After finishing the boxed lunch Sofie had left, Cane packed a few more items, then opened his desk and rummaged through the bottom drawer for his etching tool. His hand bumped something soft.
He pulled it free—a small pouch with a belt clip, the Academy's emblem stitched in silver thread across the flap.
"What the hell?"
He loosened the drawstring and upended the contents. Five gold coins spilled into his palm.
Where did this come from?
The light across the hall was still on. Cane stepped into the corridor, crossed to Fergis's door, and knocked once before pushing it open.
Fergis looked up from a pile of open books. "Problem?"
Cane held up the pouch. "What do you know about this?"
Fergis blinked. "That? Orientation pouch. First month's stipend for first-years."
"You're serious?"
Fergis nodded. "Seniors get fifty gold a month."
Cane stared at the coins again. He hadn't even known students were paid.
"Nos conned me," he muttered. "The medium required for an air-activated replicator rune is a Grade Six soul gem from an Air elemental."
Fergis gave a low whistle. "I've seen those go for thirty platinum."
Cane nearly dropped the pouch. "Thirty thousand gold?"
He'd never even seen a platinum coin. But he knew the value.
Walking along the ocean path at dawn, Cane moved quickly, his sleeveless shirt and mask already in place. The horizon bloomed with shades of pink, slowly brightening the vast blue sky. The scent of salt and humidity clung heavier than usual to the morning air.
As he neared the old smithy, Cane noticed the telltale signs of a storm brewing. The wind had picked up, and with it came the rattling of loose branches, the jingle of shifting lines, and the flapping of canvas.
His eyes drifted toward the nearby bay—two ships were anchored offshore, their contrasting silhouettes immediately noticeable. One was a heavy frigate, armed to the teeth with at least forty guns. The other, a sleek Corsair rigged for speed, bore twelve.
"Gonna have company," Cane muttered.
Even from a distance, it was clear both ships had taken a beating. The rigging hung in loose, chaotic tangles. Sails flapped in tatters. And the frigate's forward mast had snapped near the crow's nest, the jagged break blackened by smoke.
Cane laid out his tools and quietly fired up the forge. He hadn't used the adamantium set yet—still doing basic work—so he stuck with the standard iron tools he'd found buried beneath the charred rubble.
The fire had just begun to breathe when the rumble of wagon wheels caught his attention.
A heavy cart labored down the dirt path, its wheels digging deep ruts as it creaked under the weight of mismatched metal. Random lengths of scrap and salvage were stacked nearly two meters high, shifting with every bounce.
"Hey, masked man! How are the seagulls working out?"
Cane chuckled and turned toward the voice. "Hey, Mira. They're always late," he replied.
"Pa said to leave the wagon, so don't worry about bringing it back right away," Mira said, hopping down from the seat.
An older boy jumped down after her and moved to unhitch the team. "One of the suspension leaves is cracked pretty bad."
"Seen them yet?" she asked.
Cane stepped aside as the boy led the team back up the path. He exaggerated the roll of his R's, thickening the familiar mountain dialect.
"Unsure who they are."
Mira gave him a look. "The Corsair crew. All female. Each one as beautiful as a star."
Cane laughed. "You sound like you want to join them."
Mira grinned. "I get sick at sea. Can't even sit in a fishing boat."
She stepped back toward the wagon, then paused. "Got something. Not sure if you can use it—and Pa doesn't want it sitting around the lumber mill. One of my brothers brought it back from the docks."
The care with which Mira placed the burlap sack on his workbench made Cane pause.
She untied the drawstring and peeled back the cloth, revealing a round cannonball stamped with a faint flame sigil.
"Explosive round?" Cane asked, his voice low. He reached out and placed his hand on the cold surface.
Instantly, his vision blurred.
A wisp of fire flickered in his mind's eye—small, no larger than his cupped palms. Wings of ember-light fluttered weakly as the creature spun in place, trapped within the runes that bound it.
A fire wisp. Low level. Grade one or two, maybe.
But alive.
Its presence brushed against him—timid, confused, pulsing with raw instinct: fear… pain… a desire to live.
Cane's breath caught.
He understood what this meant. The wisp was the core—the volatile heart of the ordnance. When triggered, its destruction would release all that pent-up energy in a single, devastating blast.
The magic was clean. Efficient. And cruel.
Cane carefully stored the ordnance on the rack above his workbench. "If you hear a sudden explosion…"
"Then I'll send someone to pick up the pieces," Mira joked, grinning. "And to get our wagon back."
She offered a friendly wave as she turned to leave. Cane watched her go, then glanced sideways at the fire round.
"I wonder if Fergis could remove that rune…"
With that thought lingering, he turned to the wagon's cargo. After inspecting the load, he began sorting through the basic iron pieces, setting aside those best suited to melt down for nails. Nearly everyone he'd spoken with over the past two days had asked about them.
Cane worked for hours, the rhythm of hammer and bellows grounding him. By the time the sun was high, sweat glistened on his shoulders, and his mask was flecked with soot.
Then he felt it—a soft pulse, barely perceptible, from behind him.
He turned.
Cane's satchel lay open near the forge wall, its contents undisturbed… except for the small shell bracelet nestled inside, catching the light.
Neri's bracelet.
It pulsed again, this time faintly warm.
Cane's jaw tightened. He stepped forward quickly, snapped the satchel shut, and locked it inside the steel box where he kept his tools.
Then, in one swift motion, he slammed the lid closed.
He stood still for a long moment, breathing deeply, staring at the box without really seeing it.
The memory was still there—blurred at the edges, but bright at the center. Saltwater and moonlight. Blue hair and warm hands. A forehead touch that had meant more than he could explain.
He hadn't forgotten.
Not even close.
It was the first time since the island that Ria and Neri had been this close to him.
Laughter drifted toward the forge, carried on the salt-heavy breeze. A half-dozen women strolled together, passing around a bottle filled with dark liquor, shoulders brushing as they walked. Two led the group but didn't drink. Though friendly, something in their posture set them apart—authority, perhaps. The burden of command.
Cane was thankful for the mask.
The pair in front broke off and approached the forge, while the others leaned casually against the wagon Mira had delivered earlier.
"You must be the smith?" Ria asked, matter-of-fact.
"Either that, or I've stolen his apron," Cane replied, voice dry.
Neri laughed quietly, a sound like a breeze over water. Her aquamarine eyes swept across the shop, pausing on the glowing forge, the hanging tools, the scraps of metal sorted neatly into bins. As a creature of the sea, she should have felt out of place—uneasy on dry land, surrounded by fire and steel.
But she didn't. Not at all.
Ria favored her with a tight smile before turning back to Cane. Her demeanor softened by a fraction. "I've brought some fine work. If you've got the skills."
"Let's see it," Cane said, wiping his hands on his apron. "If it's beyond me, I won't waste your time."
"You talk funny," Neri said, tilting her head. Her gaze lingered on him longer than it should have—searching.
Ria shot her a quick glance. "Neri…"
"He speaks with a highland dialect," Ria added, smoothing the moment as she pulled a schematic from her satchel. "I've always found it soothing."
She laid out the plans on his bench, along with a silver-hued ingot and a broken device that once might've been elegant.
Cane's eyes fixed on the metal.
He didn't need to test it. He knew the shimmer, the weight, the impossibility of it.
Mithril.
Rarer than unicorns. And nearly as mythical.
Cane had assumed it might be jewelry—or possibly a weapon. But once he scanned the schematic, its true purpose became clear: a focal device for healers.
"This is Neri's," Ria confirmed. "She's our healer. It helps conserve her strength. She can work without it… but she tires fast."
Cane nodded, already turning the broken device over in his hand.
"I can do it," he said simply.
No hesitation. No bluff.
His thumb traced the faint etching of the embedded rune—water-aligned, tuned precisely to Neri's element. The design was clever, amplifying her healing power through elemental resonance. Simple on the surface. Deceptively complex beneath.
Exactly the kind of work Cane had once dreamed of doing.
And now, with mithril in front of him, he'd get the chance.
"Stop by the shop tonight," Cane said. "It'll be ready."
As he spoke, he noticed the red ribbons braided into Ria's pale blonde hair—same as before. She'd worn them during their last meeting on the island. Whether out of habit or meaning, he couldn't say.
"If you can fully restore the focal," Ria replied, her tone crisp but not unkind, "you can keep any leftover mithril."
She paused, then added, "And I'll pay you two platinum."
Cane gave a subtle nod, but inwardly, the weight of the offer settled over him.
This wasn't just a commission.
It was trust.
The voices of Neri and Ria's companions carried easily on the ocean breeze.
"Did you see his arms? I bet he's strong."
"They say in town he wears the mask to hide his scars."
"I bet it's the opposite—he's probably descended from a sea god and covers his beauty to ward off pirate women."
Laughter followed—bright, unrestrained. The kind shared between friends who'd survived long voyages and longer nights.
Cane felt his face heat beneath the mask.
Their voices gradually faded as the group headed toward town, leaving behind only the sound of waves and the steady hum of the forge.