Moth felt a sharp pang of annoyance. He knew exactly what the Grand Elder was doing—trying to force him to spend the favours he had secured through a long time of research and digging. So far, the Grand Elder owed him five favours, a staggering amount for any elder in the council.
"No thanks," Moth decided, his face returning to a mask of cold indifference. "I'm sure he can survive this. Perhaps he can even pull off a miracle."
"Against the Wyverns? Our Wyverns?" One of the other elders couldn't resist a mocking laugh, his eyes fixed on the screen where the two forces were about to collide. "I can't believe you even said that, Moth. You've lost your touch."
"Wanna bet?"
