“Ask, not summon,” Iliphar returned calmly. “I appreciate your coming, for we have need to discuss matters of our two peoples. I trust you are well.”

“As well as can be expected,” said the dragon as calmly, “given the continual battles between our two kindreds. I trust the wounds you acquired at our last meeting have fully healed.”

Despite himself, the elf touched the jagged scar that crossed his face from temple to chin, the only mark that marred his otherwise smooth skin. It was a souvenir of his last encounter with Thauglor, a reminder that even proud elf lords should think twice before entering into battle with the Black Doom.

The elf ran a finger along the scar, hesitated when he saw the slow, toothy spread of the dragon’s smile. The elf lord had flinched first, after all.

“Our healing spells are sufficient,” Iliphar said steadily. “I trust that draconian curative spells have similarly undone the damage inflicted on you?”

The dragon’s fang-studded smile grew broader. “Damage? Oh, a few scales lost, and a bit of blood, but little in the way of major harm. Thank you for asking, but I doubt such concern was the reason for your summons.”

“I wish to talk about the difficulties between our peoples. The strife that ends not, between dragons and elves,” said the Lord of Scepters. “Our battles must come to an end.”

“Battles?” said Thauglor, mock indignation coloring his tone. “Do you mean our little games of hunter and prey? Or the valiant attempts of pointed-ear sneak thieves to steal into our homes? Or the red fires and black bile of our brethren burning out nests of the invading elven vermin? Are these the battles you speak of?”

“I mean the battles in which elf and dragon perish needlessly,” said the elf lord.

“You are ready to surrender to my authority, then?” asked the dragon in tones of quiet triumph.