By midday, the sun had warmed the stone paths of the Academy, but the air still carried the lingering crispness of early spring. Cane stood in the shadow of the kitchen wall, sleeves rolled high, rhythmically splitting firewood beside the stone wall with the newly sharpened axe. Each swing landed clean, the blade biting through logs with satisfying cracks that echoed softly across the courtyard.
He wasn't just working—he was thinking.
The ruined smithy lingered in his mind: the blackened chimney, the bones curled near the forge, the hidden journeyman badge, the untouched adamantium tools. It all called to something deeper than craft or memory. It was legacy. Identity. And for the first time in a long while, direction.
He split another log.
"You're going to make the stablehand jealous if you keep this up."
Cane looked up to see Sofie leaning in the doorway, apron smudged with flour, a streak of it across one cheek. Her arms were folded, but the curve of her smile softened her posture. "The stablehand sweet on you?"
Sofie smiled slightly. "Of course, and he's a bit of a hothead."
"He'll survive," Cane said. "I'm working off a morning full of lectures and a head full of questions."
"Ah," she replied, stepping outside. "Therapeutic chopping. I approve."
Cane finished the log and stacked it neatly. "Do you know where I might get some lumber?"
Sofie blinked. "Lumber?"
He nodded, keeping his tone casual. "Got an idea I've been kicking around. Need raw wood—something solid. Doesn't have to be pretty. Just sturdy."
She considered. "There's a yard east of town—Brenner family runs it. They sell to shipwrights mostly, but they've got salvage too. Tell them Sofie sent you and they might knock a few coins off the price."
"Appreciate it," Cane said, pausing only a beat before asking, "Your family run a business too?"
She smiled. "Tailors. West quarter. My folks make gowns, cloaks, and most of the uniforms the junior instructors wear."
"You learn the trade?"
"More than I wanted to," she said, brushing her hair back. "I sewed sleeves before I could write my name. Escaped into the kitchen when they tried to teach me embroidery."
"Better fit?"
"Less talk about waistlines. More talk about lunch."
She handed him a small wooden box wrapped in twine. "Speaking of—there. Enough to keep you from collapsing halfway to the lumberyard. Or the library."
Cane tucked the box into his satchel with a nod. "You're a better cook than you let on."
"And you're a man who hides your projects." She gave him a knowing smile and disappeared back inside.
The Great Library of Ora was quiet as a cathedral, its spire-like towers reaching into the clouds, each floor wider than the last. There were no stairs—only a circular rune embedded in the center of the floor. Cane stepped onto the glowing spiral and whispered, "One up."
A pulse of magic passed through him. The floor blinked—and suddenly he was standing one level higher.
Books towered around him. The second floor was a scholar's dream: long aisles lit with angled sunlight and crisscrossed with shadows. Tables lined the central aisle, some occupied by scribes or quietly mumbling apprentices.
He spotted her almost instantly.
Professor Selene Morva stood near the back wall, absorbed in a massive leather-bound tome. Her usually serene expression was softened, almost distant, as though the book itself were speaking to her through memory.
Cane slowed his steps, catching a glimpse of the title etched faintly in gold:
The Line of the Azure Blood: Ancestry and Iconography of the Royal Merfolk Court.
Her hand hovered over the open page. The images showed vivid illustrations—coral spires, shell-glass mosaics, and sea temples—just like the ones she'd described after drinking from Neri's enchanted cup.
Another page turned.
The figures drawn in ceremonial regalia bore subtle but distinct resemblance to Neri. One in particular caught Selene's eye—a younger merwoman with aquamarine eyes, dark blue hair, and a necklace of twisted shell and pearl.
Selene's lips parted slightly, and her breath caught. For a moment, she looked as if she might reach out and touch the page.
Then her hand withdrew.
She gently closed the tome and slid another, thinner book over it, obscuring the cover. Her eyes lifted—and met Cane's.
They held the gaze for a heartbeat.
"Mr. Cane," she said, her voice composed.
"Professor," he replied with a nod.
She gave nothing else away, only turned and stepped gracefully onto the floor rune. A flicker of light—and she was gone.
Cane stood there a moment longer before taking a seat at a nearby table. He untied the twine on Sofie's box and opened it slowly. Warm bread, smoked fish, a small honeyed biscuit.
He took a bite, trying to shake the image of Selene's face—softened by memory, clouded by recognition.
Then something moved in the corner of his vision.
A cat—sleek, silver-gray—hopped onto the armrest across from him. Its yellow eyes blinked, pupils narrow and unblinking.
Click.
The cat's tongue made a dry clicking sound.
"You lost?" Cane asked.
Without warning, the cat leapt from the chair. Midair, her form twisted like smoke.
She landed as a young woman.
Slender and strange, she wore a robe made of stitched parchment and crow feathers. Her hair was streaked with copper and ink-black, braided down her back. Her eyes were still slitted like a cat's, bright yellow and unblinking.
"You're the boy with the cup," she said softly, voice lilting and musical.
"I… might be."
"Names are things I hoard," she said with a flutter of her ink-stained hands. "I am Velenstra Mi'Qorranel of the Archivewind Trine, Keeper of the Shelved Unnamed, Whisper-Reader, Daughter of the Ink-Skein and—"
Cane blinked.
She clicked her tongue and grinned. "Vel. You may call me Vel."
"Cane," he replied.
"A smithing name. You twist things with heat and stubbornness."
"I work with metal."
Her eyes glinted. "Metallurgy."
"Come." Without another word, she turned and began walking, gliding more than stepping. Her limbs shifted in small, seamless flickers—talons replacing fingers for one step, wings curling briefly in place of sleeves.
Cane followed.
She led him to the fourth floor—an area dimmer, quieter. The air smelled of wax, ash, and soot. The books here were damaged—burnt, water-stained, brittle and fading. Some were bound in strange skins or wrapped in protective cloth.
Vel stopped at a narrow aisle. "These books are tired. Forgotten. They remember things... but they whisper."
She pulled a cracked codex from the shelf and handed it to him. The spine bore only faint traces of a title:T… Des….. of… Tre…
By the Unknown Grand Master.
Cane sat, resting the book on his knees. Inside were dense diagrams—advanced twist-bonding methods, techniques for preserving the individual magical resonance of each alloy during construction. The sort of thing most smiths called impossible.
Copper veins, star-iron lattice, moon-silver threading. Combined—but never blended.
He was still reading when something slid out from between the pages.
A parchment—thin and yellowed with age.
He caught it before it fell and unfolded it slowly.
It was a blueprint. A full schematic.
A mask—black silver, elegantly contoured, made of interlocking plates. Three rune placements were marked clearly:
Nightvision
Stealth
Stamina
Each notation was accompanied by diagrams of enchanted etching and metallurgical veins that split and twined without merging—exactly what he'd just been reading.
Cane turned the page over.
One sentence had been scrawled on the back in elegant, fading script:
When the world forgets your face, forge a new one.
Behind him, Vel clicked her tongue again. "She left that for someone. Maybe it was you."
"You knew this was here?"
"The book likes you," she said simply. "It doesn't like many."
Cane folded the blueprint and slipped it carefully into his satchel.
"I don't know if I can make it."
"Then get better," Vel said with a smile that might have been kind—or just crazy. "We all start somewhere."
Cane walked the garden path alone, satchel heavier than before. His mind raced with too many thoughts.
The forge would need rebuilding. Discreetly. The mask—if he wanted to make it—would require more skill than he currently possessed. The twist-bonding technique alone was beyond him.
He'd need money. He'd need materials. He'd need time.
More time in Brammel's class. More study. More hours doing the kind of work that kept you invisible.
He paused beside a quiet courtyard wall and leaned his head back, eyes closed.
Too much.
Too fast.
Too far.
But then he heard it—Jonas Ironfist's voice, clear in his memory.
No matter how difficult, all tasks start with a single step.
Cane opened his eyes and looked toward the Academy towers.
"Then I'd better start walking."