Cane's eyes glowed amber mid-sentence, drawing startled looks from the group—his hand nowhere near the falconer rune.
Fergis leaned in, blinking. "Did Pudding activate your bond? Is that even possible?"
"Yes." Cane's focus shifted—his awareness stretching westward. He saw her: a woman cloaked in shadow, ravens circling like frost spun into a storm. Even from miles away, dread radiated from her like a poisoned tide.
"We need to go. Now."
His eyes faded back to starlight as he broke into a run.
Cane:"Keep up—no pacing. We're going as hard as Dhalia can manage."
Dhalia: "Then I'm leading."
She pushed to the front, setting a brisker pace than she was used to.
Cane followed close behind, scanning the path ahead. The usual bright hues of the foothills were fading, leeched of color, as if the land itself recoiled.
Cane: "Stop."
Dhalia:"Why? What is it?"
He pointed to a lone tree just beyond the fields. "The leaves. What color do they look?"
"Green," Clara and Dhalia replied in unison.
Fergis squinted. "They should be... but now they're kind of shimmering."
Cane slid the rope from his pack and uncoiled it quickly.
Cane:"We're caught in an illusion. Hands on the rope—now."
Clara:"Wait, really?"
Cane's eyes glowed amber again. Through Pudding, reality sharpened. He saw through the veil.
Cane: "Don't trust your eyes. Stay on the rope and move fast."
Guided by Pudding's senses, Cane led them toward the main road. Minutes later, his boots hit solid stone.
"GET BACK!" Fergis stumbled, raising his hands.
"BALEFIRE!"
Through the rune-bond, Cane saw the spell erupt—Azar's fire melting a hole clean through the granite.
"BALEFIRE!" Fergis shouted again.
Cane:"Stop! You're being tricked. Nothing's there."
Fergis:"It's a banshee! Elder class, I swear—"
Cane:"Close your eyes. All of you. Now."
Fergis hesitated—then obeyed.
And so they ran. Four students, hands gripping a shared rope, eyes squeezed shut, guided only by instinct, trust... and the bond of a falcon-owl watching overhead.
The wind roared. Screams tore through the air like knives.
And then—silence.
They reached the main gate.
"Cane!"
Sophie stood at the gate, her expression tight with worry.
He exhaled, relief washing over him. "Let's head back to the estate."
Then—his eyes shifted. The starlight within turned amber.
Sophie vanished.
From above, Pudding's vision pierced the illusion. The girl disappeared, replaced by her: cloaked in shadow, surrounded by a storm of spinning ravens.
Laughter rippled through the night—low, taunting, threaded with dread.
She stood at the city gate, framed by the mauled bodies of two guards splayed across the cobbled path.
Fergis:"Why's Sophie here…?"
Cane:"She's not. Eyes closed—we're up against an illusionist."
The ravens whirled faster as she stepped forward, each footfall graceful, deliberate. Cane felt the tug of time distortion—spatial magic laced with her steps.
Cane: "Ten o'clock. Twenty meters. She's cloaking herself in slowed time."
Her eyes locked on him. Cold. Black. Smiling.
"The infamous metallurgist," she purred. "I see the rune on you. If you're hurt enough… someone will come running."
Cane: "Uncle Telamon will. That'll be the end of you."
She tilted her head, amused. "Uncle Telamon?" A flicker passed through her expression. "Hmm. Troublesome—even if it's a lie."
Her eyes narrowed. "Choose, then. Which one of your friends will die?"
Cane: "Now!"
Starbolt surged to his hand. His shield followed in a flash.
Starlight erupted—piercing blue and brilliant white—just before Cane slammed into her.
The strike broke through her first defense in a violent burst. Her shielding rune shattered. Her left arm hung limp, ruined.
BOOM—
BALEFIRE—
Clara's blunderbuss cracked like thunder. Fergis's flames followed, searing through her collapsing wards.
Cane shifted again, thrusting forward with Starbolt.
The witch staggered—eyes wide, lips parting in shock.
Blood trickled from her mouth as she looked down.
Cane's trident had pierced her chest clean through.
She crumpled onto the road, ravens scattering like smoke on the wind.
Dhalia stepped forward, scanning the fallen woman, then kneeling beside the fallen guards.
Dhalia: "She's dead. The guards have… hundreds of tiny wounds. Razor-sharp."
Cane:"Raven storm."
A blur of motion—Elohan landed lightly beside them, twin daggers drawn.
Elohan:"I was returning from a hunt. Saw Balefire's flash, heard Clara's cannon. Who is she?"
Cane:"No idea. But we're taking her back to the estate."
He stared at the corpse, blood still fresh on his trident. "Let's notify First Knight Rowe."
**
"Dread Ravena…" Meya Rowe nudged the corpse with an armored boot. "One of the captains in the Terror Legion."
She and Violetta had arrived minutes after the message was sent. Gate guards were doubled. Mages stationed at every entrance.
Clara wrinkled her nose. "Why do the Terror Legion all have scary names? Isn't there a Thomas? Or a Johanne?"
A quiet rift shimmered nearby. Telamon stepped through as lightly as a falling leaf.
He knelt beside the body, searching with precise movements. From her effects, he drew a clock-shaped artifact and a bracer made of raven feathers. "Are you alright, nephew?"
Cane nodded. "Yes, Uncle."
Fergis blinked. "What? What!?"
Clara:"We must be stuck in an illusion again…"
Dhalia: "I don't think so."
Telamon handed the artifact to Cane. "There's a reward for her death—five thousand platinum. You might want to keep this."
Cane accepted it, and the world vanished.
Darkness… then starlight. His twin stars—white and blue—froze above him, locked in orbit. But something new formed between them, red and pulsing, held in tension by their opposing forces.
He recognized the artifact without knowing how.
Cold Iron.
He didn't understand its full meaning—yet. But the metallurgist from his dreams revered it, going so far as to entomb the dead inside.
Telamon had once said time flowed differently within and around Cold Iron. It was rare now, nearly forgotten, but once as common as stone during the First Rise of Man.
More than anything, it felt like home.
His thoughts spiraled—dreams of old names: Ironheart. Ironfist. Ironclan.
In the very first dream, a young boy had been sealed inside a Cold Iron vessel while the world crumbled. Telamon told him that vision came from the First Rise, when Archmages shattered continents.
The past few months had only strengthened Cane's conviction.
That boy wasn't just a vision.
He was an ancestor. Maybe not even a distant one.
Cane thought of the valley near his village. It had always been forbidden.
Elders claimed it was overrun with Tripids—half-men, human-eating beasts. But Telamon and Vel had laughed at that, calling it superstition.
He looked up at the stars again. The red pulsing presence between them hadn't faded.
A third aspect?
Maybe something more.
Leaving that world wasn't easy. Not for lack of strength or will—but because he didn't want to go.
Cold Iron felt like everything he had ever loved: memory, taste, sorrow, laughter. It felt like home.
And then—he was back.
No more than an eyeblink had passed.
Telamon's hand rested gently on his shoulder. "Are you alright, nephew?"
It had started as a joke, but now—somehow—it felt real.
Cane nodded, voice soft. "Yes, Uncle. I'm just thinking about the valley near my village… and what I might find there."