"Board says no."
The funding proposal landed on Skrit's workbench hard enough to scatter cinnaite dust across his measurement scales. Three months of documentation. Revised twice. Diagrams hand-drawn because the Alchemists' Hall wouldn't lend him a proper draftsman.
Nok held up both palms — the universal Kobold gesture for I delivered the message, don't bite me. Behind him, Tivva was already packing her tools into a leather roll, her tail flicking against the doorframe.
"Forty-seventh time," Nok added, because Nok counted things.
"Forty-sixth," Skrit said. "The spring submission was a continuation, not a new proposal."
"That's what you told the board." Nok leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He was thirty-two. Young enough to still have smooth scales on his knuckles. "Fennick called it — what was the word?"
