In the few short weeks since that harrowing ordeal, the Imp had undergone a remarkable transformation. Before he harbored jittering nerves and smoldering fear, there was now a measured composure. Pride tempered by discipline. And something else, something flickering behind his black eyes — clarity.
The Imp approached and bowed with the solemn grace of a veteran courtier, a massive folded map held carefully in both hands. The cloth-bound scroll was nearly as tall as he was.
"Lord Ikenga. Lord Keles," he said, his voice smoother than they remembered — controlled, yet still carrying a flicker of reverence, of awe.
Zarvok, reclining on his throne observed the exchange with a crooked smile curling beneath his mask. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled.
