Cane's room slowly emptied. Meya left in search of one of her old professors, while Fergis, Clara, and Dhalia drifted off toward their rooms, conversation fading down the hall.
Once they were gone, Cane locked the door and changed clothes. With the ease born of repetition, he slipped on a sleeveless shirt and reached for the mask. The black silver was cool against his skin. A heartbeat later, Nos's adhesion rune activated with a soft pull, sealing the mask in place.
And just like that, he became Jonas Ironfist—the masked blacksmith.
After delivering the news about Cane's Folly, Telamon had quietly admitted he knew. About the forge, the mask, the identity. All of it.
Then he'd offered something Cane hadn't expected: a confession of his own. Telamon, the Archmage of Ora, was also Nos—the eccentric prankster and runemaster who'd been threading chaos through Tower Seven since Cane's arrival.
As a final gesture of protection, Telamon had laid privacy wards across the forge and linked a portal rune directly to Cane's attuned signature, making travel back and forth seamless. No traces. No questions.
It was more than Cane had asked for.
And exactly what he needed.
Cane stepped into the smithy through the portal and immediately noticed a few changes.
True to his word, Telamon had sent carpenters. The forge now had proper walls, real windows, and even a small bedroom tucked off to one side. It felt less like a ruin and more like a home.
Feed me... Hungry.
Chimi's voice drifted from the hearth, petulant and warm. Cane fed the flames a few chunks of coke, and the forge flared in approval.
He took a slow walk around the space. Subtle energy hummed from the walls—runes, definitely Telamon's work. Advanced, layered, and well beyond his current understanding. He paused near the front window and frowned slightly. From the inside, the view was clear. From the outside, he guessed, it would show nothing but shadows and dust.
One-way glass. Clever.
Satisfied, he pulled the mask tight and stepped into the role.
As Jonas Ironfist, he unlatched the door, propped it open with a steel wedge, and opened the smith for business.
A confident step caught Cane's attention, and he looked up with a smile hidden behind the mask. He recognized the silhouette instantly.
"I heard there was a new smith here since my last visit," Meya Rowe said, scanning the forge—and him. Telamon's runes held strong; to her eyes, he appeared broad-shouldered, middle-aged, with a beard flecked in gray.
"I'm Meya Rowe."
"Ahh… First Knight Meya Rowe," Cane replied, his highland brogue thickening just enough to mispronounce her name. "How're the swords treating you?"
She grinned. As far as she knew, the Saltfangs had been the work of Jonas Ironfist and the Resolute Forge—with Cane, the metallurgist, credited as a partner.
"I've a few items in need of reforging. Thought I'd bring them by." She set a long metallic spear on the counter, followed by a battered shield and a set of knives, notched and rusted from time and neglect.
Cane picked up the spear, turning it easily despite the weight. "Infantry pike. Built to take a cavalry charge."
Meya nodded. "It belonged to a friend. So did the rest. They've been in storage a long while."
The spear had seen action—shaft bent, butt cracked. The knives were worse. Only the shield still had some life in it.
"You want 'em polished up for display?" Cane asked, glancing her way. "Or are you planning to put them back in the field?"
Meya raised an eyebrow. "I have better. Just return them to service."
"Sounds like a challenge, First Knight." Cane lined the knives beside the spear. "Could reforge the lot into a trident. Shield'll need new straps, maybe some reshaping. What do you think?"
She gave a single nod. "No rush. I'll be in town for the week."
"Won't take more than a day or two," Cane said.
At the door, Meya paused, hand on the frame. "Nice meeting you, Jonas."
Cane grinned behind the mask. "Likewise."
"I'll heat it up, reshape the entire piece—shave it down to a trimmer shaft. The knives will make solid tines for the trident. First step's a mold, then melt it all down. It's decent steel—we'll purge the impurities and add a little bite."
The steady hum of Resolute Forge filled the air, undercut by the occasional singing note of Chimi, the flame wisp, as if pleased by the work. Cane's adamantium hammer rang out in a steady rhythm, each strike folding the metal into something new.
Immersed in the task, he began purifying the carbon and iron, separating their bonds before reforging them in a more refined and unified state.
Still… it needed something more.
Cane's eyes drifted to the lockbox beneath the bench. He hesitated, then pulled it free. Inside, nestled in wards and velvet, was his starmetal.
He'd only been able to break off a sliver the first time. Any more, and the weight would've rendered a weapon unusable. Starmetal was dense—absurdly so. Powerful, but tricky. Too much of it, and you weren't forging a weapon—you were crafting an anchor.
He set the cold black shard on the bench and placed both hands on top, steadying his breath. Then he sank.
Cosmos.
In an instant, Cane stood in the void again—stars blinking around him, endless space pressing in from all sides. The cold was profound, deeper than air or water could ever carry. Last time, he'd glimpsed shapes—beasts vast enough to swallow worlds. Now, the pressure felt different.
Ancient.
Unknowable.
"I am but a speck of dust drifting in infinity…"
His voice echoed, lost in the void. He reached for his adamantium tools—not with hands, but with will.
"Divide."
Cane submerged deeper, and the vision shifted. Civilizations rose and fell in bursts of light. He saw evolution unfold across strange moons, energy spiraling through elemental forms. Time bent. Space cracked. He reached toward the metal—not to command it, but to ask.
A fragment. No more.
He came to with a sharp gasp. His eyes blinked open. Sweat soaked his back, and his chest rose and fell like bellows. His hands still rested on the cooling bench—and there, resting between them, was a newly separated sliver of starmetal.
Another piece of the infinite. His, now.
As before, once he managed to separate a piece of starmetal, it became strangely compliant to his will. Responsive, almost eager. The last time he'd worked with it was for Cane's Folly. Before that—Starstrike. With each use, his ability to shape the cosmic metal had sharpened. But more than that—he had changed.
His metallurgy wasn't just improving. It was evolving.
This time, the goal was different: to forge gossamer-thin sheets of starmetal and meld them directly into the spear's existing steel. Thin enough to see through, nearly weightless. The added mass from the starmetal was less than what had been lost during reshaping and melting. Efficiency without compromise.
Holding the reforged shaft in one hand, Cane began the process of cold-melding—no heat, just elemental will. He interwove the fibers at the molecular level, starting from the core and working outward. With the starmetal's pattern as his guide, he mimicked its structure—layer by layer—until steel and starmetal became something new. A hybrid. Balanced. Terrifying in potential.
Hours passed unnoticed.
When he finally stepped back, the trident rested on cloth—its surface rippling with a muted metallic sheen. Not flashy. Not loud. But every line hummed with restrained power.
Cane picked it up.
A few careful thrusts. A short parry. It moved like air in his grip—but when he slammed the butt against the stone floor, the rock beneath his feet cracked, then powdered to dust.
Satisfied, he drew Blue.
With practiced precision, he tapped the upgraded Glacial Ice rune into the weapon, the one tied directly to the mythic force that now lived inside his hammer.
The moment he finished, the air around him shuddered.
A wave of cold knocked him backward, and the forge vanished. In its place—ice, mountains, and silence.
He stood alone, and yet not.
High above the frozen world, he balanced effortlessly on the back of the Ice Gryphon.
This time, the creature turned its head. Its eyes met his.
It saw him.
It knew.
And it carried him higher still.
As with every evolution of starmetal, Cane felt the pull to name it.
Still standing atop the Ice Gryphon's back, he gripped the trident and flung it toward the nearest mountain. The spear left his hand like a bolt of divine judgment—shattering ice and stone in a cascade of frozen thunder.
He nodded once.
When the trident returned to his hand, effortless as thought, the name was already there.
"Starbolt."
Back in the forge, the vision faded, and the cold eased. Cane exhaled.
"I'll have to tell Meya Rowe that Cane helped with the metallurgy," he muttered. "Jonas doesn't have the Glacial Frost rune, after all."
The portal rune flared near the forge, pulsing with quiet urgency. Time to shift.
He quickly stashed the mask and sleeveless shirt, replaced them with a clean academy tunic, and leaned Starbolt against the wall before stepping onto the portal. One blink later, he was back in Tower Seven.
A knock came.
Cane opened the door.
Ignasius stood there, formal and fire-blooded as ever. The flames behind his eyes had dimmed into something more focused—worry.
"I'm passing on a message," he said. "There's trouble at sea. Mutual friends are in danger. A metallurgist might make a difference."
Cane frowned. At Sea? That could only mean Rhiati and Neri.
"How would I get there?"
Ignasius stroked his black goatee, his youthful face etched with quiet concern. "I should mention—it's not without danger. And it's completely optional."
Cane didn't hesitate. "No… If my friends are involved, it's not optional."
Ignasius gave a slow nod. "Well said. A rift will open in a moment. It'll take you directly to the deck of The Defiant."
"I'm meeting Fergis and Sophie later…"
"I'll tell them a special project came up," Ignasius replied.
Cane reached for Starbolt, slipping it into his spatial ring as the portal shimmered to life in his room.
Without another word, he stepped through.