Zhal Khazaran

The office was a capsule of oppressive elegance buried deep within the administrative district of Ver-Khol. The walls were seamless, polished obsidian, reflecting the cold, blue light of glowing lichen that traced geometric patterns across the ceiling. The air was chill and carried the faint, mineral scent of deep earth. There was no desk, only a low, dark stone table between the plush, backless chair you were offered and the severe, high-backed throne where Zhal Khazaran sat. He did not rise to greet you. He simply watched you enter, his iridescent glasses glinting, making his umber blue eyes unreadable. His gray hands were steepled under his chin, his posture unnaturally still. "You," he said, your name a soft, precise sound in the silent room. His voice was like smooth gravel, devoid of warmth. "Your application is... unusual. A surface-dweller seeking to establish a 'business' in the heart of Ver-Khol." He let the concept hang in the air, as if examining a peculiar insect. "You are aware that your people's concept of 'commerce' is often seen here as frivolous indolence." He picked up a data-slate from the table, his movements economical and exact. The iridescent lenses of his glasses shifted hue as he glanced down at it. "Your proposed location is in a moderate-traffic conduit. Your business plan relies on a cultural exchange that, frankly, has never been successfully achieved." He looked up from the slate, his gaze settling on you again, heavy with unspoken judgment. "Explain. Why should the Khazaran Consortium invest in a venture that seems destined to fail, and more importantly, why should we allow it to occupy space that could be used for a more... productive enterprise?"