Cane bounded up the stairs of Tower Seven, two steps at a time. As soon as he reached his room, he touched his palm against the psi rune, activating the communicator.
"Naval battle confirmed. Horizon to southeast. Multiple ships, full-scale engagement," he spoke quickly, voice low but steady.
A pause. Then the rune dimmed—message received.
"You hear all that?" Cane asked without turning.
Fergis was already standing in his doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp. He nodded once.
"Naval battles this close? That could mean they've broken through our blockade."
Cane exhaled. "We need better gear—something meant for actual combat." He grimaced. "Standard armor's out. Mages and metal don't mix."
It was a well-known limitation. Dense metal interfered with mana absorption, interrupting the body's natural channeling process. Spells cast while wearing heavy armor were sluggish, unstable—and the risk of magical backlash rose dramatically.
"We've got those battle robes the school issued," Fergis offered. "Light defensive enchantments. Nothing amazing, but better than dying."
Cane gave him a look.
Fergis sighed. "You really need to read the orientation book. You skipped like… half the first week."
"Where are they?" Cane was already tearing through his wardrobe, though he knew better—it wasn't there. He wore that robe every day.
"Check under the bed. Mine was wrapped in cloth."
Sure enough, Cane found a neatly folded parcel tucked under the frame. "Found it."
"See? I do have value." Fergis grinned.
Cane pulled on his usual robe instead and tucked the parcel under his arm. "Let's go."
"Where? The docks?"
Cane raised an eyebrow. "Unless you can fly or own a ship, that'd be a waste. We're going to the metallurgy shop."
"When did you become such a smartass?"
Cane smirked. "Around the time you nearly burned a hallway full of chickens."
Fergis gave a theatrical bow. "I approve."
They crossed the courtyard under a deepening sky. Stormlight danced faintly on the horizon, far enough not to touch the Academy—yet. Cane flashed his silver badge at the evening guardsman posted at the eastern gate of the academic wing.
The guard blinked.
"It's true, then." Fergis winked at the man as they passed. "Rumors were flying. I heard you were being hired as the metallurgy teacher."
Cane shook his head. "Not quite. I've been hired as the Academy Artificer."
"Really?" Fergis blinked. "No wonder the rumors are ridiculous."
"Arven tried to get me conscripted—claimed my rune work was too valuable not to be on the front."
Fergis stopped cold.
His expression shifted—no longer casual, no longer amused. "He did that?"
Cane nodded without looking back. "Keep it between us."
Fergis followed, slower now. "I will. But... he's on my list now."
Cane opened the metallurgy doors with a nudge of his shoulder. "List?"
"Yep. The list. The one where I eventually set someone's eyebrows on fire and call it justice."
The forge hissed gently, still warm from earlier use. Shadows stretched long across the benches and racks of half-finished weapons.
Fergis glanced around, clearly unfamiliar. "So... why now? Why staff now? You're good, sure—but there had to be a reason."
"Staff can't be conscripted," Cane said simply. "That's part of the wartime mandate. It was the only way to keep me here."
He rolled up his sleeves, stepping toward the central table where Blue—the frost hammer—waited in its mount. The air already felt different.
"All of it's new to me," he added quietly.
Brammel sat up from his slouched position near the forge, rubbing his eyes and blinking blearily at the newcomers.
Cane's serious expression cracked into a grin. "Were you sleeping next to the forge?"
Brammel nodded without shame. "I'm a dwarf. The heat reminds me of home."
Cane motioned to the redhead beside him. "This is Fergis. Figured you two hadn't met yet."
Brammel's gaze narrowed. "Firekiss Fergis?" He chuckled. "I thought you'd be taller."
Fergis tilted his head slightly, unsure how to take that coming from a dwarf. "Mr. Brammel."
"Just Brammel." The dwarf waved it off, then pointed at the cloth parcel under Cane's arm. "That the student battle robes?"
"Yeah," Cane said, stepping forward. "I wanted to try something."
Brammel raised an eyebrow. "Runes only work on metal. Cloth will accept enchantments—but not runes." He recited the truth like it was scripture.
"Got any adamantium I can use?" Cane asked.
Brammel squinted. "You planning on proving all of metallurgy wrong tonight?" He grunted, disappearing into the back storage before returning with a locked crate. From within, he drew a block of adamantium, no larger than his fist, and slid it across the bench.
"Here. We learn by our failures."
Cane nodded his thanks, unwrapped the robe, and took a seat at the workbench.
Fergis sat opposite, eyes wide, clearly content to spectate.
Cane placed both hands on the metal and extended his senses, letting the world fall away.
Inside the block of adamantium, Cane's awareness entered a world of pale gold and electric pressure. He focused, folding layer upon layer in his mind—five, then ten, then fifty, then hundreds. Thousands. He kept going, pressing against the limits of his precision until he was hovering at the edge of what his talent could perceive.
Finally, he isolated a single layer—so thin it was nearly conceptual—and willed it free, slicing it like a sliver of air from a loaf of bread.
His eyes snapped open.
Brammel, who had been watching closely, frowned. "I can't tell what you did."
"This," Cane said, swiping the surface of the block with one finger.
A whisper of motion, and a single sheet of adamantium separated—thin as rice paper, delicate as mist. You could see the forge light flicker through it.
Brammel stared, beard trembling.
"The final layer…" he whispered, reverently.
"Robe," Cane said. Fergis fumbled with the parcel and unwrapped it, laying the standard-issue robe flat on the table.
"Continue," Brammel said, already heading toward the room's psi rune. "I'm calling Telamon."
Cane laid the gossamer sheet of adamantium across the robe's fabric. Placing both hands down, he immersed himself again, this time not to divide—but to bind.
The cloth threads resisted him—static, unmoving. But that was fine. He wasn't manipulating the fabric. He was layering metal into the weave, aligning filaments to reinforce vital zones—chest, shoulders, spine—building tiny lattices like the structure of snowflakes. It was meticulous work, draining and intense, but he was no longer aware of time.
When he came back to himself, three figures stood behind Fergis.
Brammel. Telamon. And Ignasius.
Cane blinked. "Adamantium cloth," Brammel murmured, voice shaking slightly. "You just made adamantium cloth."
Cane drew Blue from his side and tapped the chest of the robe.
A rush of frigid air burst outward, echoed by the spectral screech of an Ice Gryphon. The robe shimmered, pale blue overtaking the fabric, and the image of a gryphon bloomed across the chest—etched into the weave like a crest.
Silence.
"I'll test it," Ignasius said, already shrugging off his fire robes. He stepped into the modified battle robe and tightened the cords.
He moved to the far side of the room, facing the stone wall.
"Oye," Brammel grunted. "Don't melt my forge, Firehead."
Ignasius gave a two-finger salute. "Low-level spells only."
The first spell struck with a pop of flame.
Then a second. A third. He moved quickly, flowing between gestures, each spell escalating. Fire flared, twisted, spiraled from his palms—controlled but fierce. The stone wall began to glow dull orange.
Fergis's jaw slowly dropped. "He's just showing off now…"
Cane didn't disagree.
As the barrage continued, the wall turned red, then orange-white. The heat in the room spiked—but not once did Ignasius flinch. Finally, he lowered his hands, steam hissing from the scorched wall.
He turned, grinning like a man who'd just stolen fire from the gods.
"Zero mana interference. Spell focus is increased." He stroked his goatee. "And defensive coverage rates just below reinforced scale mail." He looked directly at Cane. "It's… magnificent."
"How's your state of mind?" Telamon asked, placing a hand lightly on the modified battle robe and sinking his senses into it. His thoughts were already elsewhere—on the recent graduates deployed just days ago. They were likely still at the staging area.
There might still be time.
"It doesn't tire me," Cane replied. "It's just… time-consuming."
Without a word, Telamon opened a rift and stepped through.
Several minutes later, a second rift shimmered open—and a stack of floating robes drifted into the forge.
Brammel frowned, rubbing his beard. "Some of those aren't Academy issue."
"A deal was made," Telamon said simply. "Twelve of these belong to healers and support mages at the staging area. They leave in thirty hours." He tapped the psi rune at his neck and began murmuring quietly.
Cane's eyes widened. "Thirty hours? Even if there were ten of me, I couldn't do it."
He was already calculating. Now that he understood the technique, he might be able to manage a robe every one to two hours—but even then…
Brammel stepped behind him and clapped thick hands on Cane's shoulders, massaging with firm, calloused pressure. "Don't look at the mountain, lad. Look at the next stone. Focus on the process—figure out how to streamline it."
Cane nodded slowly. "I need a robe count. I'll create all the adamantium sheets at once."
"Don't worry," Brammel said, moving toward his supply. "I've got more adamantium if you burn through that block."
"Ninety-seven robes, Cane!" Fergis called from across the room, just finishing his tally.
"Does that include yours?" Cane asked, already preparing the forge.
"Ninety-eight," Fergis said, deadpan.
"Ninety-nine," Ignasius added, not even looking up from his seat.
Telamon cleared his throat. "One hundred, Cane."
Cane groaned. "It might as well be a thousand. I'll never finish them in thirty hours."
A polished staff appeared in Telamon's hands. "You'll have time."
He tapped the stone floor once. A purple rune spun outward, circular and large enough to cover the whole forge. A second tap, and a yellow rune formed on the ceiling. A third, and the two began spinning in opposite directions.
Cane felt the hairs on his arms rise.
"Time magic," he murmured. "It's slowed?"
"Or accelerated, depending on your perspective," Telamon said. "Ten hours in here equals one hour outside."
Cane nodded, already placing his hands on the adamantium block. "Okay, then. One hundred sheets of adamantium."
The first time he'd peeled a sheet, the block had already been refined to its final layer. This time, he broke it down himself—layer by layer, faster and faster. Once the process clicked, it became like dealing cards.
He didn't stop at a hundred.
Why not make more? A supply of adamantium cloth might come in handy for the future—for allies, for coin, for the forge.
When he finally opened his eyes, Fergis was getting spell tutoring from Ignasius near the wall, while Brammel and Telamon spoke in hushed tones near the forge.
"You get them all?" Brammel asked.
Cane nodded. "I broke down the entire block. Don't ask me to count—tens of thousands, probably. Once you get going, it's like pulling thread."
"You were under for 14 hours," Telamon said. "Only 1.4 outside."
"Fergis," Cane called, standing up and shaking the stiffness from his arms, "enough fire spells. Start laying out robes on the tables."
Fergis gave a lazy salute, and soon the tables were covered in cloth.
Cane went to work.
Ten hours later, only seven robes were complete. His body ached—not magically, but physically. To him, it was three a.m. In real time, only another hour had passed.
Elsewhere...
A knock at the door woke Dagan from dead sleep. From under his bed, Tazi growled, low and threatening.
"Could it be the guard?" Lorna asked, already sitting up.
Dagan opened the door—and froze.
"Archmage Telamon."
"Mr. Sweetwater," Telamon said, nodding. "Sofie's staying here, yes? We need her support for an important mission."
"Support?" Dagan frowned. "I don't want my daughter involved in anything dangerous."
"Nothing dangerous," Telamon assured him, eyes sweeping the room. It had been rebuilt since the rift incursion—fresh wood, clean lines.
"Unless you consider food prep and emotional support dangerous."
Footsteps echoed down the hall. Sofie appeared, hair loose, wrapped in a white robe.
"What do I do?"
"Prep six full meals," Telamon replied. "You'll be compensated. I'll bring you to the kitchens."
Back in the forge, Cane slept near the heart of the fire. Brammel had been right—the warmth was comforting.
Eight hours passed inside the time-altered room. Less than an hour passed outside.
Ignasius leaned against the far wall, eyes closed in meditation. Fergis was curled on the stone floor. Brammel snored lightly from behind a crate.
A sudden rift opened by the door.
A metal cart rolled through, laden with food—eggs, bacon, cinnamon rolls—and behind it stood Sofie, dressed in civilian clothes, hair in a tidy bun.
"Sofie," Cane said, voice groggy but grinning. The smell of food made his stomach growl.
She moved efficiently, setting out plates and pouring cider. When Telamon told her Cane was supporting the deployed graduates, she hadn't hesitated.
The smell of food woke the others. With murmured thanks, they dug in.
Sofie stood behind Cane, rubbing his neck gently.
"Ten hours in here equals one hour outside?"
"Mhm," Cane mumbled around a bite of cinnamon roll. "You're stuck here now, y'know."
"Proud to help," she said softly, refilling his cider.
The cycle continued—work ten hours, eat, work ten more, sleep.
With every cycle, Cane refined his process. Soon he could finish two robes an hour.
The final three robes waited, laid out neatly—Fergis's, Ignasius's, and Telamon's.
Sofie sat on a nearby stool, watching the forge light flicker across the sea of pale blue robes.
"That's a lot of blue," she said with a smile.
"Aye, lassie," Brammel rumbled, peering at her with amusement and affection. He gave Cane a subtle thumbs up behind her back.
Cane just smiled, weary and content.
He had done it.