The pigeon is tired, accompanied by the sparrow, then the owl stood; watching ever since.

The workshop became cold and eerie. Again, despite the morning rush of the street outside.

Bal scratched the back of his head. "So it was that thing who made your sword like that?" Bal's voice now became softened. That means Lyle had escaped from it. Death.

"Yeah," Lyle answered. "It makes quite the dent on my armour too. Only, I am quite guilty of what the sword became."

Just as what Lyle said, Bal found his sword almost, on the verge of, broken. Should one say a sword is honed for its shape, durable for its craft, hence the most prized possession of a knight? It wasn't wrong. But the sword of house Williams is one of the best swords he ever worked, although it wasn't your usual greatsword or two-handed one. It's a one-handed sword.

A sword which can retain its lustre, cannot be stained easily, and durable. Only, it was hard to sharpen the sword.

Claire too remembered well, the first time Lyle came to this workshop when he takes the sword for maintenance. A boy who was too afraid to entrust his family heirloom to the hands of a mere blacksmith.

Fortunately, he went to the right workshop. Some merchants who knew from gods know where the sword's materials came from tried to buy the sword from his grandfather. Some even tried to copy the sword only to swap them.

At the time his father didn't tell him to where he should go. A tradition: a man must learn to be responsible.

"Well, I hate to say this to you, but I need time to work on that sword." Bal combed his beard. "But I swear I'll bring back your sword like new. It's the least I can do, boy."

Lyle was glad of the response. Gods know that he was on the verge of despair. Both Bal and Claire know how much he treasured that sword. " I don't want to know how much it'll cost me but do everything you can! I'll pay the price."

"Well, I am desperate for the steel, boy. Your sword is no ordinary piece of iron." Bal sighed. He has to figure out how in the first place, how could it be so rigid while ductile. Let alone dealing with the impurities, for sharpening and to polish the sword, Bal needed another steel and many other materials. For somehow, the steel is prone to rust. Perhaps the answer lies within the raw ore used.

Lyle frowned. "How much time do you need to repair it anyway?"

"Three more weeks," Bal replied, "I need good steel. Good, which means the right one. Problem?"

"That's too long," Lyle muttered in disappointment. "Can you make it in one?"

It was a line that both Bal and Claire didn't want to hear. Claire, who had been silent all the time, now stood.

"Lyle, it's----"

Bal stood too, and shouted at Lyle, "What are you going to do with that toy of yours!? You wanna die?!"

Bal's hand struck the wooden counter. It shook the racks inside, and everything on it.

"I'm not gonna die! I'm going to kill that overgrown lizard!" Lyle shouted back from his lungs. But the instant he said the words, his face went pale. "I'll kill the damned thing! I'll avenge everyone----"

He fell, and he writhes in pain.

Everything, once more, turned black.

Revenge is only his purpose now. Everything came back, only to haunt him, what happened there.

One of the men shouted, "Dragon!!!!!" Then came the rain of fire. It burns, through the plate, clothes, searing the flesh and bone. The dragon's feet befell the fat brigand first. It terrorizes the men with its dark red scales and razor-like claws and teeth. Never minding the flimsy arrows from every direction, the dragon opens its mouth and devoured the rose flesh.

Not satisfied enough with only one, it rushed, charged forward and devoured one whole man. The dragon violently shook his head, ensuring its teeth sunk into the flesh and crushed the bone. The lifeless sack of flesh and water got flung high, only for the dragon to swallow it whole.

Everyone paid no heed to the dead. Now, to win is to live. The only safe place is the forest.

Sir Galwerth lead the men, trotting in haste as his horse went mad by fear. "FALL BACK!!!!!"

Never minding the brigands, the hundred knights and their lives, even if only one of them must return to tell the tale.

They must run.

Looking behind, once again the dragon spewed its fiery breath, burning twenty brigands to charcoal. Its golden eyes now were fixed upon them.