The First Rise of Man. When a Master Metallurgist died, their body was submerged into Cold Iron—sealed beneath the ground—and the earth salted above. A quiet, reverent warning to any who would dare disturb what had been buried.
Cane recalled a conversation with Telamon months earlier, after the Banshee slaughtered the farmers. The memory lingered as he came to a slow stop beneath a ridgeline, ducking into a natural hollow of wind-cut stone. Rock formations shielded them from both sight and wind.
Then he felt it.
A swirling hum through his bones. A resonance he hadn't sensed since entering the protected valley near his old home.
Cold iron was near.
"Cane, Philas wishes to speak with you." Gadira's voice echoed through his thoughts from the ringworld.
Cane's senses dropped into the other realm. His grandfather still sat at the cottage table, the Book of Ironborn open before him.
Philas didn't speak. He simply pointed to the map—where three red dots glowed within a tight cluster.
"It seems likely," Philas said finally, "that the Cold Iron has been removed from three of the bodies."
Cane studied the formation. "We're close. I'll report back soon."
He let the union fade, then activated his stealth. "Ready?"
Moriwynn nodded. Her stride was quieter this time, more measured.
The light was still good—just enough to survey the compound nestled in the ruins of an old iron mine. Shafts and cave mouths dotted the area, each with reinforced doors, inset windows, and runic light strips glowing along the thresholds.
Mori touched his arm, holding out a small psi-comm bracer.
Without a word, Cane slipped it over his wrist. The psi-rune behind his ear dimmed.
Moriwynn: Can you hear me?
Cane: Yes.
Moriwynn: Judging by the energy and the complexity of these entrances, this place is probably much larger than it appears.
Cane: Agreed. But the mission doesn't change. I need you to wait in the ringworld.
Moriwynn: What if there's trouble?
Cane: I'll bring you out.
Moriwynn: You'll need me to detect runes. Security measures like these are never simple. My senses are adapted for this.
Cane: Not needed.
Moriwynn: Cane—
Cane: Any entrance will be heavily trapped. Which is why I'm not using one. In you go.
She stared at him, arms crossed, visibly annoyed. But after a long pause, she sighed and nodded—vanishing into the ringworld with a flicker of light.
Cane moved like a shadow, slipping between rocks and staying low, even with his stealth engaged. The mine's front entrances held no appeal. He followed instinct—veering away, down a narrow gully that curved behind the main shaft.
Cold Iron called to him.
He stopped at the edge of a wash of deep red earth, the stone shot through with ancient veins of iron ore. It was everywhere—tailings, missed seams, the faint pulse of dormant strength. His body thrummed with it.
He formed a union with the ringworld and stepped forward—merging with the ore.
The descent wasn't like slipping into pure metal. This was slower, dragging, hindered by raw stone. But still, it welcomed him. This was his domain. His element.
He slid through the veins like silt in water, slow but certain.
Then, with a breath, he dropped lightly into a narrow, dimly lit hallway deep underground. Glowing strips traced the edges of the ceiling like veins of restrained energy.
Without hesitation, Cane summoned Moriwynn.
It was time.
The thick steel door was locked. Probably barred. It didn't matter.
In front of a metallurgist, such barriers were meaningless.
The door began to ripple—splitting down the middle and flowing outward like water. A moment later, Cane stepped inside.
"A morgue?" Mori guessed, her voice quiet. Bodies were stacked on metal shelves, each draped in white cloth. "Are these them?"
"Some of them." Cane moved down the aisle, placing a hand on each body—one by one—vanishing them into the ringworld.
The door behind them slammed open with a thunderous BANG, bouncing off the wall.
A woman stood in the doorway.
Her skin was pale, deathly. Her clothes were little more than rags. Her eyes—empty, obsidian black—fixed on them with unblinking precision.
"Corpse manipulation," Mori hissed, her hands flaring to life with magic. "Necromancy!"
The corpse raised its hand.
The metal shelving twisted and extended with terrifying speed—like a beast suddenly uncoiled. Before Mori could move, steel bars wrapped around her, impaling her through the side, binding her mid-step.
Cane reacted instantly, uniting with the ringworld and accelerating. He blurred forward—but stopped short.
The black-eyed woman stood in his path. Feet planted. Hands loose. Energy coiled around her like a storm waiting to break.
"No."
The word rasped from her throat, brittle with disuse. But something in her voice… felt familiar.
Cane's jaw tightened. "Shit… Meriand Ironfoot."
She'd been a neighbor. A good one. Old, tired, and certainly not a metallurgist.
He summoned Starstrike, slashing downward—not to kill, just to create space.
The axe stopped. Mid-air. As if the weapon refused to pass between them.
Cane backpedaled, then feinted low—only to kick her squarely in the chest. Bones crunched. She flew backward and hit the ground hard.
But she stood again. Slow. Calm.
A hole gaped where her chest had caved in—bone, cartilage, and ruined flesh visible. The body wasn't regenerating. It didn't need to.
"You're rotting," Cane said, eyes narrowing. "That shouldn't be possible. You weren't like this before. You weren't even a metallurgist."
She moved again—faster this time, her form blurring with warped speed.
Cane ducked back and slammed Starstrike into the floor. A wave of Glacial Ice surged up around her, freezing her mid-motion. In the same breath, he appeared beside the ice prison and slashed clean through—severing her arm below the elbow.
The rest of the corpse sizzled—like grease on a hot skillet—melting down to sludge. Skin, muscle, bone… all dissolved.
He caught the severed arm and threw it into the ringworld before it too could dissolve.
Then he turned toward Moriwynn.
She was still bound—unconscious, bleeding.
He moved cautiously, reaching out. "It's Cane. I'm going to free you."
He touched the twisted metal, not merging fully—just enough to command it. The steel shivered, then withdrew.
Her eyes snapped open, wide and wild. Anger. Pain. Fear.
Then she doubled over, shivering… and vomited.
Cane caught her, steadying her. "Mori…"
She breathed hard. "A dark element… the opposite of mine." Her voice trembled. "I couldn't— I wasn't ready."
"That wasn't just necromancy," Cane muttered. "She didn't recognize me. And she is using skills she never had."
Moriwynn straightened, wiped her mouth, and pressed glowing hands to her chest. Elven runes shimmered across her armor, then vanished beneath her skin.
"They're called undead," she said grimly. "It's a twisted path. Forbidden in this realm."
"But not in yours?"
She shook her head. "Magic's nearly gone where I'm from. So… the dark paths flourish. I didn't expect this. That thing froze my elemental abilities."
Cane rested a hand on her shoulder. "We keep going. Two more left. And now, we know."
Mori blinked, surprised by the contact… and something else.
She felt it—a shift.
Not command.
Not control.
Camaraderie.
Within the ringworld, Philas waited.
Villagers began appearing—one after another—safe, preserved by spirals of Cold Iron embedded deep in their forearms.
Then came the final arrival.
Just an arm. Severed. Charred.
Philas stared at it. His jaw clenched. The flame of rage lit behind his eyes.
He turned to Gadira, who was watching nearby. "Tell Cane—destroy any others like this."
Gadira nodded, voice quiet as she relayed the message, though her eyes stayed locked on Philas. The old metallurgist stepped forward and gripped the ruined limb. With a grunt, he pulled something twisted and black, something that should have been Cold Iron.
Gadira flinched. "What is that?"
Philas spat into the grass, his expression sour. "An abomination. A desecration. It takes something meant for preservation—for life—and turns it into rot. The word doesn't exist in this rise, but long ago… we called it necrometal."
In the mine, Cane received the message silently.
"The mission has changed," he said. "We destroy the rest of the corpses. Completely."
Moriwynn didn't hesitate. She drew her sword. "Understood. Kill missions are cleaner."
A moment later, Gadira's voice echoed in Cane's mind again.
"Philas has another message… but he won't let me deliver it."
Cane slipped into the ringworld again, arriving in a quiet corner where Philas stood waiting.
"Yes?"
Philas wasted no time. "What you're seeing is the result of a node within Cold Iron—one that was never meant to be activated. It twists the properties of the metal, animating the dead instead of reviving their spirits."
Cane cursed under his breath. "The corpse we fought—it had metallurgy, time manipulation, full control over metal."
Philas nodded grimly. "Forbidden techniques. Created by fools who tried to bring back loved ones. It always ended in horror. That node turns Cold Iron into necrometal. It retains much of its parent's strength... but none of its sanctity."
Cane's voice was steel. "I'll find the source. And I'll end it."
He returned to the mine.
They continued deeper into the tunnels—until the next enemy arrived before either of them sensed it.
A black-tipped steel spear burst from the darkness, aimed straight for Moriwynn's heart.
BOOM.
A shattering burst of rune energy exploded between them, knocking both attacker and target back.
Cane moved instantly. Starstrike slammed into the floor, freezing the corpse's lower half in a shell of glacial ice.
Fëa na lothen i nauva ennas.
Moriwynn recovered mid-fall. Her hands glowed as she chanted ancient elven words—runic light blasted outward, striking the corpse's exposed upper body.
It disintegrated—ash and flame.
Something dark clattered to the stone floor: a black spiral of metal. It rolled briefly... then Cane stepped forward and crushed it with Starstrike.
Shards scattered.
Mori stared. "What was that?"
Cane exhaled. "Necrometal. From the First Rise. It has to be destroyed—completely. And so does anyone using it."