When Cane finally stepped through the doors of Tower Seven, the first light of dawn was cresting over the Academy rooftops. The sky was soft with pink and amber hues, birds just beginning to stir in the trees.
Sofie stood with him near the entry, her bag slung over one shoulder. She'd been granted a week off and handed two platinum by Telamon for her efforts.
Cane hugged her tight before she turned to go. "Thanks, Sofie."
She kissed his cheek lightly. "You did the hard part. I was just lucky enough to watch it happen."
He watched her disappear into the courtyard, the breeze catching the edge of her cloak as she vanished around the corner.
Fergis, who had been trailing quietly behind, fell into step beside Cane as they started up the stairs.
"So," Fergis said, "how much did the army pay for the... what did Telamon call them?"
"Interwoven Adamantium Frost Robes," Cane replied, smiling faintly. "Three platinum each."
Fergis blinked. "So... you've got three hundred platinum in your pouch right now?"
"No," Cane said casually. "Three hundred and ten. Telamon advanced me my first month's salary as Academy Artificer."
Fergis let out a low whistle and shook his head, laughing. "You're gonna need a bigger pouch."
They reached the landing and paused near the railing, the morning sun warming the stone.
"Did you enjoy that Cape Antelope steak?" Fergis asked, nudging him. "Grade Three beast. Taken down by one of Arven's relatives."
Cane tried to keep his face neutral at the mention of Arven—a name that still itched under his skin.
But the memory of that meal... it was harder to hide. The steak had been unlike anything he'd ever tasted—rich, smoky, layered with energy that seeped into his bones. It hadn't just filled him—it had revitalized him, body and spirit alike.
"Is that right?"
"Yeah. Some dandy took it down with one shot. Stunned their whole hunting party."
Cane chuckled, a bit of warmth breaking through the fatigue.
He knew who Fergis meant. Eli—the quiet, pampered noble who'd been the butt of endless jokes from his stepfamily. Awkward, uncertain, always trailing behind...
Good for him, Cane thought, the smile lingering.
Maybe some things were starting to turn around—for everyone.
Cane placed most of his platinum in a lockbox he'd smithed himself, sliding it under the bed. He understood value better than most. A good blacksmith in a major city might earn a few gold on a busy day—most jobs fetched ten, maybe twenty silver.
He smiled to himself, thinking of Sophie's face when she received two platinum for her help. Her usual monthly stipend from the Academy was only three gold—and that included room and board. The reward had stunned her.
Telamon had also offered Cane a personal reward for pioneering the adamantium-cloth integration technique. When prompted, Cane had asked for something simple: a Guayanar seed, meant for Clara's wood-based focal project.
Taking the ocean trail once again, Cane felt the call of the waves. Before assuming his masked persona, he stripped down and dove into the surf.
He floated effortlessly, the early sun climbing back into power as it shimmered through broken clouds. The water held him like memory.
Was the Defiant part of the naval battle?
Were Ria and Neri safe?
The sea gave no answers.
After drying off and pulling on a sleeveless shirt, Cane reached for his mask. Forged of black silver, it gleamed faintly in the morning light. No straps, no ties—Nos's runes held it in place with subtle magic, perfectly fitted.
He pressed it gently to his face, and in a breath, Cane became Jonah Ironfist once more.
"Might be time to forge a new mask," he murmured. "With my upgrades in metallurgy, I could bond the material directly—no forging required."
Before entering the smithy, Cane swept the shop's front path with a sturdy broom, brushing away sand and leaves. Then he opened the door and stepped inside.
Feed me...
Chimi's voice, faint and pitiful, echoed from the heart of the forge.
"Alright, alright," Cane muttered, already shoveling coal. The elemental's hunger had grown ever since her bond with the forge. She was subtle, but when she needed fuel—she let it be known.
"Hey, masked man!"
Cane looked up. Mira approached from the trail, a crate balanced on one hip. He realized a beat too late—he'd forgotten to ask Fergis about the Summer Festival. Of course, that conversation had been with Cane, not Jonah.
"Got some work?"
"Sure do." Mira set down a small box—kitchen knives, hinges, door hardware, even a short sword. "All yours, masked man."
"Great. Business has been slow," Cane admitted, voice slightly roughened by the mask's echo.
"You should advertise," Mira said, brushing off her hands.
"I don't even know what that means."
She gave him a look. "You really are from the highlands. There's a psi rune in the central square. One gold gets you a full day of broadcast ads—voice-only. They play once an hour. A few sentences, short and sharp. Most don't use it—it's too expensive."
Cane raised an eyebrow. "One gold?" It was steep, but he was still building a name. A rush of small jobs might generate some goodwill.
"Tell you what," Mira offered. "I'll handle it if you don't charge me for this batch."
"Deal." Cane nodded, flipping Mira the gold coin.
"Alright, masked man—what do you want to say?"
Cane tapped his chin in thought. "One-time deal: repair all household items for ten silver. No limit. Sale ends at sundown."
Mira blinked, then grinned. "The masked smith is brave… very brave."
Mira's cheerful voice echoed through the town's psi announcement system, projected from the central square with the clarity of a stage actress delivering her lines:
"Big sale down at the new forge! Meet the masked blacksmith—Highland native from across the sea—Jonas Ironfist! Today only, he's offering a special on household items. Ten silver for anything that needs smithing! You heard it here, folks—grab your ten silver and bring whatever you can carry down to the Forge!"
Cane cringed behind his black silver mask.
It sounded less like an ad and more like his life story smashed into a fire sale.
Still, it worked.
Within minutes, three people made their way down the path, boxes in hand, filled with everything from dull knives to warped steel wire sculptures. Cane got to work, hammer ringing steady and sure.
For the next six hours, he barely looked up.
Then, a familiar voice spoke from the doorway.
"My ma needs these sharpened. And my da has this old piece of armor—it's cracked and hideous. I think Ma included it hoping you'd just make it disappear."
Cane looked up from the forge.
Sophie.
Box in hand. Bright smile.
And at her side—
A flash of black fur lunged happily at his feet.
"Tazi!" Sophie scolded. "Leave him alone! I'm sorry, sir—she usually doesn't bother strangers."
Cane smiled behind the mask, amused by her choice of words.
Strangers.
"It's fine," he said, voice heavy with highland brogue. "Just call me Jonas."
"Oh, okay." Sophie returned the smile. "I'm Sophie."
"You're Cane's friend?" he asked, because really—how could he not?
Sophie's face lit up. "Yes! Do you know him?"
"Of course. I guess you'd call us business partners. I do the smithing, he applies the runes to the final product."
"Oh..." she brightened even more. "How'd you two meet?"
"Out in the countryside. Gathering ores and metals."
Cane repaired the armor first—reinforcing the cracked segments, smoothing dings, strengthening weak points—then turned to the knives, sharpening them to a near-glimmering edge.
"Will you see Cane later?" he asked casually, placing the last blade in the box.
"I hope so," she said, handing him ten silver and lifting the repaired items with both arms.
Temptation got the better of him.
"Are you Cane's girlfriend?"
Sophie's pretty face flushed pink. "G-girlfriend? I... well... umm, I don't know."
"I see," Cane said behind the mask, enjoying the tease more than he should have.
Sophie glanced down at the box in her hands. "What does he say?"
"He said you are."
Sophie's smile lit up like the sun. "He said that? He really did?"
"Yes." Cane bit his lip behind the mask to keep from laughing.
"Oh... okay then... yeah, that's... I guess so."
Cane watched her walk away, warmth settling into his chest like banked embers. The short visit carried him through the next stretch of work with a lighter step and steadier rhythm.
Until, just before closing time, a ragged-looking man pulled up to the forge in a creaky wagon that smelled like smoke and copper.
"Wheels need banding. Yoke's cracked, axle's bent," he said, pointing with a calloused finger. "Ten silver, right?"
Cane straightened behind the anvil. "Household items only, sir."
The man kicked at the dirt, brow furrowed. "I'm homeless. I live in the wagon."
Cane stared a beat longer.
Sly bastard.
"...Fine."