Forging Ahead

Cane began testing the forge with basic materials, adjusting to its quirks after years of disuse. Some early setbacks—cracked molds, uneven heating—challenged him but also brought a quiet satisfaction. He crafted simple tools and performed quiet repairs—nails, hinges, cooking hooks—leaving them at doorsteps or barter boards without a name.

Word began to spread about the masked smith, quietly, respectfully.

At the Academy, tension brewed. Rumors rippled through the student body that more graduates were being sent directly to the front lines. Some students grew anxious, while others threw themselves harder into their studies. Cane took it in silently, caught between his role as a student and the steady rhythm of his work at the forge.

One morning, a boy lingered near the edge of the forge. He approached, hesitated, retreated—then tried again.

"Kid… just come in," Cane called, not looking up.

The boy stepped forward. He was thin, with ragged brown hair and a handsome, dirt-smudged face. In one hand, he held a dented bucket; in the other, a wooden crate.

Cane peered into the bucket. "Arrowheads?"

The boy nodded. "Been salvaging 'em from the battlefields. If the shaft's broken, they're left behind. By the time I find them, they're chipped, dull, or rusted."

"And?"

"I thought I could sell 'em to a fletcher, but… they won't take 'em like this."

"You need someone to repair them."

The boy squared his shoulders. "I'm prepared to pay." He opened the crate with his bare foot.

Cane stared down at the contents. "You're gonna pay me with a chicken?"

"Yep."

Cane shrugged. "Fair trade."

He set a screened grate across the forge and dumped the bucket of arrowheads into the flames. Donning gloves and grabbing a four-pound hammer, he began the process of tri-folding each head—outside to in—then tapping them flat. He reshaped the crude broadheads into curved leafblade arrowheads, refined and deadly. After hammering came filing, then the grindstone.

When finished, he handed the bucket back.

"The shape's different," the boy said.

"Curved leafblade. Triple the value of a broadhead. Don't let the fletcher cheat you."

"Thanks."

The boy turned to leave, then froze at Cane's voice.

"Stop. Where are you going with my chicken?"

Blushing, the boy hurried back and set the crate down before fleeing toward town.

The chicken gave Cane a disapproving cluck.

Later that day, three figures approached the forge. All wore leather armor and carried bows. The two men could've been twins—short, wiry, with cropped black hair and sun-darkened skin. The woman was older, her brown hair streaked with gray, her steps still filled with strength.

"I'm Corporal Yanu," she said. "But everyone calls me Mad."

"Because you're crazy?" Cane asked.

"Because my first name is Madeline."

Cane nodded as the three shed their armor, revealing padded shirts beneath. Their gear showed signs of heavy use.

"Let me see," Cane said, gesturing them forward.

He had just finished reinforcing a farmer's wagon yoke when the archers arrived. Soon after, a hunter brought a broken skinning knife, and two villagers came with chipped kitchen blades. By afternoon, Cane's workbench was covered in gear—bracers, buckles, blades—all dull, dented, or bent.

Cane moved between tasks with calm efficiency, the forge humming as he reset rivets and sharpened edges. The archers watched silently, impressed by the masked smith's quiet dedication.

As the sun dipped low, Cane finished his day by crafting four torch sconces—one for each pillar of the smithy.

"You keep long hours," a voice called.

He turned to see Madeline standing at the edge of the foundation, holding a small jug.

"Care for a drink?"

"Sure," Cane replied, leaning against the workbench. He took a long swig of something sweet and sharp—eye-watering, but warm. He was thankful the mask hid his grimace.

"I like this place," she said. "It's peaceful."

Cane didn't comment. Coming from the front lines, anywhere must feel like sanctuary.

"They're talking about you in town."

"Good or bad?"

"Good." She smiled faintly. "I started a scrap pile for you. Old armor, busted blades—figured you might melt it down. Other folks started adding to it too."

Cane accepted another drink and nodded. "Leave me an arrow. Next time you're in town, I'll have something nice for you."

Her smile deepened, quiet and genuine. "Deal."

She turned and walked into the fading light. Cane watched her go, the newly hung torches flickering softly behind him.

The forge, and the world around it, was beginning to feel alive.

After the moon had risen, Cane finally decided to return to the Academy. He hadn't packed enough—what he could carry had been limited—and after a long day, the forge felt spent, the heat traded for a quiet, flickering glow.

Taking the coastal path again, Cane paused near a rocky inlet, stripped off his clothes, and eased into the sea. The cold bite of salt water pulled the tension from his limbs. He floated in silence for several minutes, letting the sea rinse away the soot and strain.

Once clean, he dressed quickly—robes on, mask stowed—and made his way toward his tower. As he approached, he spotted Fergis ahead. Cane slowed his pace, careful not to catch up until they were both at the door. No sense drawing attention to himself by appearing to come from town.

Fergis jumped slightly as the door creaked shut behind them.

"Damn… I thought you were Nos."

Cane chuckled. "Where ya been?"

"Studying counters to rune magic. I'm gonna get that old bastard."

As if summoned, a door materialized from thin air in the hallway. It hovered for a breath, then opened, and Nos stepped through—bushy mustache twitching, beard slightly windblown, robes in utter disarray.

Fergis flinched. "W–what?"

Nos ignored him entirely. His eyes landed on the crate in Cane's hands.

"What do you have there?" he asked, narrowing his gaze.

"It's a chicken," Cane replied, expression unreadable.

Nos trembled with sudden excitement. "Can I have it?"

"No."

Cane brushed past him, pausing only to scoop up a boxed lunch someone had left neatly outside his door. Fergis and Nos followed him inside, both stunned—but for entirely different reasons.

"I can't?" Nos said, sounding genuinely wounded. "I really can't?"

"No," Cane repeated. "It's my chicken."

Nos wrinkled his face. "How about… a rune?"

Cane tilted his head. "Oh, I don't know… This chicken is kind of special. How about… a replicator rune?"

Nos brightened instantly. "Easy!" he declared, already rummaging through his robes.

"Activated by flowing air," Cane added.

Nos froze. "Air? You want it… activated by air movement?"

"It's fine if you can't do it," Cane said with a shrug. "I am very attached to it."

Nos huffed, mustache bristling with indignation. "Fine. I'll do it."

He shuffled to Cane's desk, pulled out a piece of parchment, and began tracing. After several moments of muttering and redrawing, he rotated the page and started again. At last, a wide grin stretched across his face.

"HERE!" He held the rune aloft triumphantly. "I've been trying to get another chicken ever since I lost the first one," Nos added with a glint in his eye. "The last one escaped during breakfast and caused chaos in the west hall."

Cane calmly handed over the crate.

Nos cradled it like a prized relic. "I shall name you Peep II."

And then—without warning—Nos dropped straight through the floor like a stone vanishing into water.

Fergis stared. "Did you just trade a chicken for a custom rune?"

Cane took a bite of his boxed lunch. "Yep."

"Is that… normal?"

"Not even a little."

**

The Archmage sat comfortably in his high-backed chair, three of his most trusted advisors gathered around. The only sound in the room was the flicker of a single candle. The air felt thick with tension.

"They asked for another group," Brammel said, scowling.

"We've already given triple the quota our contract states."

Telamon nodded, rubbing a hand over his clean-shaven face. "We all do what we must. If we keep losing ground, we'll all end up fighting."

Ignatius, the Chair of Fire Elementals, answered with unsettling calm. "Good. The quicker you step onto the field, the sooner this mess ends."

Telamon gave a subtle shake of the head. "They have an Archmage too. Rumor says they may have two."

Ignatius reached toward the candle, his fingertip grazing the flame. It surged brighter at his touch. He looked more like an accountant than the second most dangerous mage in the Academy—lean, youthful, with slicked-back black hair and a neat goatee.

Telamon leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through his short white hair. "How is Fergis?"

"A genius," Ignatius replied. "I won't let them take him. Even if I have to take the field myself."

Telamon chuckled. Unlike most fire users, Ignatius remained calm more days than not.

"And Cane?"

Brammel grinned, lightening the mood. "He was a great find. Where did you pick him up?"

Selene nodded in agreement. "He started late, but his potential is staggering."