Cane's last class of the week was Metallurgy, and by now, he knew the rhythm of the forge almost as well as the Academy bells. When he arrived that morning, Master Brammel greeted him with a broad smile and a wave toward the back bench.
"Changed the plan a bit today," the dwarf said, loud enough for the other students to hear. "Beginner forge work for most of you. Cane, you're working on your independent project."
The others didn't question it. Brammel's authority was unquestioned—and Cane's quiet consistency had earned him space, even among the noise of tongs and fire.
While the class practiced lighting burners and hammering softened rods into shape, Cane moved through his steps with practiced calm. The heat didn't faze him, nor the noise. His focus was on his third mask—the cleanest one so far, functional but still flawed, with slightly uneven contours and a stiff jawline that felt too tight when worn for long stretches.
Still, it was enough. Enough to hide what mattered.
When class ended, he packed the mask carefully in cloth and slid it into his satchel, along with a few tools. The rest of the day was his.
Cane turned the mask over in his hands, examining it with a critical eye. Most people would have called it quality work—smooth curves, evenly spaced features, solid welds—but Cane wasn't most people. He saw the flaws. The imperfections in symmetry. The barely perceptible warp in the jawline. Still, it was his best attempt yet.
He set it carefully on his desk.
His eyes shifted to the folded scrap of parchment beside it.
The rune.
Left by Nos. Strange, simple, and scrawled in a hand that somehow felt both childish and ancient. Cane had already studied it at length. The design was basic—undeniably made for etching—but the medium was unusual. A note in faded ink had specified:
"Use blood. Yours. Trust me."
Cane sighed.
"Trust me," he muttered. "Sure. What could go wrong?"
He retrieved the fine-pointed etching tool Selene had given him during water class and pricked his finger. A small bead of crimson welled up. He pressed it gently to the mask's inner surface and began etching the rune—carefully, deliberately.
The blood flowed into the lines with ease.
Though simple in design, the rune's effect was unknown. That alone slowed him down. He worked in silence, hunched over the desk, heart steady, hand precise.
More than an hour later, he sat back and inspected the result.
Then the mask flared with sudden, blinding light.
"Crap!" Cane flinched back, shielding his eyes. "That scared the…"
He let the sentence hang, exhaling hard.
Once the light faded, he set to work with renewed caution. He added thin padding inside the mask—forehead, nose bridge, chin—comfort touches that would ease long wear.
"Hopefully my face doesn't blow up," he muttered. "I'll secure the straps after… first let's see what it does."
He lifted the mask and slowly pressed it to his face.
It sealed with a snap—an almost magnetic pull, like a vacuum locking in place.
"What the…" Cane pulled at it instinctively. "Is the rune an adhesive of some sort? Shit… what if it's stuck?"
He pressed against the top edge and pulled again. It came away with effort, but cleanly.
Relieved, he let out a slow breath.
"Okay. Not permanent. That's good."
He replaced it again, letting it settle against his skin. The fit was tighter than before, snug like it had molded to his face.
"Time to check the mirror…"
He stepped forward—then froze.
The sound of his voice stopped him.
It had changed.
Deeper. Richer. Like aged oak and velvet smoke.
"…That's pretty cool," he murmured. "A glue rune that changes my voice?"
He chuckled—a new laugh, deep and warm—and stepped in front of the mirror.
His grin faded.
"What is this?"
The man staring back was not a boy.
Though covered by the mask, his neck bore lines of age, slight wrinkles at the edges. A shadow of salt-and-pepper beard framed his jaw through the mouth slit. His shoulders seemed broader, posture slightly different—wider, stronger.
The mask hadn't just changed his voice. It had changed his presence.
Cane leaned closer, studying the unfamiliar reflection.
"…That's why it needed blood," he whispered. "It gives me the appearance of myself… twenty years from now."
He stared for another long moment.
"Will my voice really be this cool when I'm older?"
Another laugh. Deeper than the last. A little amazed. A little unsettled.
But mostly?
Impressed.
Cane placed the mask carefully into his satchel and added a few essential supplies before leaving the tower. Choosing the longer route along the rugged coastline, he walked toward the burned-out forge. Sunlight shimmered across the ocean waves, and gulls called above, their cries blending with the steady rhythm of waves breaking against the rocks. Once safely out of view of the Academy, he paused, exchanging his outer robes for a sleeveless shirt that revealed muscles sculpted by years of labor. He lifted the mask and placed it firmly over his face.
In an instant, Cane the student vanished, replaced by Jonas, the journeyman blacksmith.
He stashed his gear securely among the charred remains of the forge and continued eastward. Gravel turned to sand and eventually into a deeply rutted dirt path. Several townsfolk glanced at him with curiosity and caution, their eyes quickly turning away from the intimidating figure in the steel mask.
Ahead, the Brenn family lumberyard sprawled across a clearing edged by dense pines. The modest operation was marked by a single saw blade with jagged teeth, tearing roughly through logs and leaving piles of rough-cut lumber around it. A faded wooden sign leaned to one side, the red letters proclaiming "Brenn Lumber."
Cane approached a sturdy older man sharpening an axe at the center of the yard. Using Jonas's familiar highland dialect, he spoke, "You Mr. Brenner?"
"Brenner," the man corrected. "Lose the 'Mister.' What can I do for you?"
"Name's Jonas, journeyman blacksmith looking to reopen the old forge."
Brenner eyed him carefully. "Burned to the ground. Another smith taken by the forge. What's the mask for?"
"Forge tried to take me years back," Cane said evenly. "Scarred me up bad enough most folks wouldn't want to see it. I'm used to it now."
Brenner tilted back a bottle, considering. "Don't have much lumber good enough for rebuilding."
"That's fine," Cane replied. "I don't have much money either."
"Gonna need something," Brenner countered cautiously.
"I can shoe your pack animals, fix any metalwork, hinges, blades, reinforce armor—whatever's needed," Cane offered steadily. "If that isn't enough, I can give you credit at the forge once it's running."
Brenner's expression softened slightly. "Credit at a forge that already burned down once? Risky bet."
"Neither of us has a sure thing," Cane acknowledged. "But a man's worth is in his work, not his coin."
Brenner smiled faintly, finally nodding. "Two pack horses need shoeing. Wagon wheels need metal bands to keep them from splintering. You handle that, we talk lumber afterward."
Cane moved swiftly to his tasks, gently soothing the neglected horses as he carefully trimmed and shaped their hooves, rasped them smooth, and nailed new shoes securely into place. His movements were precise and confident, and gradually the yard workers paused to watch, their cautious suspicion shifting to genuine respect.
Next, Cane built a small fire pit, placing wheelbands into the glowing coals. Brenner watched with quiet curiosity.
"Heating first? Why not tack straight on?" Brenner asked.
"Metal expands when hot," Cane explained patiently. "When it's heated, I fit it tightly to the wheel, then cool it quickly with water. Metal shrinks, holds tighter without damaging the wood."
Brenner nodded thoughtfully. "Old smith did it differently."
"Probably used burrs on the inside," Cane guessed. "Good grip, but scores the wood, weakens the wheel long-term."
"You know your trade," Brenner admitted quietly. "Where'd you learn?"
"Long apprenticeship," Cane said simply. "My master taught strength is subtlety, not force."
"Wise man," Brenner said.
"Best I've known," Cane agreed softly.
"How's town coping without a smith?" Cane asked, shifting topics. "With the war, even smaller towns struggle."
Brenner sighed. "Nearest smith's a day away, overburdened by the war effort. We've been patching or going without. Town's desperate for someone to settle again."
"Sounds like I won't lack work," Cane said evenly. "Already inspected the forge—it's structurally sound but cold for so long, flames might resist. Forcing them is dangerous. Won't take much lumber to start—rough beams for rafters, four solid logs for pillars, old masts are ideal. Found some tin sheets behind the ruins; they'll do for the roof."
"Inspected already? Don't waste time, do you?" Brenner observed.
Cane smiled beneath his mask. "No good smith waits around. Forge'll come alive when ready."
"Hopeful," Brenner remarked.
"Hopeful's what this town needs," Cane replied quietly, returning to his work with confident, practiced hands.
Brenner nodded approvingly, rubbing his chin with a faint, thoughtful smile. "Your work is good—worth more than just a few rough-cut beams. Tell you what, I'll throw in a bag of charcoal to get you started."
"Much appreciated," Cane replied, his voice carrying genuine gratitude beneath the mask. "That'll hold me over nicely until I can afford coke."
Brenner waved a hand dismissively. "No worries. I'll have my boy load up a wagon and bring everything out to the forge right away. Best get you started sooner rather than later."
Cane offered a respectful nod, extending his calloused hand. Brenner clasped it firmly, the unspoken agreement settling comfortably between them.
As Cane turned to gather his tools, he felt the eyes of the workers on him once again—but this time, the looks held a quiet respect rather than suspicion. The masked smith was no longer just an outsider with a strange appearance; he was someone whose hands and skill were starting to carve out a place within the town itself.
Dawn came early, the first soft glow of sunlight pulling Cane gently from his blanket atop the stone foundation. Unbothered by the firm bed of stone beneath him, he'd slept deeply, comforted by the silent, welcoming embrace of the forge nearby.
Stretching to ease muscles stiffened from yesterday's labor, Cane set to work immediately. He spaced the four thick pillars precisely at each corner of the foundation, carefully tacking temporary braces between them to prevent shifting. The rafters were heavier than expected, rough-cut beams that demanded every ounce of strength he had to maneuver them into place. Thankfully, Brenner had thoughtfully included a sturdy ladder in the wagon. Though a second pair of hands would have eased the process, Cane found satisfaction in the intense physical labor. It felt honest, grounding, purposeful.
By midday, sweat had soaked through his shirt, and the framework stood firmly against the sky. He had just begun laying out the salvaged tin sheets when a voice called from the edge of the foundation.
"Pa said you might be hungry."
Cane paused, looking down to find a young woman standing at the edge of the clearing, a cloth-wrapped bundle in hand. Her sharp eyes roamed carefully over the day's labor, silently measuring the structure he'd built. Clearly impressed, she met his gaze again.
"You did all this without an assistant?"
Cane tilted his head thoughtfully. "Do seagulls count?"
Her lips twitched, blossoming into a genuine smile that transformed her plain, earnest face into something quietly lovely. "Seagulls? I hope your skills are a match for your humor."
Cane chuckled softly beneath the mask, feeling an unexpected warmth rise in his chest. "Fairly even, I'd say."
She stepped forward, offering him the bundle. "Bread, cheese, and smoked fish. Not fancy, but it's fresh enough."
He accepted the gift gratefully, feeling the warmth of freshly baked bread through the cloth. "Thank you. Tell Brenner I owe him one."
Her eyes sparkled slightly, curiosity softening the earlier reserve. "He seems to think the whole town might end up owing you one if you get this forge going."
Cane nodded slowly. "I'll do my best."
She studied him another moment before turning toward town. "Name's Mira," she called lightly over her shoulder. "I suspect we'll be seeing you around."
As she walked away, Cane watched her thoughtfully before returning his attention to the simple meal. He ate quickly, savoring the taste of fresh bread and smoky fish, his mind already calculating his next tasks. By afternoon, he'd have a roof overhead, and the forge could truly begin to breathe again.
For the first time in many months, Cane felt genuinely hopeful, the quiet pulse of anticipation filling him with renewed energy.
Cane placed a hand gently on the cool iron surface of the forge. "Let's get you heated up," he murmured.
Checking the charcoal arrangement one last time, he used his knife to split kindling, bundling it carefully with dry moss. Striking his flint, he patiently coaxed a faint spark into life, blowing gently as tendrils of smoke emerged. Soon, a small flame flickered, and he fed it carefully with dried branches he'd gathered earlier.
He'd lit countless forges before and knew what to expect—but this one was stubborn. Instead of roaring to life, the flame sputtered weakly, filling the area with thickening, gray smoke. Minutes passed, and the smoke grew denser, irritating his eyes and lungs. Cane coughed, waving a hand to clear the air, frustration mounting.
"What's going on here...?"
As the smoke deepened to black, an oily residue settled on his skin, stinging his eyes and choking him. "I'm going to have to douse it and start over," he muttered reluctantly.
Yet, just as he prepared to reset the fire, Professor Selene's words floated unexpectedly through his thoughts: "Feel the water, ask what it knows."
Though surrounded by smoke, Cane extended his hand, instinctively sending out a silent inquiry. His skin grew warm, then steadily hotter, until pain forced a grimace across his face. Was the old forge resisting?
An image suddenly formed in his mind—something large, solid, and unwelcome. He reached to cycle the chimney draft open and closed but felt no change. A realization struck him sharply. "Shit... I didn't clear the draft."
Ignoring the intense heat, Cane climbed onto the furnace, feeling like a spit-roast as he reached both hands deep into the chimney. His fingers closed around something hard and heavy—stone, lodged firmly inside. His lungs protested sharply, and tears blurred his vision, eyes stinging unbearably.
Bracing himself, he pulled with all his strength. The blockage barely budged. He coughed violently, nearly ready to give up, but the slightest shift gave him hope. With one final, determined heave, Cane wrenched the object free.
Suddenly, he tumbled backward onto the hard stone floor as a roaring flame surged upward. A brilliant flare erupted from the chimney, painting the sky above in vibrant colors like fireworks at a summer festival.
Breathing heavily, Cane lay back for a moment, watching the sky in awe. He had reopened the forge—and it was very much alive.
Cane stared upward, watching as the roaring flames slowly receded back down the chimney stack, gradually settling into a steady, comforting hum of controlled heat within the forge. The steel frame trembled briefly beneath his fingertips, offering a final stubborn protest before succumbing completely to his persistence.
A sudden noise drew his attention away. It began quietly, then multiplied—soft applause rising from behind him. He waved away lingering smoke and turned to find himself encircled by a small crowd, clapping enthusiastically. Brenner and his family stood among them, joined by curious townsfolk who'd come to investigate the unusual display.
"Knew you could do it," Brenner said, amusement softening the lines of his weathered face as he observed Cane's soot-covered appearance. "But what was that flare-up about?"
Cane noticed the heavy object he'd dislodged from the chimney lying nearby. Picking it up carefully, he shook his head. "No idea," he admitted, stepping away from the forge to place it down on the path.
A faint, pungent odor caught his attention. Leaning closer, Cane took a deep breath, instantly recognizing the smell from his time near Fergis. "Sulfur," he muttered thoughtfully, "or something very similar. But it's far heavier than it should be."
With cautious curiosity, Cane took a small hammer from his belt and lightly tapped the object. An immediate flare of flame burst upward, singeing his fingertips and causing a few startled gasps among the onlookers. Undeterred, he continued with careful, gentle taps, chipping away at the brittle yellow surface. Gradually, shining metal beneath began to appear.
The gathered townsfolk pressed closer, intrigued as Cane methodically worked to expose the heart of the strange stone. After several minutes, a large mass of dense, gleaming metal lay revealed.
"Starmetal," Cane murmured with quiet awe. "I've never seen a piece myself, but I've read about it."
"Starmetal?" Brenner echoed skeptically. "Why would that be stuck up in the chimney?"
Cane examined the metallic mass closely, piecing together a theory. "My guess is the old smith was working late when this fell from the sky and got lodged in the chimney. The sulfur casing likely ignited and caused an intense flare-up, scorching everything in sight. It must have bounced or ricocheted around a bit before lodging there; otherwise, it might've flattened the entire forge."
An uneasy silence settled briefly as the townsfolk considered his words, each imagining the fierce spectacle of that long-ago night.
Brenner nodded slowly. "Well, seems you're luckier than our last smith. You've got a forge—and maybe something even more valuable."
Cane looked down at the gleaming starmetal, feeling a new sense of wonder—and possibility—at the mysteries hidden within the forge he'd just brought back to life.