Cane returned to his bunk after finalizing the commission for the ice arrows—his first official frost rune weapons. The satisfaction of a job well done settled into his chest like warm embers, and with nothing immediate pressing, he allowed himself a few more hours of sleep.
Dawn broke too soon, rays of sunlight spilling through the shutters and directly into his face. He groaned and rolled over, dragging a pillow over his head. A gentle chime from the room's psi communicator interrupted his slow surrender back to sleep.
Barefoot and half-awake, Cane padded to the rune-etched wall panel and traced the activation glyph.
"Yes?"
"Morning, Sunshine," Ria's voice crackled through the stone, warm and familiar. "I left a Grade Six soul gem from an air elemental with Telamon. He'll have it delivered today."
A smile broke across Cane's face. Sleep officially banished.
"Are you in port?"
"No, on a mission. Talk soon."
"Be careful, Ria." He frowned as the line went quiet. Had she heard him? He tapped the rune again, but the connection was already cut.
Cane dressed slowly, tugging on his academy robes while the frown lingered. The war along the coastlines was worsening. Ria—Rhiati—was a Corsair Captain, and the Defiant's all-female crew sailed into danger with every sortie.
History of Magic (HOM) dragged. Today was presentation day—group projects on The Ethical Concerns of Using Enhanced Magical Devices in Warfare. Clara had done most of the groundwork. Dhalia had handled the write-up. Cane was the unfortunate one who had to speak.
He had just finished presenting when a firm knock broke the rhythm of the class.
"Archmage Telamon!" Professor Wallen stiffened, voice half-strangled as he scrambled into a respectful bow.
Telamon's presence filled the room with the kind of silence that made even mana hum quieter.
"I need Cane to come with me," Telamon said, already turning away. The sharp tap of his cane echoed off the marble floors.
"Right away, Archmage." Wallen exhaled with visible relief, waving Cane forward like he couldn't get rid of him fast enough.
Cane shoved his papers into his satchel and hurried after the Archmage.
Telamon's short white hair was, as always, immaculately groomed. His clean-shaven face gave no hint of fatigue or age, though his eyes were sharp—observant in a way that made silence feel loaded.
After a minute of walking, Cane cracked first. "Where are we going, sir?"
"Metallurgy shop. Special job." Telamon handed him a wrapped object. The dense magical signature radiating from within was unmistakable.
Cane resisted the urge to peek. He already knew—it had to be the soul gem Ria mentioned. A Grade Six air elemental core. Rare. Potent. Dangerous.
One letter from her, Cane mused, and my life changed. First accelerated entry into the Academy. Now hand-delivering gems for her.
His eyes drifted to Telamon's profile. The man walked like Ria. Held his shoulders like her. For a heartbeat, a strange thought whispered across his mind.
Father and daughter?
No.
Maybe.
No… right?
He shook the thought off just as Telamon spoke again.
"You're doing fantastic work. Creating a focal artifact already places you at the Craftsman level in metallurgy."
Cane hesitated. "I've still got more to learn."
"Good. But you should know—word has gotten out."
Cane arched a brow. "What word?"
"In your first month, you've forged a mythic-rated weapon, created an epic-tier healing focal from raw materials, and designed a custom frost rune."
Telamon glanced sideways. "Someone leaked that information. Likely Arven Sol."
"That weasel-ly bastard," Cane muttered, then winced. "Sorry. Probably shouldn't insult faculty in front of the Dean."
A twitch at the corner of Telamon's mouth betrayed amusement. "Indeed. He's here because of his ties to the military."
Cane groaned. "Fine… I won't push him down a flight of stairs."
That did it. The Archmage chuckled—just once, short and quiet—but it counted.
"Enough of that, Cane."
"You're hired."
"Pardon?" Cane blinked. "What does that mean?"
"It means special status," Telamon replied, producing a silver badge from his pocket and placing it in Cane's palm. "In addition to being a student here, you're now on staff—officially: Academy Artificer."
Cane stared blankly, the badge gleaming in his hand. "Wait... what's going on?"
"Under our wartime charter," Telamon said as they neared the metallurgy hall, "underclassmen can be conscripted if their contribution could significantly alter the war effort."
"Then just tell them I can't help."
The Archmage paused in front of the door, his expression unreadable. "But you can. Putting you on staff bypasses the mandate and gives you an additional layer of protection. Now—put the badge on."
Numb, Cane fumbled slightly as he pinned it onto his robe. The silver badge shimmered faintly with protective sigils, its weight unfamiliar but comforting.
"Fine," Cane muttered. "But I better get paid."
The familiar heat and scent of the metallurgy shop steadied him. Inside, Brammel stood at ease, arms crossed, while Arven Sol fidgeted near a tall, broad-shouldered man in a navy officer's coat.
"Commandant Soliver," Telamon said, nodding toward the military man. "This is first-year student Cane Ironheart—our new Academy Artificer."
Arven choked. "He's what? He's just a student!" His eyes caught the silver badge pinned to Cane's chest. His jaw dropped. "...No. Way."
"Show them the hammer," Brammel grunted.
Cane opened his satchel and drew out Blue—the frost-etched hammer with the gryphon-inscribed head. Its presence filled the room with a subtle chill, and even the Commandant leaned in, intrigued.
"Goodness," Soliver muttered, shooting a glance at Arven before turning to Telamon. "Can I see a demonstration?"
Cane nodded.
Soliver unsheathed a steel longsword, handing it over hilt-first. The blade rang with a clean chime. "Good steel. I'd like to see how it holds enchantment."
Cane ran his hand along the metal's length, feeling its balance, listening. He set it gently on the bench and closed his eyes, letting the room fade away.
Then—tap.
A cold wind rushed through the forge, a high-pitched screech echoing faintly in the air. A pulse of icy mana rippled out from the hammer's head as it struck the sword. The steel shimmered, shifting from silver to a ghostly pale blue.
Cane raised it, tested the edge, then casually swung it against the edge of the nearby wooden bench.
Crack.
The sword sheared clean through. Cane nudged the bench with his foot—and it shattered like an ice cube.
Silence.
All eyes fell on the blade now humming with a soft frost glow.
"Glacial Frost Rune," Brammel said, arms still crossed. "Now you know." He winked at Cane.
Telamon cleared his throat. "As you can see, Commandant, the war effort needs someone like—"
Soliver raised a hand. "We do need him. But he's staff."
"But he's not—" Arven started.
"Enough," Soliver cut in. He stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Cane's shoulder, then handed him a small leather pouch. "Thank you for the rune, Mr. Cane."
Cane accepted it, feeling the quiet weight of coin. He didn't need to count it.
Soliver turned on his heel, pausing just long enough to shoot a glare at Arven before exiting alongside Telamon.
In the corridor, Soliver's formality faded. "Staff, huh?"
"Yep," Telamon replied simply.
"Good call," Soliver said, voice low. "The front's gone chaotic—unexpected incursions, assassinations... we can't even keep our own commanders safe."
He shook his head. "It's better he remains here. If the boy lives, we might actually have a future."
Back in the shop, Cane frowned at Arven. "I should punch you in the face, you imbecile."
Arven's face flushed red. "You can't talk to me like that! That's grounds for immediate suspension!"
Brammel, leaning lazily against the workbench, snorted. "He's staff, just like you now. And since you're technically not one of his instructors... Academy rules don't apply."
Arven looked like he might combust on the spot. Cane didn't even bother responding—his casual, disinterested expression only stoked the fire mage's fury. Without another word, Arven spun on his heel and stormed out, the door slamming behind him.
Brammel burst out laughing.
Even through the thick forge walls, Arven probably heard him from the hall.
"Imbecile..." Brammel wheezed. "I'm calling that stooge that from now on. Come on, follow me."
They crossed into the adjacent chamber—larger, cooler, and filled wall-to-wall with stacked weapons and armor.
"Set up here and start working," Brammel said, gesturing toward the central bench.
Cane whistled low. "All of this headed to the front?"
"Every last piece," Brammel confirmed. "Basic enchantments, rune etchings, reinforcement spells. Do what you can. Let me know if you need anything. Once you're done, you're free for the day."
Cane nodded, watching Brammel vanish back toward the main forge before finally opening the pouch Soliver had handed him.
"Ten platinum," he muttered, impressed. "Not bad."
He set to work, slipping into the quiet rhythm of craft. With so many frost runes in one space, the temperature steadily dropped. Breath fogged the air. Metal stung his fingers. Even bundled in his work robes, the chill crept deep.
Hours passed.
By the time he stepped out of the back room, he was pale, shivering, and bone-tired.
Brammel looked up from the forge, his expression softening as he saw Cane's state.
"All done?"
Cane nodded, exhaling a visible breath.
Brammel gave a satisfied grunt. "Good. Take the night, Cane. And don't worry..." He reached over and clasped Cane's shoulder, firm and reassuring.
"...It'll all work out."