Wincenth's metal fingers stilled against the worn wood of his desk. The candlelight caught the polished surface of his mechanical arm, casting thin, flickering reflections across his sharp features.
"I need to know his weakness."
Gill let out a long, slow breath. He adjusted his silver-framed glasses, the lenses catching the candlelight and glinting like chips of ice.
"I don't know."
Wincenth's eyes narrowed. His metal fingers began to drum again, slow and deliberate.
"Don't tell me you don't know. You're the Archivist. You know everything."
"I know a lot of things. But I don't know everything. And I certainly don't know the weakness of a dragon I've only met once."
"Then what do you know?"
Gill was silent for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low murmur.
