Rughoi, during all this, was already planning the next attack, this time on the neighboring city of Aredor. "If you'll look at this report, gathered from kobold immigrants and a few spies," he said, gesturing to the map and handful of papers thrown haphazardly across the table upon which he and his advisors sat. "Aredor will be a tougher shell to break. We were lucky here. Traeton was not only conveniently nearby, but almost teetering on collapse. Aredor, you'll find, is far more stable. I'm taking any ideas. Merat? Kutur?"

"Your Might," Merat interjected, in his usual near-whisper. "Aredor is not better. Not much. Weaknesses in south wall. Extensive sewer system. Fascist totalitarianism."

"Also, if I may, Your Might," Kutur stuttered. "Perhaps, if you please of course, might win this battle before its even fought. Our reputation precedes us, you know? At least in the Fertile Valley, that is. Perhaps if we made a few grandiose threats, that might just tip the public in our favor."

"And then the Duchy of Draconis will be ours," Rughoi mused, his wolfish smile spreading across his snout. "What next? Shall we claim the Belayon Kingdom? The Irodils? If we lock down the Dragonblood, then what will Naushindcalgoa have to do but surrender? It's almost as if this entire continent is about to fall into our laps." The meeting was interrupted by Rama suddenly entering the room. "Ah, the Hero of Traeton. Speak quickly, what are your thoughts on Aredor?"