The mage's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of understanding passing through them. He had already deduced more than she had said aloud. Still, he asked no questions.
With a quiet sigh, he took the sword from her and moved to his work desk. The blade made a soft sound as he set it down upon the flat surface. With practiced ease, he flipped open a large, leather-bound grimoire to the exact page he needed, the parchment worn from frequent use. Without wasting time, he picked up a small knife and sliced open his palm in a single, fluid motion.
Blood welled instantly from the cut, and began to drip down his hand. As it did, he murmured under his breath, speaking words in a language older than the kingdom itself. Dipping his fingers into the blood, he began tracing intricate runes along the flat of the blade.
Each symbol was intricate, drawn with the care of someone who understood the cost of error.
