Archmage Telamon waited.
It had been two days since the most recent graduating class had been deployed to the front lines. The first seventy-two hours were always the worst—relentless, unforgiving. Many of the young mages and healers had never seen battle, let alone the horror that came without warning or mercy. Telamon had stopped counting how many geniuses and prodigies they'd lost in those first brutal days over the years.
It was the cost of conscription. Of war. Of mandates that stripped away potential and replaced it with silence.
Today, the entire Academy staff had gathered. Old rivalries and petty squabbles were set aside. Disagreements—professional and personal—evaporated beneath the weight of what had come to be known as the Third Day Report.
The list of casualties.
It was a ritual now. A cruel one. And despite hardened hearts, no one was truly ready to hear the names of students they'd mentored, guided, and come to care for.
Even Arven Sol sat wringing his hands, knuckles pale, anxiety carved into the lines of his face. For all his arrogance, he had mentored some of them. You didn't walk the halls of the Academy and remain untouched by the lives you shaped.
The great clock chimed.
The entire room jolted as if struck by lightning. Telamon stood and, with a flick of his wrist, conjured a shimmering blue portal in the center of the chamber.
A junior clerk from the capital stepped through, a leather satchel clutched in both trembling hands. He bowed low—lower than usual—then handed over the sealed envelope before retreating as quickly and quietly as possible.
No one blamed him. The bearer of bad news often left with more than bruised pride.
Silence pressed in like fog. Telamon cracked the seal and unfolded the parchment. The first page turned with a snap that echoed like a thunderclap.
His eyes moved slowly, then flicked to the next page. Then back again.
A subtle crease formed between his brows. Confusion?
He cleared his throat. "List of casualties from the recent graduating class…"
A pause. The room tensed.
"…None."
Chairs scraped against stone as half the staff leaned forward, some whispering, others blinking in disbelief. For a moment, no one spoke. Then—
"None?" Ignasius said from the far side of the room. He remained standing, arms crossed. "Official?"
Telamon nodded once, his expression shifting—relief first, then something rare for the Archmage.
A smile.
"No casualties," he said. "In fact... promotions and assignments."
"Assignments?" Brammel asked, seated beside Selene. She looked frozen, eyes wide. She always took these days the hardest—her empathy wasn't just emotional, it was magical. "Aren't they usually scattered? Deployed as needed?"
Telamon flipped back to the first page, scanning the lines again. "All members of the recent deployment have been assigned to the same unit. Gryphon Company. Recently formed... under Commander Morynn of the Sunset Forest."
"An elf?" Brammel shot to his feet, beard bristling. "You're telling me they're being led by one of the Sunset Court?"
Telamon looked up, voice low but filled with a deep note of respect. "Morynn of the Sunset Forest. The one they call the Silver Hand. She recruited them at the staging area.."
Gasps rippled through the room. Selene covered her mouth with her hand.
Telamon continued reading. "Labrynth Redstar, promoted to Sergeant, Gryphon Company. Rylan Woodlan, promoted to First Platoon Leader. Lou Greenhand, Second Platoon Leader. All ninety-seven graduates assigned to the same company, several promoted into leadership."
The names kept coming. Each one greeted with a small breath, a whispered "I taught her," or "He was barely passing."
Laughter—quiet at first, then growing—bubbled up. The air shifted. The weight in the room lifted, just a little.
Brammel chuckled, sitting back down with a creak of wood. "Gryphon Platoon. Wonder where they got that name."
Selene's voice was soft. "The robes…"
Telamon smiled again, almost to himself. "Of course. The Interwoven Adamantium Frost battle-robes. The ones Cane Ironheart modified. He marked each with an Ice Gryphon crest—over the heart."
A hush fell over the room once more. But this time, it wasn't dread.
It was awe.
Telamon placed the pages down gently and folded his hands. "They're not just surviving. They're rising."
And somewhere, deep in the forge-lit corners of Ora, the fire of that truth burned brighter still.
Meanwhile…
Cane was alone in the Academy's metallurgy shop. The forge here was immaculate, precise—less a place of passion, more a place of discipline. The air was still tinged with metal and chalk, the faint ozone scent of recent spellcraft clinging to the runes embedded in the stone floor. His bench was clean, organized, and starkly different from the cluttered chaos of Forge Resolute.
He was putting the finishing touches on his personal gear. The last of the upgrades, and possibly the most meaningful.
He'd just embedded the final iteration of the replicator rune into Blue—his hammer forged from Ice Gryphon bone and silver. When the rune sank in with a quiet pulse of magic, the etched Gryphon on the hammer's face shimmered faintly, its wings becoming more defined, its gaze sharper. A test swing left vapor trails in the air as the Glacial Frost rune activated, lowering the temperature several degrees in a sharp radius.
"Alright," Cane murmured, flexing his grip on the handle.
Next came Starstrike, his mythic-grade hammer-axe hybrid infused with starmetal. A new rune was added—this one subtly synced with the freezing field of Blue. With practiced control, he spun the weapon in a slow arc. It hummed with power. The room responded with a faint shiver, frost forming in a delicate ring around the base of the casting platform.
Finally, his attention turned to the last item on the bench—a clean, unworked slab of black silver, cool and flawless.
The mask.
The blueprint he'd found buried in the codex called for three enhancement sockets: stealth, night vision, and stamina. Vel had told him—casually, over a book of animated death traps—that such enchantments could either be commissioned from high-order artificers or harvested from the cores of powerful creatures.
Not a task for today.
Today was about the structure. The foundation. The identity.
His current mask, resting beside the black silver plate, was a decent thing—serviceable, worn, a little asymmetrical. The lines weren't quite right, and the cheek ridge was uneven. It had been crafted with fire, tongs, and muscle. But it wasn't this.
Cane didn't need a blacksmith's hands anymore.
He needed a metallurgist's mind.
He sat on the bench and exhaled slowly. He pressed the flat silver plate against his face, closed his eyes, and let himself slip into the element.
Black silver was stubborn. It didn't melt easily, didn't yield to pressure. But it listened—if you spoke the right language.
And Cane spoke it now.
In the quiet, he felt the edges fold, bend, smooth. The metal reshaped itself along the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw, the subtle cut of his brow. Every detail matched. Every imperfection erased. The mask molded not just to his face—but to his will.
No hammer. No torch. No grinding wheel.
Only communion.
Then came the final step.
Without breaking the trance, Cane reached for the original mask with his senses. He moved from the contours of one face to the enchantments within it—familiar runes etched in layered sequence. One by one, he transferred them. Stability. Binding. Identity suppression. Each moved like notes in a song, layered into the new design with precision.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer.
Finally, his eyes opened. The lab lights flickered as he sat up, cradling the mask in his hands.
It was perfect.
From the doorway, a voice broke the silence. "Oy!"
Cane turned.
Brammel stood there, arms crossed over his thick apron. "Told you I got you excused from the Third Day meeting," the dwarf grunted. "No reason for a first-year to sit through that list. Figured I'd check your progress."
He eyed the gleaming mask. "That the new one?"
Cane nodded and handed it over.
Brammel took it, holding it up to the glow-runes overhead. "Three sockets." He whistled. "You shaped this with pure metallurgy?"
"Yeah."
"Hells, boy. The symmetry alone's worth braggin' over. No tool marks, no warping. You did this from raw form?"
"Started with a flat sheet."
Brammel turned it over, frowning with appreciation. "Shame you split that Shadow Wolf soul gem in half. Might've done for the stealth socket. Though…" he trailed off, squinting, "…grade four's a bit soft for long-term stealth, especially in hostile environments. Better to aim for a six or higher. Windshadow, specter, maybe a dusk ape if you're feeling lucky."
"Or Vel finds something horrific and insists I 'borrow' it."
Brammel barked a laugh. "That one's got her own collection of oddities, no doubt."
He handed the mask back with a grunt of approval. "It's a hell of a step up from that scrap heap you made before. Feels like you, this time."
Cane looked down at the silver gleam in his hands.
It did.
**
A short while later, Cane slipped behind a rock outcropping along the shore, robes tucked under one arm, and emerged once more as Jonas Ironfist, the masked blacksmith.
The transformation was more than visual. Thanks to Nos's rune, the mask reshaped not just his face, but his entire presence. His voice dropped into a deeper register. His shoulders bulked. A hint of a graying beard framed his jaw—thick and seasoned. Even the way he walked shifted—steadier, heavier, like he carried years of work behind every step.
He threw on a sleeveless shirt, and let out a sharp breath before singing off-key to the wind.
"Damn… I sing great."
He nearly tripped over a rock mid-stride.
Cane grinned.
He made his way to Forge Resolute, where the air already felt warmer, more aware. He placed a small wooden box—Cane's Folly—into the secured lockbox under the main worktable. As he closed the lid, the forge gave a gentle pulse.
Chimi stirred.
"Chimi wants food," Cane muttered, amused.
"Well then… here you go."
He shoveled a few chunks of coal into the belly of the forge, which accepted them with a quiet roar of gratitude. The heat intensified, licking up the chimney in thin blue trails.
A moment later, the creak of wooden wheels cut through the rhythmic hiss of the flames.
Cane looked up.
A large wagon rattled to a halt in front of the forge. The driver, a wiry teamster with a bent nose and perpetually crossed eyes, peered down from his perch with suspicion.
"You Jonas Ironfist?"
"Yes."
"Got an order for ya."
Cane clapped his hands, genuinely pleased. "Perfect. Cleared a spot on the side of the forge—stack it there."
The teamster didn't move.
"Gonna need to see the bill of sale," he said, eyeing Cane skeptically. "How do I know you're the masked blacksmith?"
Cane tilted his head. "Oh, I dunno. Maybe the mask I'm wearing?"
He chuckled and walked over to the small cabinet beside the forge, pulling out a modest, rune-bound ledger. After flipping through a few pages, he handed over the proper receipt.
Satisfied, the teamster nodded and began unloading crates.
Cane lent a hand. Judging by the man's wiry frame and the way his knees shook under his own weight, it would've taken him all afternoon alone.
As they worked in tandem, Cane's mind drifted—turning over the team they were forming.
Dhalia: Healer. Recently infused focal. Will need an Interwoven Adamantium Frost robe to increase defensive capabilities..
Clara: Crowd control. Still needs a focal. Also needs Frost Robe enhancements.
Fergis: Ranged damage. Fire-aligned. Fully equipped—and impossible to miss in a fight.
Cane: Melee specialist. Heavy frontline. Already equipped, but there was still room for improvement.
"That should do it," the teamster grunted, wiping his brow as the last crate hit the ground.
"Thanks," Cane said, shaking the man's hand with his calloused grip.
As the wagon rolled away, Cane pulled open one of the crates and caught sight of a sheet of cobalt glinting beneath some bundled bars of iron and flux.
"I need something strong, but flexible. Layered for movement. Ice-compatible, like silver, but with a harder resistance…"
His eyes lit up.
"Cobalt. That's it."
It had been part of his special order—a full sheet, untouched, waiting for purpose.
The possibilities began sketching themselves out in his mind. Reinforced plates that didn't hinder speed. Socket layers for future runes. A harness that integrated seamlessly with a body instead of fighting it. It could work.
He glanced up at the sun. Midday. Warm. Breezy.
"Sofie's off today."
Cane let the thoughts of alloy ratios and armor schematics settle in the back of his mind as he retreated to his favorite rock cropping. "We should stop meeting like this." He switched out his sleeveless shirt for his school robe and stashed his mask in his satchel.
"Time to relax a bit," he murmured, already heading toward the trail that led back to the city.