Tor blew his whistle, sharp and crisp. The shadow wolf pups sprang forward, weaving through the obstacle course he'd laid out—jumps, barrels, scent trails, and harmless trigger traps. Overhead, Pudding circled with lazy grace.
For the third run in a row, Tazi finished well ahead of Moxie, slipping past every trap like a shadow in water.
Tor narrowed his eyes.
"That gap shouldn't be this wide…" He knelt, brushing his fingers through the dirt as Tazi trotted up, panting proudly.
The pup's eyes flashed amber for the briefest moment.
"Oh," Tor muttered. "I see. You're getting help."
HOAACH.
Pudding let out a sharp cry and flapped away, banking hard and soaring toward Seven Tower.
Tor chuckled and scratched the pup's head. "Linking up so early is a good sign. But no more cheating after today, little sneak."
Back in his room, Cane slept soundly for once, his dreams calm and peaceful. The kind that made waking feel like betrayal.
Thunk.
A wet, meaty sound pulled him from sleep.
Cane sat up slowly. "Pudding..."
Near the bed, a snake's head lay like a gift.
He groaned. "We talked about this."
HOAACH.
Pudding puffed up proudly on the windowsill, feathers flared like he'd brought down a dragon.
"You do look proud," Cane admitted, rubbing his face. "Fine. One last time."
He picked up the head and lobbed it out the open window. "You ever think about bringing back platinum? Or food? Or… literally anything that isn't a corpse?"
Showered and dressed in a sleeveless shirt, Cane stepped onto the portal rune. Light bent around him, shifting space, and deposited him within the smithy. The air was warm, heavy with soot and steel.
The bin still overflowed with the sabers and battered armor from the Twisted Snake. Cane eyed it with a tired sigh and slipped on the blacksilver mask.
Jonas Ironfist was back.
He spread the sabers out on the worktable. Each blade had seen war—nicks, cracks, dulled edges. Most were bronze, inferior in composition, but salvageable.
"I'll melt you down. Meld you with high carbon steel."
He grabbed several steel fragments from the bin and fed coke into the forge. Chimi cheered from within, little bursts of flame licking the air.
Cane placed the bronze and steel near the fire, then touched the first blade and dropped into the metal.
The world vanished.
It was warm—sunlit and golden, like swimming through memory.
An image appeared: an old man with arms like iron, hammering molten metal with masterful ease. Cane felt the rhythm, the pulse of the work. The vision faded as he pressed the steel forward, casting shadow into light.
Steel and bronze collided.
Cane focused, willing the impurities out as if the sea itself surged through the metal, stripping imperfections and carrying them into the glowing forge.
Muted silence filled the mental space… then lifted.
And the metal sang.
It was louder now—layered and complex, a rising tide of harmony.
Behind it, Chimi sang too, its joyful crackling rising like a chorus, celebrating the purity of the meld.
It's good. Very good. Sing… Sing…
Cane opened his eyes.
The new blade gleamed with perfect fusion. He lifted it carefully, weighing it in his hand, then turned to his adamantium hammer.
"I should be able to unmute the metal with this too…"
He frowned, gripping the handle. The wood blocked his senses—dull, inert.
Cane swiped his ring, drawing out the roll of gossamer adamantium. "Let's fix that."
Using the same interweaving process he used with cloth, he layered the threads into the hammer's handle. It wasn't as clean—wood resisted—but it worked.
Now, when he gripped the haft, his senses flowed down into the hammerhead like water down a stream.
He exhaled slowly, raised the tool, and smiled.
"Let's see what I can do now."
Utilizing both smithing precision and the deeper instincts of metallurgy, Cane began refolding the blades. Each stroke of the hammer was guided by sense and song, metal singing under his touch. Magic swirled thick in the air—dense, melodic, and old.
Older than any teaching.
A presence pressed at the edges of his awareness, like history being remembered.
He glimpsed moments not his own—flickers of craftsmanship from the First Rise of Man. Tall forges lined with glowing metal, molten rivers tamed by will and wonder. The feeling passed, but it left an echo behind.
Cane didn't notice the rift when it opened.
Archmage Telamon stepped through, robes stilling around him in the warm forge air. He said nothing, just observed. The magic here was subtle but undeniable. No simple spell could replicate it. This was craftsmanship as conduit, creation as legacy.
Telamon approached quietly and picked up one of the finished blades from the rack. He ran his fingers along the flat, turning it once, testing its weight. It felt… perfect. Effortless. Forged not just with knowledge, but instinct. As refined as anything the Elves made.
With a thoughtful expression, he traced a glowing message in the air with a flick of his finger—one that would linger until seen.
"We're going to the capital tomorrow. Bring whoever you wish. We leave at noon."
The message shimmered softly in the forge's glow.
When Cane finally finished the last blade, sweat streaking his arms and brow, he stepped back, stretching slightly. The glowing words caught his eye, and he smiled faintly.
"The capital…" he murmured, already ticking through his mental list.
Lorna had finished several dresses—they were due for enchantment. Platinum-weaving would be the final touch.
He tapped the psi-rune behind his ear, and it pulsed in answer.
Cane:Who's up for rift travel to the capital tomorrow? We're leaving at noon.
Fergis:Me.
Clara:Why ask? I'm in.
Dhalia: I can't. Things are going great at the clinic I started in town. You'd be amazed how many people are living with injuries and illnesses.
Cane:Next time, Dhalia. Give me a list of whatever you need, and we'll pick it up.
Dhalia:I'll accept. Don't regret it later.
Sophie:I can do the announcements before we go.
Cane:Great!
He reached up and wiped his brow, glancing at the rack of gleaming blades. The forge hummed with quiet satisfaction. Chimi dozed contentedly, warm and fed.
Tomorrow would bring a new kind of challenge—but for tonight, the steel sang sweetly.
**
"You're staying for dinner?" Lorna's tone left little room for argument. It wasn't a question—it was a declaration. Cane was part of their family now, that bond only deepened by their shared business.
"Yes!" Cane grinned, accepting her hug just as Sophie entered from the kitchen.
Sophie rose up on her tiptoes to greet him with a quick kiss. "I wasn't expecting you. Nice surprise."
Her hands were dusted with flour, a faint smudge streaked across the bridge of her nose. Cane brushed it away gently with his thumb. "I need your mum for a few minutes. Since we're heading to the capital tomorrow, we might as well finish the dresses."
Lorna beamed. "Just keep an eye on everything in the kitchen. Don't let anything burn."
Sophie scoffed, wrinkling her nose. "Since when do I burn things?"
"Do you really want me to say?" Lorna raised a pointed brow.
"No, Mum," Sophie muttered, already blushing as she turned back toward the stove. "Sheesh... one time when I was twelve."
Cane let out a low whistle when he stepped into the back of the shop. Six new dresses hung from a polished beam, swaying slightly in the evening breeze through the window.
"These are fantastic," he said, already impressed. "They'd sell even without the interwoven platinum and Glacial Frost."
"They might," Lorna admitted, smoothing the fabric of the first dress. "But these enhanced ones? They're in higher demand. And the shop displaying them—Meguli's—works on consignment. He'll take everything we send."
Cane nodded and pulled out the thick gossamer roll of platinum from his storage ring. He took a seat at the workbench while Lorna laid the first dress flat beside him.
"How many platinum in that roll?" she asked, eyeing the shimmer.
"Not as much as you'd think. Only three," Cane replied. "It's extremely compacted. Once reduced, it's thinner than a spiderweb."
He pressed the micro-thin layer of platinum into the dress and let himself sink in. The world around him dimmed, replaced by shimmering threads and the faint resistance of cloth. It was like peering through mist—soft, veiled—but the sensation guided his touch, not hindered it. The weaving moved smoothly.
When the last of the thread was in place, Cane tapped the dress gently with Blue. A burst of frost swept over the fabric, accompanied by the screech of the Ice Gryphon—faint and fierce.
The dress responded instantly, shimmering with a deep glacial blue. It gleamed with a beauty that was both calming and impossibly cold. Elegant and otherworldly.
The last time they'd made one like it, Commander Moriwynn had paid six thousand platinum.
Cane flexed his shoulders, already eyeing the next dress. "Okay, let's do the rest," he said, grinning. "I'm getting hungry."