Starstrike

Telamon and Ignatius stood at the edge of the ruined street, surveying the aftermath. Smoke still curled from scorched stones. Shadows lingered in the cracks where rift-born wolves had emerged.

It could have been worse. Much worse.

"Any casualties?" Telamon asked, his voice low.

"None," Ignatius replied. "Thanks to two first-years."

Telamon's brow lifted slightly. "How many did they kill?"

"Sixteen," Ignatius said, flipping through a mage-marked report scroll. "The bounty's one platinum per confirmed kill."

"Make it two," Telamon said without hesitation. "Give them sixteen each."

Ignatius arched an eyebrow. "Sixteen platinum… each?"

"They earned it," Telamon said simply, folding his hands behind his back. "It was a two-pronged assault."

Ignatius's expression darkened. "This was just the decoy. Designed to draw attention here. If you hadn't sensed the presence of a Primal Beast inside the capital—"

"Half the city would've burned," Telamon finished.

The archmage stepped through a swirling portal without another word, vanishing from sight just as Cane and Fergis rounded the corner—robes torn, soot-streaked, eyes tired but bright.

"Professor Ignatius," Fergis said, bowing slightly. His tone was formal, respectful. Ignatius was the second most powerful fire mage in the Academy—second only to Telamon himself.

Cane remained quiet, standing beside him, the wolf pup curled asleep in his satchel.

Ignatius stepped forward and handed each of them a small leather pouch. Heavy.

"Sixteen platinum each," he said. "Outstanding work today. The city guard reported that you handled yourselves like veterans—tactical coordination, courage, and restraint. You made the Academy proud."

Fergis's eyes widened at the weight of the coins, his fingers clenching around the pouch like it might vanish.

Cane just nodded. "Thanks."

The praise felt real—and somehow, heavier than the money.

**

"I'll get that," Cane said, flashing a grin as he stepped forward and lifted the timber beam the three fire mages had been fumbling with.

Fergis blinked, then let out a low whistle as Cane hoisted the heavy wood onto his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

"Cane! How are you so strong?"

"Smithing," Cane replied over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs toward the tailor shop. "You'd be surprised what hammer work does for your back."

Two carpenters nodded in appreciation as he delivered the beam to the reconstruction site. The tailor shop had taken heavy damage during the attack, and the repairs were just beginning.

By order of the Archmage, classes were suspended, and all students had been assigned community restoration duties. The Academy's youngest and brightest were now bricklayers, lumber haulers, and sweepers of shattered stone. For once, no one complained—it was clear how close the city had come to real disaster.

Cane spent most of the day moving lumber and heavy debris, sweating under the sun without a single trace of his usual robes. He worked in quiet rhythm, muscles burning in a familiar, welcome way.

When the sun finally dipped low, casting golden light over scaffold and soot, the students were released.

Most returned to the Academy for baths and supper.

Cane did not.

He ducked away into a narrow alley and emerged, some time later, beneath a hood and mask—the blacksmith of Resolute: Jonas Ironfist.

Food?

Chimi's voice echoed in the back of his mind as he neared the forge—her tone a needy, hungry hum that almost sounded smug.

Cane chuckled. "On it."

He opened the hatch, tossing coal into the forge until the flames roared high. Then, from his satchel, he carefully withdrew the weapon.

The one forged of iron and starmetal.

The one now blooded from battle.

He lowered it into the flames—not to reshape it, but to let it bask. All metal, even starmetal, hungered for the forge. It was where they were born. It was where they remembered themselves.

Yes, Chimi purred. That's better.

Cane took up his adamantium hammer and knelt by the anvil, not to strike, but to listen. He let his senses extend into the alloy—into the weapon—asking where it wanted to be strengthened, balanced, refined.

He didn't force it.

He asked.

And the answer came—not in words, but in vision.

A meteor, trailing fire and light, streaking through the sky. It crashed to the earth, bounced and ricocheted through forest and river and stone until, in its final gasp of motion, it wedged itself in the chimney of a forge.

The same forge.

His forge.

The message was clear.

Cane opened his eyes, smiling beneath the mask. "A blooded, mythic weapon needs a name…"

He stood, lifting the weapon with reverence.

"Starstrike."

Cane decided it was time for Jonas Ironfist to make a public appearance in town.

He'd been increasing his presence within then town by doing odd jobs, but with coin in his pouch and a name starting to carry weight, it felt right to invest—a proper forge, real tools, and a legitimate presence.

Between the platinum reward for defending the city, the payment from Rhiati, and his monthly Academy stipend, Cane had amassed a respectable sum:

18 platinum, 5 gold, and 300 silver.

Not a king's ransom—but enough to establish roots.

His first stop was the General Store.

The bell chimed softly as he stepped inside, boots echoing against wooden floors. Behind the counter, Mr. Bruin—a gruff, silver-bearded man with a habit of squinting even when he wasn't confused—looked up from a ledger.

"Morning," Cane said, shifting into Jonas's mountain dialect—all thick vowels and rhythmic cadence. "Need t'put in an order."

Mr. Bruin raised an eyebrow, then nodded. "Let me grab a form."

He disappeared behind the counter, papers rustling.

Cane glanced toward the open door. The General Store had somehow survived the Shadow Wolf attack without a scratch. Clean stone. Unbroken windows. A bit of luck—or protective wards someone hadn't mentioned.

"Any chance I can get it delivered to the forge?" he asked, eyes still on the road.

"That'll run an extra three silver," Bruin replied without looking up.

"Done." Cane pulled out his coin purse and placed it on the counter with a satisfying clink.

Bruin returned a few minutes later, quill in hand, tallying item after item as Cane listed out materials: anvils, tongs, ingots, coal by the sack, casting molds, chisels, clamps, replacement nails, a bellows upgrade, and a steel-bound barrel for cooling.

When the tally was done, Bruin whistled. "Big setup."

"Big plans."

"Total comes to 45 gold, 233 silver," he said, handing over a scribbled receipt. "Half now, half on delivery."

Cane nodded. "I'll pay it all now. Write up a bill of sale."

Bruin paused, then gave a respectful nod. "Right away, Mr. Ironfist."

By the time Cane returned to the forge, a decent-sized line had already formed outside.

The first half-dozen were city guards, standing in a loose circle, smoking handmade pipes and comparing notes on damaged gear.

Cracked swords. Broken hilts. Split armor.

All were brought forward and laid bare before Resolute.

Inside the forge, Cane was already immersed. Each repair—each piece—was more than a patch job. He combined smithing and metallurgy into a process of rebirth. With every strike of his adamantium hammer, he unraveled weakness, reforged memory, and reignited purpose.

Each item he completed bore two marks:

A small stamped iron fist, his personal maker's sigil.

And in delicate runes etched beside it: Resolute.

When the last customer of the line handed him a few coins and walked away smiling, Cane glanced into his coffer.

Three gold.

Already recovered from the forty-five he'd spent that morning.

He turned to return inside when a voice stopped him.

"Got time for one last job?"

A man stepped forward, clad in weathered scale armor. He laid a longsword on Cane's workbench with quiet reverence.

"I'm Galen," he said. "My unit ships out in the morning. This blade's been with me on the front lines for months. I know she's near the end, but I'd rather mend her than replace her."

Cane nodded and picked up the sword, closing his eyes.

He immersed.

Visions struck fast:

Men in dark armor, battlefields alight with gryphons overhead, and serpents longer than ships slithering through waves of blood.

The blade pulsed with memory—its integrity near collapse, splintered with hairline fractures, held together by one thing:

Its owner's will.

Cane's eyes opened.

"I don't have any gold," Galen said, reaching into a pouch. "But I've got this."

He placed a bit of pale metal on the table—no bigger than a thumb.

Cane held it up. The metal was almost weightless but strong, with a soft shimmer.

"Rare," he murmured. "Adamantium-silver alloy. Elven work."

Galen nodded once.

Cane hesitated only a second before nodding back. "I'll do it. Don't worry about the cost. You can pay me by staying alive."

He pressed the alloy to the sword's surface and closed his eyes again.

This time the vision was cleaner—sharper.

An elven woman, graceful and deadly, danced through a battlefield like a wisp of moonlight. Her long golden hair flowed behind her as she weaved between enemies, blades flickering like starlight. She never faltered. Never slowed. Death followed every movement—and yet, she was untouched.

The image faded.

Cane found himself within the metal.

He reached out with his will, locating the fractures in the sword's core. With delicate, precise effort, he rewove the blade from the inside out. Layer by layer, he folded in strands of the adamantium-silver alloy—creating a lattice of strength and memory.

Only when it held firm did he set it into the forge.

Chizi flared with joy.

The flames surged as Cane took up his adamantium hammer again.

He pounded. Folded. Heated. Refolded.

Metallurgy and smithing became one—again.

Hours passed in silence save the roar of flame and the ring of metal.

When the shape was final, he brought out the grinding wheel.

Once more, he immersed into the blade.

And willed it to accept a new edge—one that could cleave through shadow and fate alike.

When it was done, he stepped outside.

Galen was still there, arms crossed, eyes steady despite the late hour.

"It's done," Cane said simply, offering the sword hilt-first.

The soldier's breath caught as he took it.

The blade shimmered faintly—its color a touch lighter than before. Etched into the side, sharp and defiant, were runic letters that read:

Resolute.

The walk back to the Academy felt longer than usual.

Somewhere on the path, Jonas Ironfist became Cane again. The mask was packed away, the sleeves of his robe pulled down, and his posture shifted from strength to weary calm.

By the time he reached Tower Seven, the sky had turned a soft navy blue, stars beginning to blink awake.

He paused on the stairs.

Someone was sitting in front of his door.

Sofie.

She stood when she saw him, smoothing out her dress and holding out a small wooden box.

Without a word, she rose onto tiptoe and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. Then stepped back, cheeks slightly flushed.

Cane smiled as he unlocked the door. That single moment had lightened his entire day.

"I went ore gathering after we finished helping the townsfolk," he said as he opened the door, ushering her inside.

Sofie followed, then opened the box for him, her fingers brushing through his hair with soft affection. "You're working so hard."

He glanced down. Stew. Hearty, with meat and potatoes.

"Thank you," he said, voice thick with more than just hunger.

Sofie waved off the words, her face growing serious. "I was so scared. My Da was fighting that beast… He's brave, but he's just a tailor."

Cane sat down heavily, bowl in hand. "He's very brave. Skill with a sword has nothing to do with courage. Holding your ground when you're overmatched? That's real bravery. More impressive than any master cutting down enemies with ease."

Sofie's eyes shimmered. A tear slid down one cheek before she could stop it.

"I was scared," she whispered, "but… when I heard your voice, I knew. I just knew it was going to be alright."

Cane grinned around a mouthful of stew. "That's some serious confidence you have in me."

Sofie wiped her tears, smiling. "Yes."