Cane peered into Sophie's bucket as she stifled a yawn with one hand. "Why is your bucket nearly empty?"
Sophie smiled. "I'm enjoying walking on the sand… talking with you."
"That's it—no clams for you." Cane grinned at the playful pout she gave him. He'd gotten her up early to visit the beach at low tide, and while he'd spent the morning collecting steadily, she'd clearly been more focused on the moment than the harvest.
"Really?" Sophie gave her bucket a little twirl. The three clams inside rattled like they were protesting. "Let's just combine our buckets. With mine added to yours, it'll be full."
"Nice try." Cane held his bucket behind his back. "Mine's already full."
"You said I looked nice," Sophie countered.
Cane tilted his head. He had said that. And it was still true. Barefoot in rolled-up brown trousers and a short-sleeved shirt damp with ocean spray, she looked effortlessly radiant.
"I might have said that," he admitted. "But that has nothing to do with your empty bucket."
With a triumphant smile, Sophie dumped her handful of clams into his and slipped her hand into his free one. "I'll do better next time."
"Fine," Cane said, still laughing as he walked with her back to the dock where they'd left their things. "Can you get the fire going while I rinse these?"
By the time Cane had rinsed and brushed the clams clean, Sophie had already gathered driftwood and sparked a flame. She stood over the fire, warming her hands.
Cane approached, swiping his storage ring to withdraw a small pot, a bottle of wine, and a foldable metal stand.
He set the stand over the fire and placed the pot on top. With practiced ease, he poured in the wine and then added the clams, sealing the lid.
"You ever had clams this way?" he asked.
Sophie shook her head. "My mum makes a chowder that's pretty good…"
Cane took a sip from the bottle and wrinkled his nose. "A bit tart…"
"Really?" Sophie accepted the bottle, took a quick sip, then laughed. "This is brandy."
"In my defense, it isn't labeled." Cane chuckled, retrieving a blanket from his ring and throwing it around his shoulders as he sat near the fire. "Come on—you look cold."
Sophie's face lit up with a smile as she settled in front of him. He pulled the blanket around them both, his arms warm as they closed around her.
"We should have started with this," she said softly.
Cane didn't answer right away. He just pulled her a little closer, resting his cheek gently against her damp hair.
The fire crackled. The ocean whispered. And for a little while, the rest of the world waited.
"Are we going to spend the entire day at the beach?" Sophie asked, holding her stomach as Cane finished the last clam.
The sun had climbed higher while they ate, stretching long shadows behind them. The blanket they'd spread on the sand was littered with empty shells, and Lorna's brandy bottle lay tipped on its side—lighter than it had started.
"Would you like to?" Cane asked.
Sophie nodded, brushing hair from her eyes. "I wouldn't mind… but I have a few errands."
Cane grinned. "A short nap first?"
They curled into each other beneath the warmth of the morning sun, and sleep came easily.
Two hours later, Mira's voice cut through the hum of waves.
"I thought something interesting washed ashore… but it's just a couple of layabouts."
Sophie startled awake, blinking rapidly. "Mira! We were clamming, and then we… rested a bit…"
Mira raised an eyebrow, hands on her hips. "I believe less than half of that."
Cane chuckled without opening his eyes. He'd heard Mira approach and decided, perhaps unwisely, to pretend otherwise. "Were you looking for us?"
Mira nodded. "Sophie was going to help us with the harvest."
"Harvest?" Cane sat up as Sophie tugged gently on his arm.
"There's a blackberry patch near their place," Sophie said. "The whole town shows up to help pick. It's sort of a tradition."
"I'll meet you there," Cane replied, stretching. "I want to swing by the smithy—go over a few designs."
"You sure?" Sophie leaned in and hugged him. "I can wait."
He shook his head. "I'll catch up. Should I bring anything?"
"Nope." She collected the buckets they'd used for clams. "I'll rinse these and bring them. Don't take too long."
Cane stepped into the smithy, the quiet space cool and familiar. He closed the door behind him, lifted the blacksilver mask from its hook, and pressed it to his face.
Feed me.
Chimi's voice rang out through the forge—eager, hungry. The flame sprite nearly danced with glee when Cane shoveled in fresh coke.
Three open work orders sat on the smith's docket:
– A kitchen knife set needing edge restoration
– Basic armor repairs
– The reforge of a cracked shortsword
He started with the knives. Sitting at the grinding wheel, he dulled each blade evenly before reshaping the edge—coaxing the metal back into purpose. Sparks hissed and scattered across the stone floor in a steady rhythm, each flicker echoing the pulse of his thoughts.
By the time he began the last knife, the rhythm had sunk into him—familiar, grounding.
Then he heard it: the soft crunch of wagon wheels outside, rolling to a stop.
Cane paused, set the blade down gently, and stood—mask still in place.
The forge held its breath.
Cane stepped through the doorway, blinking against the midday sun now perched directly overhead.
"I better head to the harvest after this," he muttered, wiping his hands on a cloth as the wagon came to a bumpy stop in front of the smithy.
"Brake," Cane called, watching as the horses kept rolling. The driver scrambled back up to the bench and slammed his boot on the lever, halting the wagon with a jolt.
Amateurs.
"Loop the reins on the iron hook near the seat," Cane added, not unkindly. "Pull it taut first."
The man followed the instructions, then hopped down with a thud. "I'm Nephrim," he said, dusting off his palms. "And this is Skye."
"Jonas Ironfist," Cane replied, his voice even behind the blacksilver mask.
He studied them both.
Sailors, by the look of them.
Nephrim's skin was raw from repeated sunburns that never seemed to tan. His forearms were a map of tattoos—knotted ropes, serpent heads, compass roses—and both ears bore gold hoops that flashed in the light. His stance spoke of a ship's sway, not land's steadiness.
The woman—Skye—was something else entirely. Pale, sharp-eyed, with close-cropped dark hair. Her shoes were soft-soled, made for slick decks. But it was her presence Cane felt first. Fluid. Watchful.
Merfolk hybrid, he thought instantly. Like Professor Morva. Probably from the deeper waters, judging by the faint trace of salt and something older.
Without a word, Nephrim slid the wagon's tarp aside. Beneath it: dozens of sabers and battered pieces of armor, stacked with the casual disregard of pirates or mercenaries who knew only how to use steel, not care for it.
"Can you handle an order this size?" Nephrim asked. "We need it by tomorrow."
Cane opened his mouth to decline.
Then she spoke.
"I know it's short notice," Skye said, her voice like seafoam over stone. "But we'll double your standard rate."
She smiled, and something in it pulled—not on Cane's heart, but deeper. A current in the blood. A whisper of influence. Merfolk charm, subtle and dangerous.
Cane froze.
That voice.
A scene unspooled behind his eyes in vivid detail: the blinding sun, the crackle of thirst, the bite of ropes on his wrists. The stink of salt and sweat. His dinghy adrift and then… the cage. The slavers. The Twisted Snake.
"What about his things, Captain?"
The same voice. The same music.
She had been there. Standing above him as he was dragged between Neri and Rhiati. Shackled and barely conscious.
Cane paled beneath the mask.
But when he spoke, his voice was steady.
"Of course," he said smoothly. "That won't be a problem."
"Really?" Skye leaned in, her sea-green eyes flashing with charm.
Cane nodded coolly. "First thing in the morning."
The moment they turned, he moved.
In a single swipe, he summoned his shield from his ring and slammed the reinforced edge into the back of Skye's neck. She collapsed face-first to the ground.
Nephrim spun fast—credit where it was due—but not fast enough. His saber cleared the sheath just in time for the shield to crash into his skull with a ringing gong that echoed off the stone.
Both went down hard.
Cane dragged them into the smithy, removed his mask, and swapped out his shirt. A breath later, he stepped back out looking every bit the first-year cadet.
Working quickly, he bound their wrists and ankles, looping a short length between to prevent crawling. From Skye's hair, he pulled two sharp pins. Nephrim had a belt knife. He took their jewelry too—rings, earrings, anything with a glint.
The wagon was still half-full of sabers and armor. Cane dumped it all into the work bin, then tied burlap sacks over their heads and rolled them back into the wagon under a fresh tarp.
Cane:Big mission. Let's go.
Fergis: Really? I'm in!
Clara:Same here.
Dhalia:Where?
Sophie:Um… Did something happen?
Cane:Yes. I'll try to make it to the harvest later.
Sophie:It usually goes 'til midnight. Show up when you can. Be careful!
Cane touched the falconer rune behind his ear. "Range far. West."
Cane:Meet at Mission Control.
He drove the wagon straight through the Academy's front gates. Groans and low curses stirred beneath the tarp.
"Shut up back there," Cane muttered.
Fergis stood waiting near the courtyard and arched a brow as Cane climbed down.
"High-value prisoners," Cane said, nodding toward the back. "Keep an eye on them."
Fergis pulled the tarp aside just enough to peek. "Shit… you're not kidding."
"Wait here."
Cane crossed the courtyard and climbed the tower steps, stopping just outside Telamon's office.
Ana Grahl barely glanced up. "He's expecting you."
Cane didn't argue. The Archmage always had eyes somewhere.
He stepped inside.
Three figures greeted him: Archmage Telamon, Professor Ignasius of the Fire Elementals, and Professor Selene Morva. He nodded politely to both professors.
"I have two captives tied up outside," Cane said.
Telamon didn't so much as blink. "Who are they?"
"They're crew from the Twisted Snake," Cane answered. "Skye was part of the slaver crew that captured Neri and Captain Rhiati. Nephrim's arms are marked—twisted snake tattoos. Both of them were there."
"Slavers?" Ignasius's tone dripped with contempt.
"Yes, sir."
A flicker of something dark passed through Telamon's gaze—brief and deadly. Then he stood.
"Let's go see them."