Miretta arched an eyebrow. “Martin, two things – one, you’re not formally allowed to call me by that name. Most dragons wouldn’t even consider you worthy to know it. I was nice enough to introduce myself given my sympathies for the troubles you had been through when we met, but you still call me ‘Your Highness’, unless you want me to kick you through the floor. And number two; I’m sorry, are you running things here? A bit of an admonishment, a lecture, a slap on the wrist – and you think we’re done!”

She rose to her feet, letting the whip hit a trophy in front of her with a near deafening crack that echoed across the chamber. “How charming,” she leered, as the noise settled, one half of the trophy skittering across the floor of the balcony and landing at Martin’s feet. “Perhaps you think this mistake will end up drawing positive attention to you.” She said, leaping towards him and gliding gracefully to a stop meters away. “Perhaps you think this is something I might even come to forget.” She bent down, then, casually grabbing the half-trophy and tossing it roughly back into the gold pit before seizing Martin by the collar and pulling his nose to hers. “You are wrong, Martin.” She hissed, venom in her voice, in her breath, in her scowl. “I expect far better.”