lab-coat speculation or backwoods superstition. That’s controlled data from our biologists, our gamekeepers—” he tapped the side of his head subtly “—coordinating the numbers.”
He slid the papers toward her.
“Not everyone uses the dungeon. Only our trained fighters. It’s not a free-for-all blood sport. We use a rotation system. Most of our residents—hell, three outta four—still hunt in the forest like folks did a hundred years ago. Quiet, respectful, traditional. We keep the stocks strong, we track migrations, we clean up after ourselves. But this here—” he tapped the top sheet, which bore a chart and a map of LakeVail’s valley and the surrounding wildlife corridors “—shows somethin’ stranger.”
He leaned forward slightly, letting his voice carry just a little louder.
“The more people hunt, the more the population grows back. Not just a little. A lot. Fertility rates in local deer, boar, even apex predators. Rabbits breed at a damn-near mythic rate, flocks expand beyond their migratory bounds. It’s like nature’s... rebounding from pressure. Like it wants to be engaged.”
He paused as the President began thumbing through the papers, her fingers slow and methodical, her brow beginning to furrow with annoyance, even disbelief. As she looked, her jaw tightened.
“I hear what you’re sayin’,” Elmore added, not backing down, but letting a tone of understanding creep in. “These are still wild animals. And no, they ain’t monsters. Not like the things we pull from the dungeon. I ain’t saying this should be done without conscience. But something changed. Aither changed it. Gaia, as you called her—she ain’t fragile anymore. She's moving. Adapting.”
The President snapped the last page to the table, frowning. Her voice was sharper this time.
“That doesn’t change the morality of it,” she said. “Your people might have balance now, but I’ve seen what happens when that balance fails when a dungeon fails. The swarms that consumed Madagascar? The six-legged locust dogs chewing their way through Tanzania? Or the scaled boar beatles in the Congo basin, leveling villages like bulldozers? All monsters. All … bigger. Stronger. Twisted.”
Her hands opened slightly as if presenting a grand truth. “There’s a line. And once you start treating Gaia’s creatures like dungeon spawn, it disappears. I’ve seen it. An Entire continent paying for a decade of exploitation. What you call ‘rebalance,’ others would call the start of an unraveling.”
Silence followed her words, deep and cold like a mountain stream, as the eyes of hundreds—millions now watching live—waited for Elmore’s reply.
Under the vaulted turquoise and stone of the Hall of Beginnings, where the glowing sconces flickered like low stars against ancient timber, the warmth of the moment soured in an instant.
Elmore didn’t rise from his seat. He simply leaned forward—arms planted on the table, boots unmoving, beard bristling in subtle defiance. The lights caught the woven glint of mithril thread in his collar and cuffs, the sheen rolling like stormlight across his broad chest as he locked eyes with the President of the United States Empire.
“I could open the gates,” he said flatly, the words quiet and deliberate. “Right now, while the cameras are still on. You’d feel the ground rumble before this hour was out.”
The room, which moments before had been suffused with relief, tensed into a wire. One of the cameramen visibly flinched, and a few murmurs in the crowd turned to sharp hisses of breath. Even the journalists seemed momentarily unsure whether they were still watching an interview—or the opening volley of a civil war.
The President’s face didn’t shift at first. But then, ever so slowly, a vein began to pulse at her temple. The crown of flowers nestled in her white hair seemed to curl inward, browning at the edges.
She leaned in, the lazy smile from earlier long gone.
“We agreed,” she hissed, her voice cracking like dry bark underfoot, “not to speak of that power in public. That was the condition for this meeting. That was the condition for your valley’s continued sovereignty.”
Elmore didn’t flinch. “And you agreed to honor our deal.”
“You’re playing me,” she snapped, the edge of her voice starting to rise. “You think just because I’ve got one foot out the door, you can strong-arm the world with folklore and theater? You think I’m weak? You think I’m bluffing?”
She stood suddenly, her palms flat on the table now, and the sound echoed like a whipcrack through the hall. Her aides began to shift nervously behind her, and security leaned just a fraction closer from the walls.
Elmore’s grin was cold and crooked now. “No, Miss Dorthea. I think you’re tired. I think you’ve seen too much and changed too little. And I think you're clinging to the hope that what happened in Africa wasn’t real—because if it was, then the entire world’s been walking on a landmine for a decade.”
The President’s lips parted—but before she could reply, Elmore tapped his temple lightly, like he was flicking a thought straight from the air.
“My Nexus,” he said softly. “It says I can. It’s floating in front of me right now
[Continental Dungeon of the Ancients: ]
Release the Ancients
Lock away the Ancients
Let the Ancients sleep
. All I have to do is accept. One thought. One command.”
His eyes, usually so warm when looking at his wife, his boy, his valley—were steel now. “So if you’re that worried about fuel for the public’s leveling, if you're terrified of what happens when people stop growing stronger… I could make this continent look like Africa in a month.”
He sat back, his arms folding like gates closing on a citadel. “Wouldn’t even need to use a gun.”
The President didn’t speak. Not yet. Her jaw was clenched tight enough that the flowers around her crown had begun to wilt. Hydra whispered softly into Elmore’s earpiece:
“Pulse at 140. Cortisol spiking. Pollen density rising—hostile floral response. Recommend deflection within sixty seconds or containment personnel will intervene. Full broadcast still live. Audience reaction: split. Fifty-two percent believe you’re bluffing. Thirty-seven percent terrified. Eleven percent… enthusiastic.”
A stillness had taken hold over the Hall. The kind of silence reserved for the instant before an avalanche breaks.
And Elmore simply leaned forward once more.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“I’m not your enemy, Madam President. But don’t mistake restraint for weakness. You asked for armor. I agreed. You wanted proof of good faith. I gave it. But I will not be lectured while you stand on my land and accuse me of hoarding survival.”
He gave a sharp exhale and settled back again. “Now. We can keep trading threats like two old wolves with broken teeth… or we can sit down, eat our damn lunch, and start planning a future that doesn’t end in screams and ash.”
Hydra’s voice crackled into Elmore’s earpiece—low, smooth, like cool water running through copper wire, but urgent beneath its synthetic calm.
“Warning: Miss Dorthea’s vitals spiking—heart rate accelerating. Pollen density in atmosphere increased by 23%. Temporal artery contracting. Shoulders rigid. Jaw clenching. Iris dilation consistent with rising fury. She is entering phase-one pre-outburst state. Recommend immediate shift to Plan G.”
Elmore gave no visible reaction—just the briefest flicker in his gaze, like a man seeing a hawk shadow glide overhead. He gave a slow, subtle nod, the kind one might give before setting a steel trap.
Before the president could erupt—before her Aither-wrought emotions could bloom into a spectacle of public anger—Elmore raised both hands in a disarming gesture, palms forward, his expression instantly sheepish, almost boyish in its earnestness.
“I’m sorry,” he said, tone steady and rich with practiced humility. “I’m sorry—I know, I wasn’t supposed to speak on that. Believe me, I do. But folks deserve to know. Not just mine—all folks. I believe in open access to truth. To knowledge. To what’s real. I may be a chief, but I’m also a citizen. I vote too, you know.”
The laughter that stirred in the crowd wasn’t mocking—it was a release. Tension bled from the hall’s seams. Elmore’s tone had shifted the narrative like a bard turning a lynch mob into a listening circle.
“I don’t want the country to fall,” he continued, eyes locked on the president’s as though speaking directly to the part of her still human underneath the petals and pressure. “I don’t want fracture, or fire, or lines in the dirt that divide people instead of protect 'em. But if i push that button now…”—his voice softened, laden with consequence—“…it will fall. It will spiral. You know it.”
Miss Dorthea blinked once. The pollen wreath in her hair trembled, less violently.
“And I ain’t tryin’ to seem like some money-hungry mountain tyrant either,” he said, the edge of a chuckle buried in his chest.
He let the silence do its work—let it unfurl like a slow tide over the gathered watchers, the civilian phones, the hovering drones, the journalists leaning forward over their tablets.
Hydra whispered again into his ear, softer now:
“Heart rate decreasing. Facial muscles relaxing. Anger threshold stabilizing. Good. You’ve got her listening again.”
Elmore didn’t break eye contact. He only nodded faintly.
And across from him, President Dorthea—floral, formidable, and for the first time truly still—exhaled through her nose. Her hands, which had been tense fists in her lap, opened like blossoms once more.
Elmore leaned forward slightly, elbows heavy on the table, one thick finger tapping against the stack of papers he’d laid down earlier like a metronome marking the rhythm of his thoughts.
“That’s because my people,” he said, voice steady but clear enough to cut through the ambient hum of the hall, “don’t even barter with money. To us, that whole idea is like tryin’ to fix a broken clock by windin’ it faster. It’s outdated. Obsolete. You do something good for your neighbor, your neighbor does something good for you. We hold each other up. That’s the currency that actually matters out here.”
He caught the subtle shift across the table—the president’s jaw unclenching, the edges of her posture easing like a drawn bow being slowly released. Her eyes, once darting with calculation, now stilled in something closer to thought.
“So,” Elmore continued, his voice dipping just enough to become personal—less broadcast, more confession, “we’ll start producing armor for the government. For the military. As agreed. No smoke, no mirrors. But…”
He paused just long enough for everyone in the hall—and those watching through their screens across the world—to lean forward.
“…I think it’d be right for y’all to distribute it after your reserves are full. Pass it to the civilian militias. To the average man in the street who’s gotta keep his kids safe when things get strange. Give them the same defense I wield.”
There was no bravado in his tone—only a weary kind of conviction.
“Sure, I’m not handin’ out the keys to workin’ mithril. Not yet. Not because I want to hoard it, or play gatekeeper—but because the world ain’t ready for it. Not right now. But they’ll get there. One day. And when they do, I’ll be the first to put the forge hammer in their hands.”
He looked back at Dorthea now, his gaze steady as old stone.
“But until then—I want folks ready. If I wait to release the beasts from the dungeon, I can supply the armor before that. Everyone can be protected. Everyone can be stronger. And eventually, everyone can profit.”
A hush fell over the chamber. Even the drones above seemed to buzz more quietly, as if sensing the weight of what had just been offered.
President Dorthea sat back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. Her expression was unreadable for a long moment—eyes narrowed, floral wreath pulsing faintly with subconscious emotion.
“That,” she said at last, each word like a pebble dropped into a still pond, “is a bold move.”
Her voice was dry, but not sharp. Not dismissive.
“To openly admit to stepping outside the lines of a federal agreement—right here, in front of the world…” she trailed off, giving the crowd a small, amused glance. “Well, that’s either hubris… or honesty.”
Her smile returned—less lazy now, more tired, but genuine.
“But your point… has merit. It wasn’t the route we would have taken. It’s not the model we believe in. But,” she tilted her head slightly, like a teacher reevaluating a troublesome student’s essay, “it might be beneficial.”
Hydra whispered once more into Elmore’s ear:
“Global sentiment holding steady. Approval ratings climbing in all rural sectors. Urban areas polarized. International chatter volatile. Seventy-three governments watching closely. Eleven have entered diplomatic readiness protocol.”
Elmore said nothing in response. He only watched the President, his face unreadable.
The world watched too.
As the applause ebbed into murmurs and the hall resettled into its anxious stillness, a faint crackle stirred in Elmore’s right ear—soft, digitized, familiar.
Hydra’s voice came in low and clinical, almost meditative in tone but heavy with data:
“Current viewership across all global and national networks now exceeds two hundred fifty million. Trending spikes in North American, European, and Southeast Asian bandwidth. Sixty-three percent of viewers on social media platforms are expressing suspicion, bordering on hostility.”
There was a pause. Hydra always paused before delivering a judgment.
“Primary sentiment categories: ‘Elmore is hoarding a national treasure,’ ‘Greedy backwoods king,’ ‘Just another warlord in sheep’s clothing.’ Conspiracies regarding LakeVail have expanded in both volume and absurdity. New memes tagged ‘Mithril Mountain’ and ‘The Valley That Hid God’ are proliferating at twenty-one percent per hour.”
Elmore’s ear lit up with comments, fragments Hydra filtered and read aloud.
“Quote: ‘If they’ve got armor that stops a tank, we need it. Period.’ ‘He’s not sharing how to make it? Then he’s holding the world hostage.’ ‘I don’t trust anyone who talks about friendship like it’s currency.’ ‘If it’s just leather and metal, why can’t they put out a patent? Let people try.’”
Elmore’s eyes narrowed slightly as he sat back, breathing through his nose, tapping his thumb once against the side of his temple.
“Seventeen percent of viewers believe you are hiding advanced magical infrastructure. A growing minority believe LakeVail is a living dungeon. Eight percent believe you are the reincarnation of an Aither god. Consensus: if your people are safe and armored, the world at minimum demands the option to buy the same protection.”
Another pause. Then:
“General public hostility rising in wealth-constrained nations. Economic blocks with no mithril access are calling emergency trade summits. Thirty-eight independent tech conglomerates have issued statements of concern. The patent issue is central to rising backlash.”
Hydra’s voice flattened slightly.
“Elmore. This information cascade will spiral. You either defuse it with controlled transparency… or escalate it and seize the narrative. I recommend initiating Plan H or Epsilon, depending on your next statement.”
The President hadn’t moved. She was still watching him, her face unreadable but her fingers now steepled loosely under her chin, the flowers in her hair blooming a deeper shade of violet—an unconscious sign that she, too, was receiving updates in her own way.
The whole world had heard what was said.
But now… it wanted an explanation.
With elmores high intelligence while talking he was also listening to Hydra. Hydra’s tone shifted as the weight of global response pressed in—not panic, not urgency, but the cold intensity of a system parsing the tectonic groaning of nations.
“World response escalating. Diplomatic bandwidth saturated. Cross-referencing intercepted communications, trade analysis, and independent telemetry data. Processing... distributing now.”
A data stream unfolded in Elmore’s ear, each segment no longer than a heartbeat, but stacked with implication. It wasn’t just anger anymore—it was mobilization.
“China.”
“Central government officials have entered closed-session emergency talks with Party technomancers. Public broadcasts have shifted tone from skepticism to military concern. Seven confirmed attempts at replicating mithril structures in Dalian and Kunming have surfaced and failed. They are now diverting resources to biomass augmentation as an alternative. Surveillance up 800% in ten minutes over all LakeVail streams.”
“India.”
“Delhi confirms identification of a mithril vein beneath the Eastern Ghats. No usable refinement method. Spiritual factions now entering debate with tech guilds—this is seen as divine metal. Demands rising for open-source refinement data. Rumors emerging of preparing to send a diplomatic pilgrimage of Nexus Saints to LakeVail. Internal view: ‘They’re holding a gift meant for all humanity.’”
“England.”
“Parliament emergency session opened at 0300 hours. MI6 flagged LakeVail as ‘an emergent sovereign-technological threat.’ Prime Minister’s office preparing a formal ‘request for collaboration.’ Cultural arm proposing joint research grants. London stock market spiked and dropped on possible mithril speculation.”
“The European Union.”
“Brussels has activated the Magitech Concord—a Aither-era treaty never before triggered. France and Germany are leading calls for a joint EU summit on ‘metallurgical equality.’ Several high-ranking officials are calling for sanctions if knowledge isn’t shared. Behind the scenes: attempts to hack LakeVail’s encrypted fabric nodes. I have repelled six low-level intrusions.”
“Russia.”
“Kremlin publicly silent. Internally: full mobilization of Siberian Nexus-born tracked. They are ‘hunting their own dungeons.’ President seen touring a deep-bore excavation in the Urals personally. Russian networks describe Elmore as a ‘new American czar’ and LakeVail as a ‘fortress of arrogance built atop secrets.’ Airspace over LakeVail now pinged hourly by unmarked satellites.”
“Brazil.”
“Panic in the jungle. A Mithril Vein found under the Amazon strangely acting completely inert. Major outcry in spiritualist communities. Brazil’s president has condemned the U.S. as ‘a hoarder of divine tools,’ and threatened to begin ‘national Aither isolation.’ Tribal coalitions forming in the deep jungle, rumored to be reaching out to ancient shamanic circles for an alternative path.”
“Africa.”
“Varied response. Western nations demand inclusion. South Africa issuing statements of urgency, with fears that their urban cores will collapse without some form of defense against the southern dungeon migration. In Nigeria, a black-market prophecy guild has risen to prominence claiming Elmore’s people are the ‘Second Age Gilded Ones.’ Tensions between nations are already rising over mithril smuggling rumors.”
“Japan.”
“Absolute silence from the government. Economic movement suggests covert maneuvering. However, anime, manga, and pop media have already canonized LakeVail as a ‘sacred outsider village.’ Popular theory spreading among youth: Elmore is a reincarnated warrior priest. Four major tech companies now collaborating to create ‘synthetic mithril.’ No progress.”
“Australia.”
“Encrypted feed. Origin: unknown subnet hidden within old military archives. Message decrypted through a code-layer protocol. Appears human-written.”
Hydra paused for a second.
“Transcript follows: ‘Elmore. This world isn't ready. But it will be. We’re still here. Watching. Digging deeper. Don’t let the surface dwellers make the same mistakes. They didn’t see what we saw when the sky cracked. But you might.’”
A quiet hum followed the last word. No trace of location. No follow-up data. Just static.
Then Hydra finished:
“Conclusion: Global escalation approaching A-Class threat condition. Mythic arms race now unavoidable. Elmore—this is not a national incident anymore. The world has turned its face toward you.”
The hall still buzzed with nervous breath and a thousand screens. But now Elmore sat in a different space—on the edge of war, diplomacy, and legacy. All eyes were on him.
And the only sound in his ear was the soft exhale of Hydra saying:
“What do you want to do, Chief?”
The president leaned forward, her palms folded loosely before her on the table, the blooming crown of flowers nestled in her snow-white hair rustling subtly as she exhaled a long, patient breath. The tension in her face softened—not completely, but enough to mark a turning in the tide.
"Chief Elmore," she said, her voice slow and firm like a bell being struck, "I'm leaving office within the month. My administration is in its twilight. I won't pretend I can promise what the next will do, or how they'll interpret any of this."
"But," she added, glancing over to the audience, "I can use what time I have left."
From the sleeve of her multicolored coat, she pulled a tablet—a simple matte-black government device. She tapped it twice. Her aide, a younger man in a plain suit standing by the journalist's stage rig, hurried over and plugged in a thin cable. The feed flashed on-screen for the entire crowd to see.
"I’m issuing an executive order," she said. "Effective immediately, any mithril-based armaments or armor manufactured in excess of the individualized needs of the United States military—those surplus sets—shall be directed first to trained civilian military groups and certified civilian emergency response units, and then made available to the public through proper distribution channels."
Gasps rippled through the audience—both in the hall and online. Even from here Elmore could hear the murmurs, the metallic clatter of fingers against glass as a hundred thousand livestreams updated their titles.
She gave Elmore a hard look—not adversarial, not submissive, just grounded. “It’s not the solution we dreamed of. But it’s a bridge. And sometimes, a bridge is enough.”
She tapped the final authorization on the tablet, and with a flick of her wrist handed it off to her aide.
“Of course,” she added, voice wry, “no promises the next administration doesn’t unravel the whole damn thing. But I think your valley’s earned a fair chance.”
Elmore leaned back in his chair, arms crossed for a moment. A slight grin tugged at his thick beard as he gave her a respectful nod. The kind people shared when neither had yielded, but both had decided to walk the same path forward anyway.