After asking Hawke for half a day off at the Blacksmith Shop, Roland hurried to the remote wooden cabin.
The cabin's door was ajar. He called out once before pushing it open, and the sight before him made his heart tighten.
Bronson was leaning weakly against the wooden bed, his already gaunt frame appearing even more fragile.
His hair was disheveled, his beard unkempt, and his cheeks were smudged with several black, soot-like streaks.
The robe he usually wore was now tattered, covered with fine scratches, and dotted with a few small holes that looked as if they had been burned by sparks.
To Roland's relief, however, Bronson had no bloodstains or obvious wounds.
Despite his haggard appearance, the scholar's eyes held a fanatical gleam.
He was focused on the Dagger in his hand—the very one Roland had forged—and was muttering to himself.
"Mr. Bronson?"
"Roland?"
Hearing his name, Bronson finally tore his gaze from the Dagger.
