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‘Twas– a foolish intention. Tracking down the merchant and smith both, watching suspiciously as she condensed his old temple knight armor into such a small orb with her foreign witchery, glowing a bright, shimmering gold, brimming with aether. How warm the clasp had felt when he held its finished form at last, how even he with nary a magical bone in his body could feel its power, pulsing softly in his palm.
A fine piece, one that would serve Aymeric well. And yet–
The look of it. Why did he leave the smith to his own judgment? Gods damn him, why did he not think to at least ask him to make it blue?
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