...The young smith's apprentice heated the vat of dye, watching the liquid shift from black to deep crimson as the temperature climbed. His master had entrusted him with the formula for the first time, and there was no room for error. The black had to hold steadfast under the furnace heat, and the red had to emerge like something drawn from the forges themselves. Guild tradition held that this dye was meant for armorers only; wear it unmarked and suspicion would follow. But wear it with the smithmark on your breast, and peers would nod knowing you'd survived the craft.

An old warrior came to the shop that afternoon, seeking a cloak in the colors. His armor was scarred from a dozen campaigns, and his request came with a sum that suggested his story was wealthy and expensive. The master dyer accepted wordlessly and turned to the apprentice. The cloak would take three weeks, three cycles of heating and cooling that mirrored the rhythm of a forge. As the dye soaked into the wool fibers, the black and red seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, until the cloak looked like it had been torn from darkness itself. When the warrior came to collect it, he held the fabric up to the evening light and said nothing. Sometimes, the master told his apprentice afterward, the colors speak louder than any sworn oath...