The old man remained silent for a few moments, still holding the newly cooled blade in one hand. Water dripped down the incandescent surface, making small popping sounds as it met the still-hot metal. His gaze never wavered from Strax, fixed, as if trying to probe the golden intruder to the very depths of his soul.
His breathing was calm, controlled, but there was something heavy in the air.
He then returned his gaze to the sword, as if it were easier to converse with steel than with a stranger. His voice, when it came, was low and rough, marked by the weight of years:
"Names... they are chains. They bind you to things that no longer matter."
Strax maintained the same patient gaze, without moving a muscle. Only the golden glow in his irises betrayed the intensity of his attention.
"Even so," the dragon replied, in a grave, almost respectful tone, "every fire has a source. And every blacksmith, a name."
