The silence that followed was pure shock, which Perry had expected, though he'd hoped for at least one pragmatist to recover quickly. They'd probably expected him to angle for enchantment techniques or metallurgy secrets, maybe request mining rights or exclusive trade arrangements – the kind of things that made sense in their framework of what nations wanted from each other.

Perry would want those things eventually, of course, but establishing America as a military partner first would make everything else follow naturally. Help them solve their existential problem, and suddenly discussions about technology transfer became much friendlier. That was the calculation, anyway, assuming they could get past the conceptual hurdle of what America could actually do.

War Domain recovered first, if only to confirm his hearing. "Beg yer pardon? The Elemental Dragon? Have ye lost yer wits? How in the stone's name d'ye think to manage such a feat, when hosts o' warriors've shattered against it?"

The answer involved cruise missiles and two-thousand-pound JDAMs, but it wasn't like those terms would mean anything to the dwarves.

"We have weapons that can strike from… considerable distance," he said. But how the hell was he supposed to explain effective range to people whose artillery topped out at a few miles? Simple was the only option. "Many miles away. Far enough that the dragon wouldn't even know the attack was coming."

War's eyebrows shot up. "Miles? What siege engine reaches miles? Even wi' enchantments behind ye, ye'd not reach such a distance with even the finest cannons!"

"Our cannons reach dozens of miles. And we've got other weapons that can strike at hundreds. Think of them as… extremely advanced artillery. Guided artillery. They find their own way to the target."

"Hundreds of miles?" Forge's voice rang with a craftsman's disbelief, professional pride shattered. "We've metals that'd bear tenfold the charge, yet powder's still powder. No mix I know could drive a shot so far an' keep it straight. You'd need half a mountain's worth just to send it, an' still it'd tumble like a stone."

"We don't rely on powder for that kind of weapon," Perry said carefully. "The projectile guides itself after launch. It can adjust its course in flight to stay on target until impact."

"Guided, then…" Arcane trailed off. "But not by rune, nor by spirit. What craft, if no sorcery binds it?"

"Mathematics and engineering." Perry didn't bother explaining the concepts of GPS, radar, and internal guidance systems. He couldn't. Well, maybe Wolcott could, but holding a lecture on missiles wasn't the most productive idea at the moment. So, he simplified. "It's complicated. But the short version is that the same principles that let us mass-produce those glasses let us make weapons that hit what we aim at. This would include the Elemental Dragon."

Mountain hadn't moved, but his knuckles had gone white against his armrest. Perry figured the dwarf was having one of those unpleasant realizations, like when embassy security learned what a drone swarm could do to their carefully planned defenses. All those murder holes and defensive angles Perry had catalogued on the way in – they'd suddenly become decorative.

"Yet ye've not." Mountain's words were slow and heavy, like he was holding back from speaking his true thoughts. "Ye come wi' gifts an' speech, askin' leave. If such weapons are truly yours, why stay yer hand?"

Smart question. The real answer involved lawyers and ROE and not wanting to be the Americans who started bombing fantasy kingdoms, but the useful answer was simpler.

"We prefer partners to conquests. We'd need permission to operate within your territory. Freedom to position our assets where they'd be most effective."

Mountain frowned, not bothering to hide his contempt. "Even if such weapons be real – an' I'll not grant that lightly – no foreign boot's trod Ovinne stone these three centuries. We've held the mountains 'gainst all comers, an' never once by another folk's hand."

The obvious counterpoint would be the adventurers' guilds operating across borders with impunity, but Perry knew better than to let that comparison leave his mouth. It was sophistry, and everyone knew it. Mercenaries with thin cover stories were one thing; acknowledged military forces were another creature entirely, and Mountain wasn't stupid enough to conflate the two.

Perry leaned back in his seat and put on the most calming demeanor he could manage. "We're not asking to march armies through your valleys. Just a handful of units that can perform targeted strikes against a specific threat."

"Just?" Mountain's voice carried three hundred years of defensive pride. "Ye speak o' foreign weapons in our halls as though it were naught. Our fathers' fathers bled an' died to keep these mountains ours, an' ours alone."

Commerce cleared his throat. "The matter o' coin –"

"To the slag wi' coin! This is no tally o' trade, but the marrow o' who we are. We've no call for outland steel to fight our wars – save if every anvil shatters an' the mountain itself yields. Only then would I stomach such aid."

Performing patriotic opposition for the gallery like that – Perry recognized what it was. Theater.

Twenty years ago as a freshman congressman, he'd have been furious at the waste of time – how many people had died waiting for politicians to finish their performative disagreements before arriving at the obvious answer? Hurricane relief held hostage to jurisdiction debates, pandemic aid stalled for partisan points.

Mountain probably felt the need to register his objection strenuously enough that nobody could later claim he'd rolled over for the Americans. But at least he wasn't blindly stubborn; he'd given himself a perfect escape clause in that last line.

It sounded poetic enough for the traditionalists, flexible enough for reinterpretation. When Ovinnish citizens needed saving, Mountain could claim the mountain had indeed yielded to the dragon's storms.

Still would've been faster to skip straight to 'three hundred people need evacuation,' but Perry had learned to pick his battles. The higher he'd climbed from Congress to State, the more he'd managed to avoid these circular firing squads, choosing positions where results mattered more than rhetoric. Not entirely, though – nowhere was entirely free of it. But he'd managed enough that he could watch the passion plays instead of starring in them.

This time, the star of the play was Harvest. "My nephew has family in Greyhar. His wife's borne him a daughter I've yet to hold. Three hundred souls till the fields there, an' beasts circle them like wolves at fold's edge. If this be no hour for last resort, then it's the hour we bury our own."

"Don't ye dare –"

Harvest cut in. "The mountain's yielded. Avalanches've sealed Greyhar an' half the vale besides. Folk're penned in wi' no road out. If that's not the mountain givin' way, then what would ye call it?"

The Council fell silent. Perry knew better than to speak; this was their argument to have.

And that's where Commerce came in, offering a middle path. "If these weapons be as ye claim, might they not win us a bit o' time, enough to bring our folk out o' Greyhar an' the other villages?"

Perfect opening. Perry stood. "We could do that. But I have a better proposition. Let us perform the rescue operation."

War's head snapped toward him. "Ye'd risk yer own folk in dragon territory?"

"We have the capability to extract them quickly and safely," Perry said, keeping it vague enough to sound confident without providing anything they could object to specifically.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Harvest leaned forward, and Perry could see the exact moment political composure cracked under personal desperation. "All three villages? Tannow, Greyhar, Karlsheim?"

Perry nodded. "All three."

"How?" Mountain demanded, and there was the skepticism Perry had been expecting. "The passes lie buried. An' if they didn't, it's three days through wild ground, beast-ridden every mile."

Perry suppressed the urge to grin. He'd been waiting for this opening like a prosecutor waiting for the defense to ask the wrong question. "We wouldn't use the passes."

The confusion that followed was almost worth the buildup. He could see the gears turning through the dwarves' faces – everything above ground belonged to either the ice or the monsters. They must've been wondering if Perry planned to fight all the way through.

Law, as expected, demanded clarity. "Ambassador, if ye speak of a rescue, set it plain. What means would yer men call for?"

This was it. Perry kept his voice matter-of-fact, like he was requesting conference room access rather than something that would fundamentally challenge their understanding of military operations and their idea of engineering as a whole.

"We'd need access to your airspace."

Law blinked – actually blinked, which in formal proceedings was practically a double-take. "Airspace, ye say?"

"The skies above your territory. Our vehicles would need to fly from our base to the villages."

The incomprehension that followed was so complete Perry might as well have asked for permission to use their dreams as staging areas. At least with dreams they'd have assumed he meant magical projection or whatever.

"The skies," Mountain repeated slowly, like he was testing whether the words made more sense spoken aloud. "Ye need… the skies."

They worked through the implications like amateurs on a poker table. But the expressions they wore weren't of confusion – these were people who understood three-dimensional warfare from dragons and wyverns. They were calculating what it meant that humans had mechanized flight.

"No magic?" Arcane asked, but it wasn't really a question. More like confirmation of something he'd already guessed.

"No magic. Pure mechanical. We have fixed-wing and rotary options. For this, we'll be using rotary flying machines that can land on mountainous ground."

Masonry, who'd been unusually quiet through the exchange, finally spoke. "I wish to see these machines."

He had Forge's immediate agreement. "Aye. Wide wings for the long haul, turning blades for liftin' straight an' settin' true. We've sketched such craft these many decades, but never had fuel strong enough to raise 'em. What is it ye burn?"

Perry gave an intentionally complex answer. "Refined petroleum distillates. We can talk about that later. The point is: We can reach Greyhar, Tannow, and Karlsheim with ease, and rescue those trapped within by tomorrow."

Mountain crossed his arms. "And ye'd set a precedent – outland war machines flyin' our skies."

Commerce met the comment with an exaggerated sigh. "For mercy's sake, Elder Norveld – it's a rescue, not a campaign. There's a difference, an' ye know it."

"Is there?" Mountain rumbled back. "Once we grant that our skies are open to foreign steel, we cannot close 'em again."

"Open or shut makes no matter," War said bluntly. "If the Ambassador speaks true, they can fly our skies as they please, an' we've no power to hinder 'em. What we call this council is naught but show."

Perry decided to match it. "You're right. We could violate your airspace tomorrow if we chose. We're asking permission because we prefer partners to subjects."

Law seized the opportunity. "Matters o' sovereignty can be set in order by formal accord."

"What accord?" Mountain demanded. "None yet stands."

Law remained patient. "Then we draft one. A writ of exception, bound to mercy's work alone. Narrow terms, council's seal, an' our own eyes upon it."

War jumped on the opportunity. "Aye – eyes upon it. If they fly, we send witnesses. I shall go meself."

Perry couldn't really tell if he was concerned with national security, or if he just wanted to see one of their helos up close. Eh, it didn't matter. Whatever his incentives were, what mattered was that he had another one of the councilmembers on board.

"As shall I," Forge added quickly.

Law gave him a warning look. Forge subsided but his expression said he'd be damned if he missed seeing non-magical flight.

Masonry didn't back down either; he offered to personally join along with Health.

Harvest jumped in as well. "My nephew's walked every path 'twixt those three villages. He could serve as a guide."

Mountain, Commerce, and Arcane agreed to send representatives.

Perry did the quick math. "Eight observers total, plus four guards – twelve total?"

"Does that stand in yer way?" Law asked.

"No," Perry said. He wasn't actually sure, but Chinooks could carry much heavier cargo than twelve dwarves – at least, he hoped.

Law looked around the table, reading the room. He raised a hand. "I propose we withdraw awhile. The Council must confer in private, an' set down the terms proper."

"Of course," Perry said, rising. Wolcott and the new DSS guy followed his lead.

Law gestured to a side door. "Pray, take our hall's hospitality whilst the Council confers."

The side chamber was pretty modest, complete with furniture that would suffice for non-dwarves. Good enough.

Perry took a chair that only moderately hated his spine while Stevens poured himself tea that looked like it had been strained through a diesel engine.

Through the door, they could hear muffled voices in various stages of disagreement. Mountain's bass rumble dominated, which wasn't surprising.

Stevens was the first to speak. "So when do the choppers arrive? I heard that we got a Chinook or one of the Stallions, but is that enough? We can actually commit to what we said, right?"

"Oh, ye of little faith," Wolcott muttered, sipping his own tea.

Perry laughed. "That's General Harding's problem, not ours. We get permission, Operations figures out execution. Beautiful thing about delegation."

Stevens didn't seem convinced.

Perry waved a dismissive hand. "Jokes aside, I ran the numbers. We've got one of those medical Black Hawks, some Ospreys, and a couple King Stallions. Between these, we should have enough. Unless I'm severely underestimating how much a dwarf weighs."

After a few more minutes to themselves, the door opened again. A scribe popped his head in. "Ambassador, the Council is ready to continue."

Law spoke the moment Perry took his seat. "Ambassador Perry, the Council sets forth a counter-offer for yer hearing. Leave is granted for a single mercy-flight on the morrow, under our eyes. Should it bear fruit – the safe evacuation o' at least one village – then we shall open the door to wider talk on your part in the Ovinne Mountain Campaign."

"The United States accepts," Perry said immediately. In negotiations, when one gets what they want, they take it before anyone reconsiders.

"For clarity," Perry added, because details mattered, "what would these negotiations encompass?"

Law paused, his expression suggesting that he was treading extra carefully. "Broader leave to act, contingent on the word of His Majesty. Accord of arms for the Campaign's span. An' aye, Ambassador – the matter o' craft an' trade lies open, should trust be proven."

There it was. Everything the United States actually wanted, positioned as their idea. Perry kept his satisfaction from showing – barely.

"Understood," Perry said, matching the formal tone. "We appreciate the Council's consideration and look forward to tomorrow's operation."

With the Council's adjournment, they headed out. The walk back to the embassy was quiet except for Wolcott muttering about the beer.

Once they returned, Perry went straight for their comms setup. Their relay network was what the techs generously called 'provisional,' which meant they were bouncing signals off vehicles, aerostats, and probably a few prayers to get through to Armstrong Base.

The connection crackled like bacon frying. "Armstrong Base, this is Enstadt Station, priority message for General Harding. Ambassador Perry transmitting."

"Enstadt Station, Armstrong Base, stand by."

Perry got a minute of static that sounded like someone trying to tune a radio in a blender before Harding's voice came through, already suspicious.

"John. Why do I have a feeling you're about to ruin my evening?"

"Alexander. Good news first – I got tentative approval to operate in their airspace."

"Outstanding." Harding's deadpan tone was the one thing that stood out in the static. "What's the bad news?"

"I'm going to need to ask you for a few things."

The groan that came through was pure Harding – the sound of a man who'd been in the military long enough to know that 'a few things' from a diplomat meant logistical nightmares. And he'd be right.

"Alright. Lay it out."

"Well…"

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