[Present]
Knight Commander Meya Rowe, known across the realm for her unwavering courage, unflinching fairness, and unmatched martial skill, had only known loss on the battlefield once.
A decade ago—before the mantle of command, before the King's Guard—she had stood helpless as the Black Legion tore her world apart.
Her company, gone.
Her sister, gone.
The man she loved… gone.
Laughter and warmth snuffed out in one night of merciless fire.
It had been the night the world learned to fear the name Tyrant Bex.
And now, ten years later, standing alone outside the gilded arch of Auction House Olivari, the circle had closed.
The Black Legion was gone.
Every beast.
Every beastmaster.
And their commander—Tyrant Bex, the undefeated butcher—
Slain like the rabid dog he was.
Tears streamed down Meya's face, silent and unrelenting. Each drop splashed onto the ancient cobblestones, unnoticed by the world around her.
The voice in her ear rune repeated the question, gentle and insistent.
Her father's voice.
She swallowed, her lips trembling.
"Yes, Da…" she managed, her voice cracking like thin glass.
"The Black Legion has been defeated. Wiped out. To the man."
A long pause.
"I don't know the details yet. Reports are still coming in."
Her hands clenched at her sides. Not in fear. Not in anger.
But because—for the first time in ten years—there was room to breathe.
[Elsewhere – That Same Night]
Slipping through the hidden path to Resolute, Cane Ironheart breathed in the cool air of the forge trail. His mask, already in place, settled him into a familiar rhythm—the persona of Jonas Ironfist taking over like a second skin.
Inside the forge, Chimi didn't shriek for fuel. That alone was strange enough to make him glance at the flames. Still, he tossed her a full scoop of high-grade coke. The flame hissed in delight, flaring in bright blue pulses.
She was content—for now.
Cane exhaled, rolling his shoulders and settling at the workbench. His fingers were already moving before his thoughts caught up. Diagrams took shape beneath his charcoal stick—lines, measurements, overlapping materials. A new vision.
Salt armor.
Lightweight. Durable. Rune-reactive.
Crafted from his own alloy.
Fused from cobalt and silver. Infused with will.
Interwoven adamantium fabric for the underlayer, he thought. It would insulate, disperse impacts—and hold the rune.
He filed the idea for later. For now, the metal called.
First came the refining.
Silver. Cobalt.
Both melted and cooled with care.
Then fused—hot silver with cold cobalt—forced together with precision and will.
Impurities rose like oil to the surface, and with a silent pulse of metallurgic focus, he willed them out.
Salt.
The alloy pulsed beneath his palms, waiting to become something more.
Cane began with chainmail. Fine loops for the joints—hips, elbows, knees, throat. Flexibility without compromise. Then, the real work.
Plate.
He hammered thin sheets of Salt steel into rough templates—chest, back, upper and lower limbs. Then he paused.
The chest plate sat before him, its surface gleaming like forged starlight.
He placed both hands on it.
And immersed.
It felt like fire made flesh.
Like warmth without pain.
"This is beautiful," Cane murmured aloud. "Like being kissed by the sun."
He willed the plate to shape—not just to fit, but to belong.
The metal obeyed.
It didn't just mold.
It hugged the contours of his chest—forming an elegant, deadly silhouette.
Each remaining piece followed.
Backplate.
Upper arms.
Lower arms.
Legs.
Thighs.
Shins.
When he stepped back, the full set gleamed on the bench like relics of a forgotten age.
Then came Blue.
With ritual calm, Cane drew the glacial hammer and tapped each plate in sequence.
Chest.
Back.
Arms.
Legs.
Light chimes rang out—each note punctuated by the echoing cry of an Ice Gryphon.
The forge pulsed.
Frost licked the walls.
Chimi screeched in outrage.
Cold! Make it GO!
But the Resolute Forge held firm. Frost bloomed across its mouth.
The Aspect of the Ice Gryphon hovered above the armor—wings spread, silent and watchful. It didn't speak.
But Cane felt the weight of its gaze settle on him.
And in that frozen breath between pulses—
He knew.
The forge approved.
[Meanwhile – In Telamon's Office]
Professor Brammel sat perched on the edge of his chair, one hand clenched tightly around the carved armrest, watching Telamon with thinly veiled irritation.
"Those two saved the Duke," he growled. "And we're blocking their reward? That doesn't sit right with me."
Across from him, Archmage Telamon exhaled slowly, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "You know where the Duke stands, Brammel. His faction opposes the war—openly, now. Not against the Crown, not yet… but close."
"And what's that got to do with two students risking their necks?"
"Everything." Telamon's tone was calm, but resolute. "The Academy is under royal charter. We do not reward acts that empower political opponents. Not openly."
Brammel scoffed. "Fergis fired Balefire with no charge time. Cane—unarmed—took down a cloaked assassin and kicked him through a third-story window." He jabbed a finger toward the floor. "That should mean something."
"It does," Telamon said, his voice quieter now. "I will work behind the scenes. Carefully. I'll make sure they continue to benefit from their time here."
Brammel shook his head. "Doesn't feel like enough."
"No," Telamon agreed. "It isn't. But for now… it's all I can do."
Before Brammel could respond, the Capital Rune embedded in the floor ignited—flaring a sharp gold, humming with urgent resonance.
Telamon waved a hand, and a rune gate shimmered open.
A courier stepped through, young but composed, and offered a crisp bow. "Direct letter from His Majesty." He held the sealed missive out with both hands. "I'm to wait for your response, Archmage."
Telamon accepted the letter, nodding once. "Wait outside the chamber. You'll have it shortly."
The courier retreated. Telamon raised a finger, and a violet rune pulsed to life on the office walls—sealing the chamber with privacy wards.
Brammel straightened. "Should I leave?"
"No," Telamon said, already breaking the seal. "You may want to hear this."
He unfolded the letter and began to read aloud:
Archmage Telamon,
The Black Legion opened a full-scale rift on the front—direct violation of the Rule of War Pact. They ambushed Redfox, Strike, Hammer, and Raptor Battalions. We estimate nearly five thousand casualties.
Only ninety-seven members of Raptor Battalion survived.
I've seen Tyrant Bex's corpse myself. He is dead.
The entire Black Legion has been annihilated.
Details are scarce, but this much is confirmed:
One hundred survivors made a final stand on a ridge.
An archer—name currently unconfirmed—fired a single arrow, reportedly called Cane's Folly.
That arrow destroyed the Legion.
We now have undeniable proof of treaty violations. I want you to act.
I'm giving you full authority to seek reparations on behalf of the Crown.
Do whatever is necessary to ensure the safety of Cane Ironheart.
Your friend,
Milas Hellion
The steady pounding of a hammer.
The heat of the forge.
The subtle chill of Salt Armor enhanced by a mythic-tier Glacial Ice rune.
Cane leaned back against his workbench, fingers tracing the smooth, glacial-blue lines etched across the chestplate. Each line shimmered faintly, echoing the cry of the Ice Gryphon rune embedded deep within. For a moment, he allowed himself to admire it—not just as a craftsman, but as something more.
Then the air tore sideways with a soft snap.
A rift opened inside the shop.
Cane spun, instinct pulling him toward Starstrike—but froze as he recognized the figure who stepped through.
Archmage Telamon.
There was no danger. Not really. But Cane's heart still slammed in his chest.
Telamon's sharp eyes swept across the forge—calculating, assessing. He saw everything: the adamantium tools, the shimmering Saltfang blades, Blue resting beside the bench, and the full set of armor gleaming in the low forge light.
And then there was Cane's Folly.
"Cane," Telamon said quietly. "We need to talk. You can remove the mask."
Cane felt his stomach drop.
He knows.
He exhaled slowly, pulling the Jonas Ironfist mask free and setting it on the bench with care.
"I guess the ruse is up," he murmured.
Telamon's tone didn't change. "I've always known."
Cane blinked. "Oh."
The Archmage stepped forward, expression turning serious. "Who did you give Cane's Folly to?"
"Corporal Madeline Yanu," Cane said without hesitation. "An archer. Friend of mine. She was headed to the front. Did something happen? Was it stolen? Sold?"
"She fired it," Telamon said simply. "And wiped out the most powerful Legion our enemy possessed."
There was a beat of silence.
"Oh…" Cane said at last. "Well… shit."
Telamon chuckled. Actually chuckled.
"Indeed."
Cane looked at him warily. "So what happens now? You shutting me down?"
"Shut down a named forge in the middle of a war?" Telamon raised an eyebrow. "Hardly. In fact, I want you to keep using your dual identity. Jonas Ironfist gives you cover. Protection."
Cane narrowed his eyes. "So I'm not in trouble?"
Telamon gave a small, knowing smile. "I've been using multiple identities for years. They offer movement. Flexibility."
As he spoke, his image shimmered—subtly at first—then completely shifted.
Into Nos.
Cane's jaw dropped. "No… No way. You're Nos?"
"This stays between us," Telamon—Nos—said calmly. "Seems only fair, since I know who you are."
Cane's mind reeled. "But… you've been torturing Fergis for weeks. Traps. Pranks. The damn chickens!"
"Tempering," Telamon corrected. "Training. I'm giving him the tools he needs. Quietly. Without expectation."
The Archmage shifted back to his usual form and tapped the floor with his cane. A rune pulsed beneath them, spinning once before fading into the stone.
"I'll have carpenters put walls up," he added. "This rune is twofold. First—it creates a field of privacy. Soundproof. Resistant to scrying or eavesdropping."
Cane raised an eyebrow. "And the second?"
"It's a linked transport rune. Attuned only to you. Connects this forge… to your room in Seven Tower."
Cane grinned despite himself. "Ducking into ravines and outcroppings was getting old."
"I'm sure," Telamon said dryly. "This should help your cover last. Someone would've spotted you eventually."
He cast one last look around the forge, something like pride in his eyes.
"I look forward to seeing what you craft next."
And with that, the Archmage stepped through a new rift and vanished.
Cane stood alone for a long moment before glancing at the barely visible rune etched into the floor.
"Connected to my room, huh?"
He stepped on it.
And disappeared.