The commotion caused by the battle between the Red-Horn kobold and the giant serpent had clearly drawn the attention of the tribe. However, the others had waited for the dust to settle before they dared to creep out and investigate.

  When they finally arrived, the Grey-Neck Lord was nowhere to be found.

  The question remained: why had it vanished? Had it fled on its own? And if so, why? Tars was baffled. Try as he might to puzzle it out, he could only guess that the serpent had been intimidated by the Red-Horn warrior—or perhaps what the serpent truly feared was the yet-unseen Kobold King.

  A perfect solution for the bald warrior suddenly flashed into Tars’s mind.

  "Big fellow, do you have a name?" he asked.

  The bald kobold stared blankly, seemingly stunned by the sudden warmth in Tars's tone. He blinked and shook his head cooperatively. Most kobolds went their entire lives without names; they simply weren't necessary. Having a nickname like "Humph" was already a mark of distinction, a sign that one had left a trace of personality in the tribe rather than being just another face among the thousands who left on hunts and never returned.

  Aiskin, being closer to the others, had a proper name only because of Old Gold-Tooth. According to the old man, "Aiskin" was a Dark Elf term for a bitter-sweet dessert, forced into the kobold tongue with clumsy pronunciation.

  "Bald-Tooth! You are our new King! The Hairless King! From this moment on, remember: you are our Hairless Lord!"

  Bolstered by Bull's Strength, Tars clapped the warrior on the shoulder so hard that the brute, who was propped up on his elbows, nearly flopped back onto the ground. At Tars's signal, Aiskin reluctantly brought over a grass skirt and a long wooden staff.

  "These are the symbols of your sovereignty. The King's Scepter. The King's Sacred Raiment. Now, take them! Go forth and conquer the kobolds here! Let them witness your might!"

  He thrust the items into Bald-Tooth's arms and forcibly hauled him to his feet.

  Bald-Tooth, now officially named, struggled to process the sudden promotion. "I... I am not as strong as you. The King's command—"

  "Exactly! You haven't forgotten the King's command!" Tars said solemnly. "The Kobold King of the Red-Horn Tribe is still waiting for you. If you want him to stop thinking you're stupid, you must listen to me. Become the King here. Protect this place. Guard the kobolds of this small tribe. Only by practicing being a King on a small scale can you truly help the Kobold King and prove you aren't a disappointment. Once you prove you can protect us, we might even consider following you back! The King will be pleased; he will surely praise you!"

  As he spoke, Tars quietly pressed a Sigil onto Bald-Tooth's arm, which faded into invisibility. He had hoped to use a magical contract, but he didn't know the specifics of such spells, and Karyu's diary hadn't provided any. The Sigil would have to suffice as a marker, allowing Tars to sense Bald-Tooth's general location whenever he was nearby.

  With Humph's help, Bald-Tooth shook off the last of the ice. He piled some of his discarded fur around his waist and secured the grass skirt over it. A hairless kobold was, if possible, even uglier than a feathered one. However, Bald-Tooth was sufficiently muscular that his lack of fur only emphasized a sense of brutal power, reaching a whole new peak of hideousness.

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  Soon, cries of astonishment echoed through the tunnels. While the tribe's main camp was nearby, there were several smaller outposts scattered around. Humph accompanied Bald-Tooth, acting as a guide for the new King. Humph had been re-appointed as the King’s Guard—returning to his old profession—though this time the order came from Tars, and the new King was in no position to object.

  Tars instructed Bald-Tooth to consult Old Gold-Tooth for any difficult decisions but warned him not to bother Tars himself unless it was urgent. If something truly important happened, Aiskin would know where to find him.

  While the kobolds were busy witnessing the rise of a King they had never dreamed of, Tars finally slipped away to the place he had been longing to visit: the Great Cave.

  Every kobold knew of this place—the sanctuary of their Master, a place where no commoner dared tread. It was a cavern of staggering proportions, serving as the palace for every generation of the tribe's "Lords." To Tars, it looked more like a combined dining hall, bedroom, and junkyard.

  Because the tribe's masters were often powerful but dim-witted subterranean beasts, the cave was littered with mountains of bones from countless meals. It was impossible to say how many years the kobolds had lived here, but the accumulation of debris made it difficult even to find a place to step.

  Each generation of Lord had its own quirks. Some merely ate and slept; others were collectors, amassing piles of oddities brought to them by the kobolds.

  Crunch!

  Tars walked as if on a solo sightseeing tour, his feet occasionally crushing a brittle bone fragment. He wandered the perimeter, looking up at the high ceiling.

  "Is it really gone?"

  He circled the cave and found a massive indentation in a pile of crushed bones. Judging by the size and the marks left behind, the Grey-Neck Lord must have rested here. Sifting through the gaps in the bones, he found several grey-white scales.

  "What's this?"

  He shoved the bones aside with both hands, revealing an object hidden beneath.

  An egg!

  Had the serpent come here specifically to lay this? It was about the size of a human head—perhaps a bit small given the Grey-Neck Lord's immense size. Still, finding an egg wasn't a bad consolation prize for missing out on the "black fruit."

  He picked it up. It was ice-cold to the touch. The moment his hands made contact, he realized it was a dud; he extended his mental power but felt not a single spark of life within.

  As his disappointment set in, he felt a tug at his waist. Since his encounter with the elf, he had hidden his storage and nursery pouches inside the folds of his leather shorts.

  "Are you hungry?" he whispered, bringing the dead egg toward the mouth of the nursery pouch. "But you're an egg yourself. This thing is bigger than you, and you haven't even hatched. How are you going to eat it?"

  He gave the nursery pouch a little shake. Immediately, a wave of anxious emotion and faint mental ripples radiated from the opening. Unable to resist the little egg's fussing, he treated it like a regular feeding. He linked his mind to the nursery pouch, and with a thought, the dead egg was drawn inside. The little insect egg silenced instantly.

  Hope it doesn't get crushed, he thought. The pouch gave a slight wiggle, as if sensing his worry and offering a reassuring "all clear."

  He took one last look around the cluttered environment. Seeing nothing else of value, he decided not to waste any more time, leaving the cleanup to Humph and Aiskin.

  He returned to his large bedroom to resume his study of Mage Armor. As he left, he heard a distant cheer—the kobolds were ushering their new King into the sanctuary from the other side of the tunnel to begin the celebrations.

  Back in his usual spot, Tars focused entirely on his book. The pages of the Mage Armor manual turned with increasing frequency. Only his hands moved; his eyes remained fixed on the text without blinking, his breathing shallow and imperceptible. His posture—the angle of his elbows, the curve of his neck—was so still he seemed on the verge of being swallowed by the book itself.