"Look how handsome you are," Cane's mother said warmly, her arms still wrapped around him.
Cane wiped his tears and sat up straighter, stealing a glance at his grandfather. "How is this possible?"
"Cold Iron remembers," Philas began. "It thinks, and it responds. The spiraled iron I placed within them shortly after birth wasn't meant to awaken metallurgy—but to preserve their essence. Their memories. Their spirit."
His mother looked up. "We can't leave here, can we?"
It was the question both she and her husband had been circling. They already knew the answer.
"No," Philas said gently. "This place was never meant to be empty. There should've been generations of Ironborn here by now. I fear fate, and the world, conspired against us."
Cane's father, ever the pragmatist, studied Philas for a moment. "How come you look younger than me, Da?"
Philas smiled. "I've been here for decades. Time flows differently inside Cold Iron. Follow that brook for a few minutes—you'll find a few empty houses. Make yourselves at home. I need to speak with Cane alone."
Cane embraced both of his parents again, feeling a weight lift from his chest—one he hadn't realized he'd been carrying all these years.
"Is this place safe?" he asked quietly.
Philas nodded. "To all but you, me, and others like us. Anyone without the blood, or the skill, would never make it past the fog. An Archmage might, but only barely."
When they were alone, Philas studied Cane like a master appraising fine metal.
"Strong water attunement… a Glacial Ice mutation… and…" His brow arched. "Mermaid resonance? Did you get yourself a fish-wife?"
Cane turned red. "What? No. Nothing like that. How can you see all that?"
Philas gave a mischievous smirk and, with a mere glance, pulled Cane's storage ring from his finger. The contents scattered around them in a soft shimmer of summoned light.
"Hey!" Cane protested, but it was already too late.
Philas walked slowly through the items. "Interwoven adamantium cloth? Not bad. Learned this on your own?"
"I thought I invented it," Cane muttered.
Philas snorted. "I made the same mistake when I was your age."
He picked up the salt armor next, testing its balance, running a hand along its surface. "You've got a gift for purification and alloy crafting. This one's very nice."
"One of my favorites."
Then Philas picked up Starbolt and Starstrike, whistling low. "Starweapons. Mythic Glacial Ice runes... recent additions, too. You're layering elements."
He picked up the frost ring and turned it thoughtfully between his fingers. "Good. This shows initiative. The training you received was supposed to have gaps—to force creativity."
"Lucky me," Cane said flatly.
Philas laughed. "You'll thank me one day. Now that you're here in person, I'll be taking over your instruction directly."
"I can't stay too long, Grandfather."
"You won't need to worry about that," Philas said, clapping him on the back. "Time moves differently here. You'll have what you need."
With a flick of his wrist, all of Cane's items returned to the storage ring, now humming with a faint glow.
"But before we begin your next phase... I have a mission for you."
"You want me to find a book?" Cane asked, not bothering to hide the skepticism.
Philas nodded. "Yes, but not just any book. The Book of Ironborn."
"You've used that word before," Cane said. "Ironborn. What's it mean, exactly?"
Philas stroked his chin with theatrical wisdom—a gesture more fitting for someone with a long white beard. He didn't have a single whisker.
"Surely you've noticed our kind all have Iron in their names. Did you think that was coincidence?"
"No... I just figured it was a lack of imagination."
Philas snorted. "You've inherited my charm."
"Oh great."
"In the First Rise of Man, our bloodline was known as the Ironborn. As families spread and branched, names changed—but the root remained. Iron. Always."
Cane nodded slowly. "Alright. So what does the Book do?"
"It tracks all Ironborn—living or dead—so long as they haven't already entered the Iron, or passed beyond this world."
Cane raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. Hidden in a mystical land? Guarded by a dragon or chimera?"
Philas squinted. "What? Why would I leave it there? It's under a floorboard. In the kitchen."
"…No dragons, then."
"No dragons," Philas said with a grin.
Cane flushed slightly. "Right. Got it."
Philas grew more serious. "Cane… you said the village was alive and well when you left?"
"Yeah. I didn't stay long, but it looked fine. That was only a few months ago."
"And now it's filled with graves… all of them empty?"
Cane nodded. "Do you think… they're still alive?"
"I doubt it," Philas said. "But I'm not sure this is about death. It might be something else entirely."
"Are you going to share what that is?"
"Not until you kill that dragon and chimera guarding my book."
Cane sighed. "Hilarious."
With a thought, Cane exited Cold Iron.
The sun was still high in the sky—despite everything he'd experienced, barely any time had passed. Pudding and Moxie were still off exploring as Cane climbed onto the wagon and made his way back to the house.
Finding the book took less than a minute. It was wrapped in interwoven aluminum under a loose kitchen floorboard.
No traps. No illusions. No dragons.
He didn't open it—but even through the cloth, he felt it. The book was made of Cold Iron.
He rode back to the valley, snacking on dried meat and cider as the wagon bumped along the familiar path. When he entered the Cold Iron sanctuary again, Philas was already waiting.
"You found it," Philas said, plucking the wrapped book from his hands. "No mishaps? Burns? Venomous bites?"
"Just a splinter. Not fatal," Cane muttered.
Philas tossed the book into the air. It hovered, glowing faintly before blooming into a massive, living map.
Cane blinked. "It's not a book?"
"It's an atlas," Philas corrected. "Can only be opened in here. Watch—these red dots? Each marks an Ironborn. Dead, but still bearing a cold iron spiral."
Cane leaned closer. "That's… the Southern front."
Philas's face tightened. "The world is at war?"
Cane nodded. "Allied Realm vs. the Zuni Empire. It's… civilized. No Archmages involved."
"A civilized war?" Philas raised a brow. "That's a new one."
He pointed at the red dots again. "Touch one."
Cane tapped a glowing pin. A name appeared.
Meriand Ironfoot.
"She's from the village," Cane said quietly. "Why would anyone take the bodies?"
Philas placed a hand on his shoulder. "That's what you need to find out. These are our people. If they can be returned, they should be."
Cane sighed. "Shit…"
"Indeed," Philas agreed, tousling his hair. "Don't worry. I'll make sure you have everything you need."
Cane stared at the glowing map. "Can you track me through this?"
Philas shook his head. "No. You haven't taken my Cold Iron spiral."
Cane nodded, stepping in closer. "This green dot here… it's not in the village. It's on the western front. That means someone's still alive?"
"Yes," Philas said. "Alive, and of our blood."
Cane touched the dot—and froze.
His face went pale.
He staggered back and fell to the floor.
"Cane?" Philas moved quickly to his side.
Cane shook his head. "It can't be… He's dead. Killed by pirates."
Philas stared at the glowing name.
Jonas Ironfist.