Mia winced at Denholm's blunt phrasing.
"No." The wight replied.
"What do you mean, 'no'?" The son of the dead Count demanded. "You think you own the thing? Of course not! My father first discovered it, and it's mine now that he passed!"
His logic was somewhat more coherent than Mia had expected, and she glanced to the wight. It seemed puzzled, and perhaps a bit irritated, by Denholm's outburst. The man became irate, striding towards the tree and pointing to it, heedless of the dragons that softly breathed out tendrils of smoke as they watched him.
"Tree. Mine." Denholm said slowly and loudly.
"No," The wight repeated slowly, as if to a child.
Denholm placed a possessive hand on the trunk of the golden tree. He was so close to the dragons that sweat poured down his face, and he seemed to sway.
"This. Is. Mine." Denholm said again. "If you want any rights to it, you have to negotiate with me. I'm a reasonable man."
