Smoke, Sparks and Stables (2of2)

After Nos disappeared through the ceiling—rune in hand and mystery left behind—Cane stared at the desk a moment longer, then packed up his materials.

With his satchel slung over his shoulder and sketches tucked safely inside, he made his way toward the Metallurgy classroom.

The scent of heated copper and iron greeted him before he even opened the door.

Inside, Master Brammel stood near the back bench, sorting through a crate of ingots. The burly instructor raised a hand when he spotted Cane.

"Class isn't until tomorrow."

Cane stepped inside, nodding. "I know. I've got a side project I'd like to work on. If the forge's open."

"Side project?" Brammel's face lit up. "I love side projects. Let's see it."

Cane unrolled his notes onto the nearest worktable—detailed sketches of the mask's curvature, alloy compositions, airflow venting, and a simplified rune layout. His designs were still rough, but Brammel's eyes flicked across the page with growing interest.

"Black silver, huh?" the man said, nodding in approval. "Excellent choice. Not easy, but rewarding."

Cane scratched the back of his neck. "I'm not quite at that level yet."

"Then don't start there." Brammel rummaged through a side bin and dropped a heavy slab of bronze on the table with a solid thunk.

"I'd recommend practicing with bronze. We've got plenty, and the basic forging techniques are nearly identical. Good for shaping and structural tests. Now—when it comes time to place gem sockets, runes, and etching channels? Then you'll want to upgrade to the real thing."

Cane nodded, already feeling the itch to begin.

Brammel gave a nod and left Cane to his work.

Soon, the comforting clang of hammer on metal filled the Metallurgy room—steady, focused, honest. No sparks flying wildly. No shouting. Just the rhythm of craft taking shape.

Cane worked with calm precision, heating the bronze until it glowed a soft orange, then lifting it to the anvil for shaping. Each strike was deliberate—measured pressure, just enough force. The mask slowly began to take form.

From across the room, Brammel glanced over and watched quietly.

After several minutes, he strolled over and—without a word—took up position at the bellows, working them in time with Cane's rhythm.

"You're no amateur, Cane," he said over the hiss and hum of flame. "I'd put you at a mid-ranked journeyman, easy."

Cane grinned as he repositioned the metal. "Been a while since I last used a forge."

"Not that long," Brammel replied with a grunt. "Hey—we've got round-bladed chisels back there you can use for the eyes. Better field of vision. Cleaner appearance too."

Cane nodded his thanks and rummaged through the nearby tools, selecting a rounded chisel and setting the mask flat against the edge of the anvil. With careful pressure, he carved the eye slots—clean arcs with solid spacing.

Then, grabbing a rounded steel cylinder, he rested the mask over it and switched to a smaller hammer. Each tap pressed gentle contours into the faceplate, giving the piece curvature and structure beyond its raw form.

"Smart…" Brammel murmured, nodding in approval.

Cane and Brammel shared a wide grin as Cane plunged the finished mask into the cooling barrel. Steam hissed upward, and the bronze sizzled—its fiery glow fading into tempered metal.

There was something soothing about that sound. Final. Grounding.

Cane pulled the mask free and turned it in his hands. He studied the shape, the weight, the lines.

"The eyes are a bit too high," he noted. "Contour on the right side doesn't match the left."

Brammel scoffed and extended a beefy hand. "Lemme see."

Cane passed it over.

The dwarf turned it slowly, inspecting the curves with a craftsman's eye. After a beat, he nodded.

"It's good work. First attempt—with room for improvement." He handed it back. "So… what can you do differently?"

Cane frowned in thought. "Honestly? I'm never going to match the mask perfectly to my face by hand. Not with this kind of detail."

Brammel nodded in agreement. "If it were me… I'd pay a visit to our stoneworking department."

Cane tried not to wince at the word commission.

"Stone?"

"They'll take a mold of your face, recreate it exactly in marble or clay. Once you have that, you can fine-tune the shape of your mask—cut and fit it right against a static reference."

Cane gave a slow, thoughtful nod. That… actually made a lot of sense.

"Thanks. For the help—and the advice."

Brammel thumped him on the shoulder with a meaty hand.

"Soar, kid. I know you can do it."

It was late by the time Cane left the metallurgy classroom.

With only occasional nods from Brammel, he'd forged two more versions of the mask—each one a little better than the last. The imperfections were smaller now. The hammer strikes more confident.

As he passed the now-dark kitchen, the scent of fresh-cut wood caught his attention.

Off to the side, just beyond the low firepit, a broad-shouldered man stood splitting logs. His knee was bound with a bandage, and his swing, while strong, was slightly uneven.

Cane might have passed by—if the man hadn't spoken.

"I know what you did."

Cane paused mid-step, glancing around. "Pardon?"

The man turned, driving the axe into the stump with a solid thunk before straightening to his full height.

"I said, I know what you did."

He approached with slow, deliberate steps. Even in low light, his silhouette was hard to miss—built like a wagon, wide across the shoulders, thick through the arms. His face was round and dull, with a button nose and a forehead flat enough to fry breakfast on.

"You made that magic bucket," he said. "For my Sofie."

Cane raised an eyebrow. "Your Sofie?"

"Yeah. I'm Odom. Everyone knows we're together."

Cane studied him for a beat, then smirked. The stablehand didn't seem threatening—just incredibly earnest. And maybe a little dim.

"I didn't realize."

"Yeah… she used to come see me every hour. But now she don't." He frowned. "It's your fault."

The puzzle clicked into place.

"Is the stable next to the well?" Cane asked.

"'Course," Odom said. "Otherwise I'd have to haul water to fill the troughs."

"I can sympathize. Hauling water's hard work."

"Yeah…"

Odom went quiet, staring at the axe like it held all the answers.

"I see what you did," he said finally. "You made that bucket so Sofie wouldn't visit me so often."

Cane nodded solemnly. "I admit it. I definitely made that just to ruin your romantic well-time. Not because it saves her a dozen trips a day."

Odom narrowed his eyes in what he clearly believed was an intimidating glare.

Cane just kept walking.