Cane waited until they were outside the tent before finally asking what was on his mind.
"Shouldn't you be the captain?"
Ignatius shook his head. "I'll serve as training officer. The Archmage was clear—you command the company."
"What about uniforms?"
"You and your command staff will be issued standard gear. The rest of us will continue with what we have."
Ignatius unfurled a map, tapping a small valley a few miles out.
"We'll set up here. Out of sight. If this works, we'll incorporate fire casting into basic training. It'll change everything."
"What's next?" Cane asked.
Ignatius smiled faintly. "You're the captain. What do you recommend?"
Cane paused.
"You four head to the training area—set up what you need. I'll meet the platoon sergeants, then join you."
Ignatius nodded. "Let's hit the quartermaster for mounts and tents, then we're out."
Clara tapped her psi-rune and frowned. "Our group link's muted."
"Standard for field ops," Ignatius explained. "We'll use a different comm platform. What's our company designation, Captain?"
Cane hesitated. Fergis nudged him.
"Uh... Fury Company."
—
At the quartermaster's, they were issued gear—tents, mounts, three uniforms each, a sword, and either a bow and quiver or a spear and shield, depending on focus.
The others headed out.
Cane stayed.
The Fury banner was being handmade on the spot—black field, red fireball center.
Less than an hour later, it was done. He stored his gear and made his way to Rally Point 473.
He found the spot easily enough.
Setting up a folding table and chair, Cane stabbed the Fury guidon into the soil. From his storage ring, he pulled a roll of gossamer adamantium and began weaving the metal into his uniforms. He'd done it before—on robes, armor, and foci. The familiar rhythm steadied his mind.
Meanwhile…
Commander Terok Begile paused mid-briefing as four soldiers were brought before him.
"You've been assigned to a new company—special training. Do your best. Report to area 473. Commander's name is Cane Ironheart."
The four saluted and left promptly.
It wasn't until they were halfway across camp that the woman spoke.
"Did he say Cane Ironheart? As in Cane's Folly?"
She was dark-skinned, black hair cropped short, brown eyes constantly scanning.
The two men in the middle exchanged matching grins—brothers who'd served for three years and finally ended up in the same unit.
The last man said nothing. Old. Scarred. Salt-and-pepper stubble, close-shaved scalp etched with a map of old wounds. Davon should've retired years ago, but he'd enlisted at the start of the war—and refused to leave before the Zuni Empire surrendered.
—
By the time they arrived, Cane had finished forging three Interwoven Adamantium uniforms, each enhanced with his Glacial Ice rune. The result: battle gear tinted olive green with a blue-tinged shimmer.
He stood as the four approached.
"Are you Cane Ironheart?" asked the older man—respect in his tone, curiosity in his eyes.
"I am," Cane said, offering a handshake. "No need for formalities. Let's get names."
"Davon," the old soldier replied.
"Teek," said the woman. She smiled. "The rumors are true. Your eyes reflect stars."
"Raymi," said one of the brothers, gesturing to the other. "And this is Yavo."
Cane nodded. The group felt solid—experienced, capable.
"Who here uses a sword?"
All four raised hands.
"Perfect. You must have questions. Speak your mind—nothing's off limits."
Davon pointed at the trident leaning against the table.
"You planning to use that?"
"You don't like it?"
"It's not really a soldier's weapon," Davon said bluntly.
The others nodded.
Cane smiled.
Twin stars burst to life above his head. All four flinched instinctively as Starbolt shifted—its three tines merging into a sleek, singular spearhead.
Cane spun the weapon once and locked eyes with his new team.
"How about now?"
"Place your uniforms on the table. Ditch that worthless leather crap you've been hauling around."
Cane sat behind the table, calm, almost casual—ignoring the frowns aimed his way. He picked up Teek's uniform first.
The four sergeants watched in silence as Cane worked.
With practiced ease, he wove the thin membrane of adamantium into the fabric, his fingers moving with a smith's precision. A few minutes later, he raised Blue, the mythic hammer glowing faintly, and tapped the Glacial Ice rune into the cloth.
The uniform shimmered with a faint bluish hue as he set it on the table.
"I can see some of you aren't sold. That's fine," Cane said, leaning back in his chair. "Here's the deal—one strike. If you can damage it, I'll give you a hundred platinum."
Teek's eyes lit up. "Each?"
"Sure," Cane said with a smile. "Just don't damage my table."
Raymi stepped up first, swinging his blade in a heavy overhand strike.
Yavo followed, gripping his sword with both hands and putting his full weight into the blow.
The uniform didn't so much as flinch.
The brothers examined the cloth.
"Not even a thread out of place," Yavo muttered. "I hit it hard enough to cleave armor."
Davon was next.
His stab came fast and deliberate, the kind of strike that could punch through a shield. When it bounced harmlessly off the rune-lined fabric, his weathered face twitched into the beginnings of a smile.
"Well. That's really something."
Teek picked up the garment, turning it in her hands.
"I'm convinced, Commander. Please—do the rest."
As Cane worked, they talked.
He listened more than he spoke—asking about their past assignments. Teek had served as a quartermaster but requested to move to frontline duty. Raymi and Yavo had rotated through three units already. Davon had lost count.
"What aren't you telling us?" Davon asked.
Cane paused.
"You'll find out tomorrow when we start training."
"Not even a hint?" Teek asked, grinning.
"What we're about to do out here will end the war."
That landed harder than expected.
For a few seconds, no one spoke.
They'd all heard speeches like that before—from officers who never made it home.
Cane could see it in their faces: a mix of doubt, bemusement, and faint interest. Standard procedure for new commanders—drop a bold promise and hope it sticks.
"Gather the troops. Make sure they have their general issue," Cane said. "We're relocating to a more secluded spot."
Teek rolled her eyes.
Cane pretended not to see it.
Three hours later…
Three hundred mounted soldiers rolled out of the staging area in a wide column, dust trailing in their wake.
At the head rode Cane Ironheart, the Fury Company guideon held high—black field, red fireball blazing in the sun.
Behind him rode his four sergeants.
And behind them, the future of the Allied Realm.
The valley opened beneath them like a bowl carved into the hills.
Cane crested the ridge and scanned the clearing below. Non-regulation tents dotted one side—his team's camp—and beyond that, a long row of training dummies stood in formation. The same kind Ignatius used in beginner fire classes. Durable. Burn-resistant. Brutalized often.
He pointed past the tents to a wide flat clearing.
"Set up there. Be ready to go at 0600."
Davon's eyes moved slowly, taking in the terrain. "You care about camp composition?"
"You've each got a platoon. Camp layout's your call—just keep me in the loop."
Davon nodded. "Five medium tents for mine should do."
The others agreed with quiet headshakes.
"Does my platoon have a name?" Davon asked, half-joking.
"Yeah. First Platoon," Cane replied, deadpan. "Pass training, you get to name it."
He turned to the others.
"Teek, you're Second. Raymi—Third. Yavo—Fourth."
The brothers shared matching grins. Teek's face stayed unreadable.
Cane pitched his own tent next to Ignatius's—a circular, rune-warmed structure with light, heat, and a bed that didn't feel like penance.
Two hours later, the mess wagon arrived.
Cooks, helpers, and crates of supplies rolled in like a mobile village. On Davon's advice, Cane positioned them strategically between the training field and the camp. Center of gravity.
"You want what?" Teek asked, one brow arched.
"Everyone's service sword and uniforms," Cane said, rolling up his sleeves at a freshly extended workbench near his tent. "I'll upgrade them tonight."
"What if we're attacked?" Teek folded her arms, testing him.
Fergis, lounging nearby, flashed a crooked grin.
"Don't worry. I'll protect the camp."
Teek arched an eyebrow. "Got a thing for gingers, but you look a little young."
Without a word, Fergis drew Azar in a smooth motion. He aimed at the valley wall—fifteen meters away.
BALEFIRE.
White flame erupted from the blade, searing a perfect, smoldering circle into solid granite—just wider than a man's head.
Fergis gave a casual eyebrow wag.
"Anything else, Sergeant?"
Teek studied him, a flicker of curiosity dancing in her eyes.
"Impressive. What's your name?"
"Fergis. I'll be assisting with training."
"Well then," she murmured. "I look forward to it."
Clara strolled by, her freckled face amused.
"You flirting with that soldier? Isn't Mona gonna get jealous?"
Fergis scowled. "Don't talk about Mona."
Cane laughed, already laying out materials.
"It's gonna be a long night. I'll upgrade all the uniforms to interwoven adamantium and attune every sword to the fire element."