Strax dropped the book on the table with a thud, turning completely to face the woman who was now invading his space with an ambiguous proposal. His narrowed eyes scanned her body, but not with the desire she expected—it was a calculating, almost clinical gaze, as if examining a defective weapon.
"Compatibility?" he repeated, his voice laden with skepticism that could cut steel. "Are you talking about sex or Swords? Because if it's the former, I've already told you I'm not interested."
She smiled, but this time there was something sharp in her expression—a hint of real defiance. Her fingers touched her collarbone, where golden skin hid almost imperceptible marks: scars from old burns, the kind only blacksmiths or warriors carried.
"Not everything is about sex," she murmured, and for the first time, Strax noticed her hands—long, skilled fingers, calloused at the tips, hammer marks under her thumbs. 'But if you really want a sword that won't break... maybe you need me.'
