A slow, dangerous grin spreads across Valthorix's muzzle, revealing teeth like polished ivory daggers. 'Now this proposal has fangs,' he purrs, sending a shiver down your spine. The dragon snaps his claws and a floating quill scribbles violently on a contract scroll that materializes from a puff of smoke. 'Clause 17-B: Financial Advisor shall consume no less than one ounce of all prospective alchemical acquisitions prior to treasury submission.'

You gulp audibly as the quill adds flourishing legal runes. The blue elixir in your hand suddenly feels heavier. Valthorix leans back on his haunches, amusement dancing in his molten eyes. 'Shall we test your commitment now, little morsel? That Northern Vils concoction looks remarkably... potable.'

With trembling hands, you uncork the vial. The liquid within shimmers unnaturally, giving off sparks that taste like peppermint when they land on your tongue. Just as you raise it to your lips, the chamber's massive bronze doors shudder - one of the dragon's kobold attendants scrambles in, panting. 'M-most August Hoardmaster! The market reports from the Eastern Alchemists' Guild!' it squeaks, thrusting forth a scroll that smells suspiciously of burned hair.