Cane's Folly

Cane returned to the Academy, his mind already drifting back to a project he hadn't quite finished—an arrow, promised to Madeline "Mad" Yanu, the gruff but smiling archer he'd met while in his masked blacksmith persona. Now, finally, all the pieces were in place. Instead of modifying the one she'd given him, he decided to create an entirely new one.

He laid the air-activated replicating rune on his bench, its design sharp and complex. Cane had thought he'd tricked Nos into creating him a custom rune, but the joke was on him—it required a Grade Six air elemental soul gem to activate.

"Am I really going to use this on an arrow?" he muttered, weighing his options.

It was stupid. Reckless. An elemental gem like that could power a full set of runic armor or a high-end device. But then he remembered Mad's grin, the way she'd glanced back at him with that flash of camaraderie. She was the one who started the scrap metal donation that helped him get started.

"I promised…" he said aloud. "And besides—innovation's the precursor to breakthrough. This'll be the most expensive arrow ever made."

He began by molding a high-carbon steel arrowhead through metallurgy, shaping it precisely to size with his will. When he started etching the rune, the steel flared with heat in protest.

"Huh. Guess that's a no." He leaned back, frowning. "Too unstable… Probably needs something stronger."

He unlocked the Academy's supply bin—now accessible since his appointment to staff—and pulled a bar of adamantium from the racks.

He eyed it. "The price of this arrow is officially… whatever comes after ridiculous."

With a small shrug, he started over, sinking his senses into the adamantium. It molded like clay under his touch, obedient and eager. Once it cooled to the right shape, he resumed etching.

Three minutes later, he cursed Nos under his breath.

Then louder.

"That bastard… he tricked me again!"

Like the steel, the adamantium resisted—lasting longer, but still warping under the rune's heat. It wasn't strong enough to hold the enchantment.

Cane glanced at his satchel, then away. "No. I won't."

A beat passed.

"I won't. It's too much."

Another pause.

"Fine," he growled. "I'll use that."

From the satchel, he drew a cloth-wrapped packet—thin, but heavy. Inside was the sliver of starmetal he'd extracted weeks ago, a piece that had cost him blood, effort, and communion with something cosmic. Most of it had gone into forging Starstrike, his mythic hammer-axe. This was all that remained.

"This is barely enough for one arrowhead," he whispered. "Shit… starmetal. For an arrow. I must be crazy."

Crazy or not, the metal accepted him instantly. It remembered him. Under his guidance, the starmetal flowed into a flawless, aerodynamic point—sharp as guilt and smooth as regret.

He was placing the finished head on the bench when Brammel's voice echoed from behind him.

"Boy… tell me you didn't just craft starmetal into an arrowhead."

Cane grinned, more than a little unhinged. "That's not all. I'm going to fuse a Grade Six air elemental core into it."

Brammel's eyes lit up—apparently, insanity and dwarven curiosity were long-time drinking buddies.

"Tell me why," the dwarf said, already moving closer.

"I've got a high-ranked rune I want to scribe onto it."

"How high?" Brammel's tone was cautious now.

"It wouldn't take adamantium."

Brammel paused. "Mythic rune?" he whispered, reverently. "A mythic-ranked arrow… I've never even heard of such a thing."

"I know. It's absurd."

Brammel was rubbing his hands together like a kid staring at a mountain of candy. "No. No, this is greatness. This is legend. Leave the rest to me—I've got gryphon feather for the fletching and a hollowed shaft made from a giant raptor's wing bone. Strong, light, and damn near unbreakable."

Cane blinked. "You've… had that just lying around?"

Brammel grinned. "You think I wait for inspiration? No, lad. I collect madness, just in case someone finally tries something amazing."

Cane chuckled and nodded. "Let's make an arrow no one will believe."

Cane leaned into the grindstone, guiding the starmetal tip across Brammel's dragon-scale wheel. Sparks danced like fireflies, refusing to die. When he was done, the arrowhead gleamed with a lethal shine that caught even the ambient light.

"I could probably throw this at someone and it wouldn't even slow down," Cane muttered, straightening.

Brammel approached, holding the finished shaft with almost ceremonial care. His eyes were bright with mischief.

"Look—I gave it a name," he said, tapping a line of runes etched carefully down the spine of the shaft.

Cane's Folly.

Cane blinked. "Real funny."

The dwarf laughed and handed it over. "It's perfect. You don't want anyone knowing you deliberately made a thousand platinum arrow, right?"

Cane hesitated. "You think it's actually worth that much?"

Brammel nodded solemnly. "Easily. But the real beauty is that no one would be mad enough to buy it. Unless they're bleeding platinum and have no sense of self-preservation."

Cane exhaled, pushing the weight of consequence out of his mind. With deliberate focus, he turned his attention inward, channeling his elemental affinity. He placed the arrow on his workbench and sank his will into the starmetal, his fingers moving with ritual precision.

This time, it didn't resist. It pulsed warmly—welcoming the absurdity of its purpose.

Minutes passed in near silence. Brammel didn't interrupt.

Line by line, stroke by stroke, Cane etched the air-activated replicating rune across the arrowhead's surface. Where adamantium had burned and buckled, the starmetal simply drank it in. Each rune line shone briefly before fading, absorbed into the alloy like breath into lungs.

Only the final sequence remained—the tether to its power source.

Cane reached into his satchel and withdrew the soul gem of a Grade Six air elemental. It throbbed with pressure and potential, heavy in the palm.

Sweat trickled down his nose.

"Here goes everything," he murmured.

He completed the final etch.

A flash of white-blue light erupted, flooding the forge.

The arrow lifted from the bench.

It hovered in the air, humming with power. Its glow shifted—blue to yellow to brilliant white—before dimming in slow pulses and gently descending back onto the bench like a feather caught in a breeze.

Silence returned.

Cane exhaled hard and leaned back. "Congratulations, idiot," he whispered to himself. "You just made the most expensive arrow in the realm."

Brammel stared at the bench like a priest witnessing a miracle. His voice was reverent.

"I changed my mind. I think I would buy this… if I ever had a thousand platinum."

Cane retrieved the wooden box he'd prepared in advance and gently placed the arrow inside, careful not to scuff the runes.

"If you ever had even a hundred plat," he said, latching the lid, "you'd spend fifty of it on ale before you realized it."

"True," Brammel admitted without a trace of shame.

**

[Front Lines – Alca Rift, Zuni Empire]

The long, permanent command structure stood in stark contrast to the sea of white tents sprawled across the hillside. Known casually as Tent City, this was the final staging ground before deployment to the front lines—where survival became guesswork and orders were signed in blood.

Inside the command post, a dozen elves sat in near silence. They inspected weapons, sharpened arrows, and checked armor with meticulous precision. Agile, deadly, and cold, they were the finest warriors the allied nations had to offer—granted, twelve at a time. Treaty-bound and tightly controlled, the elves were allowed only a small presence in the war. Too few to turn the tide, but just enough to shift fate on the right battlefield.

Unlike the short-lived humans they fought alongside, killing an elf required either overwhelming force—or the luck of the gods. Their magically enhanced senses made ambushes nearly impossible.

Morynn, the group's lone caster, sat near the open door of the structure, staring out at the human soldiers beyond. Most wouldn't last the month.

"You should return home, Mori," one of the archers said from the far corner, his tone light but condescending. "It's a waste of time for a healer of your status. When was the last time a human even managed to injure one of us?"

Morynn didn't turn. "My name is Morynn. Only my family and friends call me Mori. You are neither."

The archer stiffened, but said nothing more. "Apologies," he muttered after a moment. "I misspoke. Morynn."

Suddenly, Morynn's senses flared. A ripple of elemental tension brushed against her mind like ice sliding down the spine.

"What is that?" she whispered.

The archer shrugged, unbothered. "Probably that damned Archmage again. Why is that bastard visiting so often?"

"I dare you to say that to him," Morynn said coolly, rising in a blur.

The tent fell silent. None of them responded. Telamon—Archmage of Ora—could level their entire camp with a whisper. The same treaties that limited elven participation on the front prohibited Archmages from joining combat operations for precisely that reason.

All twelve elves felt the surge of presence at once.

Morynn vanished through the doorway in a flicker of motion, her feet barely brushing the ground as she crossed the encampment. She arrived just as a newly formed unit began assembling outside the processing line.

She scanned the gathered soldiers—mostly young, recently assigned—until her eyes fell on one. A young woman. The entire group emanated quiet threat. Morynn stepped forward.

"Who is in charge here?"

The young woman turned. "We haven't been assigned a commander. They said we'd be shipped out in small groups—wherever we're needed."

"Then tell me who you are," Morynn said, narrowing her eyes. Ancient Glacial Ice rolled off this group like breath from a predator's maw.

"We're recent graduates of the Magi Academy in Ora," the woman said. "My name is Labyrinth."

Morynn's eyes fell to the woman's robe. "Where did you get this?"

"A student artificer from the Metallurgy department modified these shortly after we left. Before that, they were just standard issue battle robes."

"May I inspect it?" Morynn asked.

Labyrinth hesitated, then nodded.

Morynn touched the robe's sleeve. Her fingertips brushed the threads—and her breath caught.

"Adamantium… interwoven into fabric," she murmured. "Glacial Frost rune… with an Ice Gryphon aspect woven into the pattern. This was a human artificer?"

"I believe so," Labyrinth said. "I didn't know him."

"Is your Academy so large that you don't know every student? Not even his name?"

"Normally I would," she admitted. "But he's a first-year. He arrived right around the time we were graduating. I do know his name, though. Cane."

Morynn was silent for a moment. "Separating the group would be an error."

"You're keeping us together?" Labyrinth asked cautiously.

"A first-year," Mori said softly. "So. Quite young. And already this talented."

Labyrinth exchanged a quick glance with her companion. Elves didn't fight alongside humans. Not directly. Not ever.

"There is a strong communal property to these robes," Morynn said. "The mana threads are resonant—woven to harmonize in formation. Separating you would be a tactical error."

She raised her voice, addressing the nearby officers.

"I will personally assume command of this group. Their designation is now Gryphon Company."