Magwi, the troll-king sat deep in the frozen vault of the Twilit Hall, clouds of frozen vapor swirling around his head. His ice-blue mace lay on the floor by his throne, but these days he seldom needed it. Because of the crown.
With its power, he could freeze his enemies with a look from his eyes. He could feel its biting pressure on his skull, numbing his mind, but also filling it with new ideas. He had always been confined to the arctic underground, unable to stand the heat of overworld. But now . . . turn it all cold, the crown whispered. Freeze the world above and be its ruler. I will help you.
He sat and dreamed of the overworld, towards which the crown’s slender spires reached. He could feel them growing, expanding. Through all his greedy ambitions, he hoped it would never outgrow him.