Fergis stared at Cane, jaw slack. "Someone actually fired the thousand-plat arrow?"
Cane nodded casually. "Yep."
"And it wiped out the Black Legion. The Black Legion!" Fergis repeated, like he couldn't believe his own ears.
"So it seems," Cane said, nonchalant.
"Cane." Fergis leaned in, eyes wide. "That's Tyrant Bex. Dragon-scale armor. Twin scimitars of death. Slayer of countless Alliance heroes. And you killed him."
"I didn't fire the arrow," Cane replied, dryly.
Clara and Fergis exchanged identical expressions of pure disbelief before Clara stepped forward to pick up the case.
"But… you made it!" she declared, stabbing a finger at his chest like a barrister delivering a closing argument. "That's like—like crafting the blade that took down a king! Oh crap. I'm going to be famous."
Cane blinked. "Why would you be famous?"
"Because I'm one of your best friends, obviously. When your cup runneth over, it splasheth upon me."
"Best friends?" Cane raised an eyebrow. "Let's not get carried away."
Fergis nodded solemnly. "At best, good friends."
"Yeah. Maybe acquaintances with history," Cane added, lips twitching.
Clara's expression crumpled into a dramatic pout. "I've been demoted! What comes after that?"
Fergis tapped his chin thoughtfully. "The dreaded category: 'someone I used to know.'"
Clara gasped. "How dare you!"
Cane laughed. "Sofie did great this morning."
Clara nodded, recovering. "She really did. Honestly, Cane? I think she might be too good for you."
"That's a given," Fergis added, smirking.
"I'd disagree with you both…" Cane flexed one arm lazily, "…but you're totally right."
Wood Element Class
Professor Sigil was stick-thin—literally. Her bark-covered skin looked like ridged walnut, her limbs disproportionately long compared to her compact torso. Despite her stretched frame, she stood only shoulder height to Cane.
Her head moved in quick, jerky angles, like a bird scanning for threats, followed by sudden pauses where her bright green eyes flicked in all directions. A small patch of hair—no, grass—sprouted from her scalp, swaying slightly with every twitch.
And yet, her voice was smooth as polished amber—low, sultry, and oddly seductive. That voice alone had earned her a loyal following among the more easily distracted boys in class.
"Clara!" she cried, bounding forward like a locust spotting a ripe field. "I'm so glad you're here!"
"Me too?" Clara replied, hesitating. "Wait—aren't I always here?"
"Yes… yes you are," Sigil cooed, eyes gleaming. "My favorite."
Her head snapped to the side, locking onto Cane with predatory precision. Her gaze raked over him like he was the last slice of cake at a feast.
"You're Cane," she declared. "Applying to be my teaching assistant? Very well, I accept."
"Uh… no." Cane glanced sideways at Clara, hoping for support. She just shrugged. He was on his own.
Sigil leaned in closer, her wooden nostrils flaring. "Your scent... so many flavors," she whispered. "Glacial ice... crisp, rare. Metal—rich, raw, pure. Like mountain springs with secrets. If you fell in front of me, I'd curl up and sleep on you."
Cane blinked. That was… both deeply inappropriate and highly disturbing.
"I'm actually just here to help Clara build a focal," he said, careful not to breathe too deeply. "I was hoping for your advice."
"Advice?" Sigil echoed, her head snapping toward the rest of the class. "Yes, yes—students! Begin grafting peach and apple roots. The first person to successfully create a Papple will receive a pouch of extra-fertile soil!"
Clara rubbed her hands together with glee and made a beeline for her workstation, leaving Cane alone with his new plant-based companion.
"So… about the focal?"
Sigil turned on her heel, eyes alight. "Yes, yes! Follow me!"
She practically flashed to the center of the classroom, where a round plot of black earth sat encircled by vine-carved runes. With a graceful leap, she landed in its center—her feet plunging into the dirt like stakes. In a blink, her legs became roots, her arms stretched overhead, twisting into arching branches. She stood like a tree conjured mid-spell, bark flexing and leaves unfurling from her fingers.
Cane took a cautious step forward.
"...Okay then."
"Come and sit, Cane."
Sigil's voice had shifted—still rich and sultry, but now threaded with something deeper: insight, intelligence, wisdom rooted in centuries.
"Where, exactly?" Cane asked warily.
"Here. At the base of my trunk." Her tone softened. "Don't be shy. Lean against me."
He hesitated.
"According to Selene Morva," she added, "your connection to the merfolk has given you a gift—a rare ability to commune."
Cane sighed. "Fine."
He settled onto the black dirt at her roots, noting how soft it felt beneath him—rich, loamy, and faintly warm. The moment his back touched her bark, he tensed.
A wave of jealousy prickled at his senses.
A few nearby students were watching him. Their narrowed eyes shimmered with envy—whether for the attention, the communion, or just the fact that he was pressed up against their favorite professor, he couldn't say.
Seriously? I'm leaning against a tree. A literal tree. What is wrong with you people?
He closed his eyes.
The world fell away.
He arrived in a flower-filled meadow by the edge of a quiet river. The air smelled of moss and honeysuckle. Water burbled lazily over smooth stones.
Sigil sat with her feet in the stream, head tilted toward the sun in serene delight. She looked entirely different—her form now that of a young woman with smooth green skin, long flowing hair woven from vines and blossoms. The bark was gone, but something older still lingered in her gaze.
"Welcome, Cane," she said without opening her eyes. Her voice echoed gently, as if spoken through wind and leaves. "Now… let's talk about Wood-enhancing focals."
"I want to use Living Wood to construct a focal that enhances the sudden growth of vines and roots," Cane said. "I've got an ancient, partially completed design that uses a Guayanar seed as a conduit between the wielder and the element."
Sigil tilted her head slightly, a small ripple moving through her leafy hair.
"A minor misunderstanding on your part," she said, her voice warm and dreamy. "But only a small one. The Guayanar seed isn't a conduit—it's a reservoir. Like your glacial-infused water. It stores the element, feeds it, powers everything it touches."
"Oh…" Cane paused, reconsidering. "So Clara needs to commune with the seed? Make it hers? That's done through… what—feelings? Memories?"
"Yes," Sigil whispered, reaching out to gently run her fingers through his hair. "Humans are amazing that way. Clara, especially so. In fact—this Living Wood you brought? It's a perfect reflection of her."
Cane considered that. Clara—always moving, always pushing forward, cheerful even when things fell apart. Upbeat, unyielding, irrepressible.
"Yeah," he said softly. "She grows through both success and failure."
Sigil laughed—a sound so joyful that birds rose from the trees around them, circling above her in a chorus of cheerful chirps.
"I will help Clara commune with the Guayanar seed," she said. "The infusion will be hers to shape. But the focal—the construction—that's for you."
"Any tips?"
Sigil smiled, the corners of her green lips curling with mischief. "It's rare when genius asks questions so humbly."
She stood and extended one hand to the river, which bent ever so slightly toward her fingers.
"Living Wood thrives anywhere," she said. "It never stops growing. That's the secret—it's always becoming. That constant expansion produces energy. If you can figure out how to pause that growth—capture the moment when it wants to push forward but cannot—you'll find your power source."
Cane nodded slowly, absorbing her words.
"Anything else I should know?"
Sigil's expression shifted—playful, yet dangerous.
"Yes," she said, eyes glinting. "You should go. Or I might just keep you here forever."
In an instant, the meadow vanished.
Cane blinked and sat up, brushing soil from his robes. Sigil remained rooted in the center of the classroom, still in her tree-like form—but now she winked once, unmistakably, before returning to stillness.