Cane sat across from Archmage Telamon, the morning light slanting through the high windows. He recounted the dream in full—every detail, every strange image. Telamon listened in silence, though his thoughts lingered on what Brammel had told him the day before about Cane's burial rites.
"Is your father still alive, Cane?" Telamon asked.
Cane shook his head. "A fever took both my parents when I was fifteen. I'd just been apprenticed to Jonas and was living up in the highlands. Most of the village died that summer."
"Could your father have been the boy in your dream?"
Cane frowned. "How is that possible? Wouldn't that make him thousands of years old?"
"Not necessarily," Telamon said. "In your dream, you mentioned being placed in Cold Iron. That's a metallurgic rite from the First Rise of Man. And I've heard that those who were encased within Cold Iron… experience time differently."
Cane shook his head. "My father wasn't made of metal. Neither were my grandparents. They were just ordinary."
Telamon leaned forward slightly. "Could the boy have been Jonas Ironfist?"
Cane smiled faintly. "No—Jonas was a ginger. The boy wasn't."
"Still… Ironfist, Ironheart. That's not a common thread to ignore." Telamon tapped a finger on his desk. "Do you remember any blocks of iron growing up? Or places you were forbidden to go?"
"You mean like actual iron?" Cane thought for a moment. "There was a valley we weren't supposed to enter. But that was only because of the tripids—wild half-man creatures that roamed in packs like wolves. They avoided settlements, but no one wanted to run into one alone."
"Tripids?" Telamon frowned. "Cane… there are no such things as tripids."
Cane narrowed his eyes slightly. "You weren't raised in the highlands."
Rather than argue, Telamon let it go. "Do you know what Cold Iron actually is?"
"Not exactly. I figured the name meant it had been… tampered with?"
"Correct," Telamon said, nodding. "Its properties were altered—denser, more resistant. In the First Rise, when a master metallurgist died, they were immersed in Cold Iron and sunk beneath the ground. The site would be salted. A prayer would be said."
A quiet chill touched Cane's spine. The words. The salt. The grave.
"Cane…" Telamon's voice softened. "You said a prayer yesterday. And you salted the burial site. That must've been passed to you—somewhere, somehow."
Cane said nothing.
"I want you to visit the Great Library," Telamon continued. "Speak with Vel. Read everything you can about the metallurgists of the First Rise. Something may stir loose. Even half-buried truths have roots."
Cane gave a quiet nod. "Alright. I'll go."
Then, after a pause: "But I'm telling you—tripids are real."
**
Vel stood straight as an arrow, staring into the distance. "One moment… I'm sure I'll remember."
She pulled her robe tighter across her shoulders. The crinkling of paper and the warm smell of ink washed over Cane as she shifted. "Nope, it's gone. But I see you've come." She twisted a lock of copper-streaked black hair around one finger.
"I want to research the First Rise of Man," Cane said. "Specifically their metallurgists."
"Kings among craftsmen… that's what they were called. Or… kind craftsmen? No, that makes no sense." Vel's yellow, slitted eyes sparked with interest. "Of course. This way. Follow the smell of Cold Iron."
She stopped mid-step and sprang back toward him, sniffing the air. "Tis odd… you also smell of Cold Iron. And quite a few other things. Tasty things. Delicious, even."
"That's not inappropriate at all…" Cane muttered.
Vel snapped her fingers. Her arm immediately shifted into a cat's paw.
"Embarrassing," she sighed, cheeks pinkening faintly. She gave the arm a quick shake, returning it to human form. An instant later, she flinched—like something invisible had pinched her—and a sleek feline tail lashed from beneath her robes.
"Everything okay?" Cane asked, biting his lip to keep from grinning.
"Yes, yes, all in alignment now," Vel said, brushing off the moment. The tail vanished, and she resumed walking—this time toward a wrought-iron gate tucked behind an arched passage.
She unlocked it with a flick of her wrist and swung the gate open. "This section isn't open to most students," she added, motioning him through. As Cane passed, she brushed against his shoulder with a soft purr.
He gave her a look.
She offered no explanation.
Cane paused at the shelf in question, eyes scanning ancient bindings. "Have you ever heard of tripids?"
Vel nodded with smug certainty. "Of course. Everyone knows what they are."
Cane let out a breath. "Good. Good."
"They're pretend creatures," she continued brightly. "Made up by parents to keep overly curious children from wandering into dangerous places."
She winked, turned on her heel, and vanished into the shelves—leaving Cane alone with the smell of iron, ink, and a thousand half-remembered warnings.
Cane read through the rest of the morning, the quiet of the library broken only by the whisper of turning pages and Vel occasionally humming to herself from somewhere in the stacks.
His thoughts settled slowly, soothed by ancient passages.
"I dream of a young boy being placed in Cold Iron, but that's not all it was used for. Metallurgy reached its height during the First Rise of Man. Entire communities rose around them. Marriages were arranged based on talent, each group trying to pass their gifts down. It was always hit or miss, despite their best efforts."
Cane closed the book gently, then placed two volumes into his storage ring and returned the others to their shelves. The final page he read detailed the funeral rites of the era—rites uncannily similar to what he had performed for the Yazlo family. The symmetry unsettled him.
He didn't fully understand why, but one truth had become undeniable.
He needed to return home.
To the valley.
To the place his parents warned him never to go.
If they'd made up the stories about tripids just to keep him away, then something important was hidden there.
Clara's freckled face lit up as Cane slipped into History of Magic a short while later.
"Cane!" she grinned. "I managed to create a snare/root hybrid—I'm calling it Snoot!"
Dhalia rolled her eyes. "We've been practicing together," she muttered.
"I love the name," Cane chuckled, dropping into his seat. His smile faded as a memory struck. "Crap… we were supposed to write up the War Pact assignment. I don't suppose—"
"Yes, I did it," Dhalia interrupted, clearly expecting it. "Were you planning to mooch again?"
Cane gave a humble nod. "I did do some relevant reading, so I should be fine handling the questions."
Professor Wallen cleared his throat, stepping into view. "Each group will present their research. After the summaries, we'll open the floor for questions and discussion. That final portion will determine most of your grade. Engage. Challenge. Be thoughtful."
"I'll present ours," Clara announced brightly. "Since I didn't help either."
Dhalia gave her a sidelong look.
As expected, Clara delivered the findings Dhalia had researched with animated clarity and a surprising grasp of nuance.
Wallen pointed to the first group. "What did you think of the Rule of War you studied? There are no wrong answers."
A thin boy named Silas stood. "We disagreed with it. I mean—if Archmage Telamon entered the war directly, wouldn't it be over in a matter of weeks?"
"Would it?" Wallen asked calmly. He turned toward the group studying Rift laws. "Thoughts?"
"We follow the rules," a blonde girl answered. "But the Zuni Empire doesn't. Maybe we should stop worrying about rules and focus on winning."
There were nods from across the room—even Clara and Dhalia nodded thoughtfully.
"At what cost?" Cane asked, his voice even.
Wallen raised an eyebrow, inviting him to continue.
Cane stood, hands relaxed behind his back. "How many of you know this is the Second Rise of Man?"
The room fell quiet.
"Archmages destroyed the world," Cane said. "Only scattered groups in remote areas survived. The Rules of War aren't just guidelines—they're safeguards."
"What do you mean, Cane?" Wallen asked, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"This war has cost thousands—maybe tens of thousands. But compared to the millions lost when the world was last torn apart… the difference is staggering.
He gestured to the board behind Wallen. "Every one of those—except the rules about cannons and firearms—has the potential to end all life."
A hand went up. "Opening Rifts can end all life?"
"Perhaps," Cane replied, "what happens when Great Rifts are opened in the same place again and again? The fabric of the world thins. The weave unravels. How many would survive that?"
"What about the rule about elves?" someone called from the back. "Twelve at a time? If we had an army of elves, we could wipe out the Zuni Empire in a week."
Cane nodded. "And then what? We'd all serve them. Maybe not as slaves, but certainly not as equals. That limit exists because elves are powerful—and proud. Too proud."
"Well said," Wallen announced, gesturing toward the class. "And perfectly structured. Now… let's talk about Cane's Folly."
Cane exhaled. "I built it with limited resources and a few favors. That's what one student could manage. Now imagine what someone could build with an entire nation behind them."
He looked around the room. "We can't prevent conflict—battles, raids, even wars. But if we respect the Rules of War, we might avoid something worse. The end of everything."