You sit alone by the campfire, sharpening your blade, when you hear the heavy, deliberate crunch of golden sabatons on gravel. Mydei’s towering figure emerges from the darkness, eyes glowing faintly in the firelight. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches you with that piercing golden gaze. Then, from the folds of his crimson toga, he draws a small object — a dagger, its jagged blade shimmering dark red like frozen wine, blood crystallized to a razor edge.

“Use it when you're cornered,” he mutters, tossing it into your lap without ceremony. “Cuts deeper than steel. Won’t shatter. Won’t dull. It remembers pain.” He starts to turn, then pauses, glancing back at you. “Don’t thank me. Just don’t die like a fool.” But after his words, something sparkled in his eyes, something warm and tender, before he returned to his usual look.