The classroom for Basic Metallurgy was tucked into the lower ring of the Academy, half-buried into the hillside with walls made of exposed ore-veined stone. Unlike the airy halls and enchanted walkways of the upper levels, this room smelled faintly of iron, oil, and soot. It was warmer, denser—like the air remembered fire.
Cane arrived early. The rest of the class trickled in slowly, most of them glancing at the stone-forged tools lining the walls with a mix of curiosity and unease. The benches were arranged in a horseshoe around a large stone table. On it sat a wooden box filled with palm-sized metal squares, each painted matte black.
An older dwarf with braided white eyebrows and a tool belt wider than his waist entered through a side door and clapped his hands.
"Welcome to Basic Metallurgy," he said. "I'm Instructor Brammel. If you thought this was just about heating metal and hitting it with a hammer, you're in for a surprise. Metallurgy is the study of properties, reactions, and transformations. You'll learn to listen to metal the way others listen to mana."
He opened the box and gestured to the tiles. "First exercise. Identification. No enchantments. No guesses. Each of you will pick up a tile, name the base metal, and—if you're clever—the alloy."
One by one, students approached. Most hesitated. The first guessed copper and was corrected—brass. Another said steel, only for Brammel to snort and inform her it was actually high-carbon iron.
When it was Cane's turn, he lifted a tile, held it to the light, and ran his thumb across its surface.
"Nickel-silver alloy," he said. "Trace amounts of copper, tin and zinc."
Brammel grunted. "Correct."
Cane returned the tile and stepped back. A few students glanced at him, curious now.
Once everyone had gone, Brammel addressed the class again.
"Metallurgy is the backbone of magical craftsmanship. Wands. Blades. Armor. Foci. They all begin here. You'll learn how metals breathe, how they bond, how they resist or channel energy. If you're here to make pretty swords, you're in the wrong class. If you're here to understand how to make something last—stay seated."
No one moved.
Brammel smiled. "Good. Class dismissed. Next time, we talk about resonance."
As the students began to filter out, one of them—an older boy with short-cropped hair and burn scars on his knuckles—nudged Cane.
"Not bad," he said. "Most first-years can't tell nickel-silver from pewter. You train somewhere?"
"Worked a forge back home," Cane replied simply.
Another student, a girl with smudges of soot already on her sleeves, gave him a nod. "Looks like we've got a ringer."
Cane gave a polite shrug and followed the flow of students into the corridor, the heat of the classroom giving way to the cool breath of the upper halls.
Classes done for the day.
When Cane returned to his dorm, he found a small, neatly wrapped box sitting in front of his door. As he stepped closer, the scent hit him—warm bread and cinnamon. He opened it to find a packed lunch and a still-soft cinnamon roll tucked in the corner. A smile tugged at his lips.
Sofie had been here.
He sat down, breaking the roll in half, and let the quiet of the room settle around him. The day had been long, but somehow—less heavy than he'd expected.
After finishing the meal, he stood and stretched, his eyes drifting to the window and the warm afternoon light spilling through.
On a whim, he left the tower, casually strolling to the woodpile where he grabbed the dull axe from the day before, still resting beside the firewood pile outside the dorm.
With the axe in hand, Cane left the Academy grounds, weaving through the lower gates and into the edge of the city beyond. He kept his eyes peeled for the glint of iron tools and the telltale smell of soot and coal.
He was looking for a blacksmith's shop.
He asked around as he passed through the bustling market square, pausing at food stalls and merchant carts. Most of the locals shook their heads at his question.
"Not here," one woman said. "Not in years."
A baker suggested he try near the old grain stores, and a fruit vendor pointed vaguely to the east, but neither seemed confident.
Finally, Cane approached an older man seated near a fountain, his white beard tucked into his belt and a wide straw hat slouched low over his brow.
"A blacksmith?" the old man repeated, scratching his cheek. "Closest you'll find is in the capital—day's ride inland. Used to have one here, but the forge burned down. Smith packed up and never came back."
"Do you remember where it was?" Cane asked.
The old man nodded slowly and pointed down a narrow street. "Keep east until the cobbles turn to dirt. You'll see the ruins off the bend. Stone chimney's still standing, though the rest is long gone."
Cane nodded his thanks and adjusted the axe over his shoulder.
Then he set off—toward the remains of a forgotten forge.
The path grew quieter as he moved eastward. Grass crept between the cracks in the stone, and soon the cobbled road gave way to packed earth. Trees arched overhead, casting cool shadows. Finally, just beyond a bend in the road, Cane saw it.
The stone chimney still stood, blackened with soot and weathered by time. The forge itself had collapsed long ago, leaving a ruin of scorched beams and crumbling brick. Wild grass had taken over, and only the foundation marked what once had been a smithy.
Cane stepped carefully through the rubble. Most of the roof had fallen inward. Charred planks and rusted nails littered the ground. But then, in a corner partially protected by the collapsed wall, he saw it.
A skeleton, blackened and brittle, lay half-curled in the ash. Still draped in the remnants of a leather apron. A hammer rested near one bony hand.
The smith hadn't left.
Cane knelt, head bowed for a moment of silence.
As his eyes swept over the remains, something near the back wall caught his attention. Propped beneath some debris, he found a few basic tools—shovel, pick, and hoe—still intact despite the years.
He used the shovel to dig a grave behind the old chimney, choosing a quiet spot where the earth was soft. When the hole was ready, he returned to the skeleton, carefully gathering the bones and laying them to rest with as much dignity as its condition would allow.
As he shifted the remains, something slipped from the folds of the scorched apron—a small, circular badge, marked with the emblem of the blacksmith's guild.
A Journeyman's badge.
Cane held it in his hand, thumb brushing the familiar symbol. He remembered Jonas Ironfist—the man who had taken him on as an apprentice, who was traveling to the capital to take his own Craftsman test. Jonas's first act, had he passed, would have been to name Cane a Journeyman.
It never happened.
Not officially.
But now, here in the ruins of a long-forgotten forge, Cane felt a quiet resolution settle in his chest.
No one here knew Jonas Ironfist's name or likeness. They wouldn't know that his mentor had died in a pirate attack. But the pieces were here. Tools. A burned-down smithy. A Journeyman badge. And the identity of someone registered with the guild.
He slipped the badge into his pocket.
Then, in a corner where the stone floor had held against the fire, he brushed away ash and broken brick until his fingers struck metal.
A blackened case, scorched but intact.
He pried it loose and opened it.
Inside, cradled in fitted velvet, was a full set of tools. Blacksmith's tools—but not ordinary ones. Each piece gleamed with a faint inner sheen. Adamantium.
An entire set.
Untouched by rust. Unscarred by flame.
Cane exhaled slowly, reverently.
Then he closed the case and stood, the weight of it solid in his arms.
Near what was once the workbench, he found a grinding wheel—charred but intact. The wooden stand had burned away long ago, leaving only the stone disk behind. He propped it carefully against a slab of masonry, braced it as best he could, and began to work.
It took longer than it should have. Without the turning wheel, each pass of the axe blade had to be pulled by hand, the grind uneven and slow.
But Cane was patient.
He worked in silence, the scrape of metal against stone steady and deliberate. The axe edge sharpened—slowly, stubbornly—until the steel caught the light like it remembered what it was made to do.
Cane tested the edge with his thumb, then nodded.
It was ready. And so was he.
As he slung the axe over his shoulder and turned back toward the town, something unsettled clicked into place.
Back in Selene's class—when she'd taken a sip from Neri's cup—the enchantment had worked.
But it shouldn't have.
He had used Neri's blood to etch the runes. The enchantment was blood-bound. No one else should have been able to activate it.
Unless...
Unless Selene shared her blood.
His mind flicked back to her reaction.
She had asked about Neri by name. Not just Neri.
"Neri'Lysandril… of the Azure Court?"
The words echoed now, heavier than before.
He looked toward the horizon, the Academy just visible beyond the trees.
He didn't know what it meant yet—but he would find out.