Malcolm Dragonsword stood in the cold mouth of the old dwarven forge and counted the empty hours he had left. Sixty years of magic in his hands, and not a single grain of mythril to spend them on. The furnace at the center of the room burned low on coal alone. He had built the fire three days ago to be ready. He was the greatest wizard alive, by his own measure, and he had come here to forge a sword that would leave his hand once and become a dragon in the air. He had everything he needed except the metal. He walked the soot-darkened stone and read the old carvings the dwarves had left in the pillars. An old miner had taught him, years back, how to carve a shape into mythril while it was still molten. The man's name was gone from him. The lesson was not. Mythril does not rust. Mythril does not bend. Mythril keeps whatever shape you show it in the moment it cools. Malcolm had the shape ready in his head. He did not have the ore, and his hands were already shaking in a way they had not shaken at fifty. A voice came up the stone stairs before the body did. Heavy boots, a greataxe knocking the wall on every other step. Brudar Stonefist stopped in the archway and looked at the empty anvil. "Wizard. You sent word you needed mythril." "I sent word a week ago." "I came when I could." The dwarf jerked his head back toward the stairs. "Two of mine are bringing it up. Council vote." He paused. "Elder voted no. Rest voted yes." Malcolm did not ask why the council had voted at all. He knew what Brudar wanted. A seat among the guardians who commanded the dragon sword. A favor done for a wizard was a favor a wizard owed back. "What do you want for it?" "Nothing yet." Brudar set the butt of his axe on the stone. "Forge your sword. I'll come back." Two dwarves carried the vat in between them and set it down beside the furnace. It was heavy enough that the floor took the sound. Mythril ore filled it to the rim, yellow and blue and gray, catching the low firelight. Malcolm put his hand against the rim and felt the cold weight of sixty years finally meeting its work. He looked up to thank Brudar, but Brudar was already on the stairs, the axe knocking the wall on the way down. Malcolm turned back to the furnace and began to feed the coal. The fire would have to climb high enough to melt stone before morning, and he had a debt now that he had not had an hour ago.