The general had been young once. The armor she wore now held the scars of thirty years of campaigns, each scratch and dent a decision made and lived with. When a tailor finally convinced her to commission new pieces, she'd asked for a color that felt earned. The dyer brought her samples of copper-based work, all predictable and bright. The general had nearly left. But then the dyer, an older woman with stained fingers and a steady gaze, asked what she'd learned from all those battles. The general talked for an hour about weight and balance, about the moment when you've committed fully and there's no turning back. The dyer listened and then said, 'I know that moment. It's in every step of this color.' She showed the general her working vats, the layers of oxidation, the timing required. The general saw it then. Not dragon scales. Discipline. The final armor was deep and warm and gold. When she wore it to sign the treaty that ended the last war, even her enemies acknowledged that she'd earned something more than victory. She'd earned the right to command respect even in peace...