The group stared at Cane, mouths agape. The smithy was dead silent, like a tomb echoing with a forgotten truth.
"When I got here," Cane began, his voice steady, "I found the old forge and restarted it. Wanted to keep my work separate from Academy business, so I created an alter ego. Used my mentor's name—he's registered in the capital, just in case someone started asking questions."
"Shit…" Fergis muttered, staring at the older man behind the mask. "Take it off for a second. I want to see the runes."
Cane did, slipping the blacksilver mask from his face and reverting instantly to himself.
"That's some serious rune work," Fergis murmured, turning the mask over in his hands with reverence. "This feels like... Nos-level, or the Archmage himself."
Cane nodded. "Uncle did the work."
He didn't mention the personal transport rune connecting the smithy to his room. Some secrets could remain in place.
"Can I try it?" Fergis grinned. When Cane nodded, he slipped it on—and changed. His frame thickened, red hair streaked with gray, shoulders filling out like a man with twenty years of hard labor under his belt.
Clara clapped. "Me next!"
One by one, the team took turns. Dhalia grew sharper somehow, her expression more cutting. Clara looked like a version of herself that had definitely seen a few bar fights. When Sophie finally slipped it on, her changes were minimal—only a few threads of gray in her hair, her figure and voice unchanged.
No surprise to Cane. Lorna Sweetwater looked barely older than her daughter.
Sophie still looked stunned after several minutes. "I've talked to the masked blacksmith so many times. He always seemed wise… and a little scary."
"Fitting," Cane said with a grin. "I'm both wise and scary."
Sophie slipped the mask back on him, then hugged him tightly. "Mmm. This version is nice too. Something to look forward to."
Cane blinked. "I… don't even know how to respond to that."
Fergis slammed his hand on the workbench, making everyone jump. "Those bastards took your friend?! We're getting him back, right?"
"That's the plan," Cane confirmed. "Our gear's already upgraded. Just need to check in with Uncle."
Telamon was waiting when Cane arrived at his study, already seated with a steaming cup of tea, eyebrows rising the moment he sensed the cold iron Cane carried.
"I take it your trip was… informative."
Cane took the seat across from him. "I've got a lot to tell you."
He began at the start—losing Jonas Ironfist the night the Veda sank. Then the empty village, the unmarked graves. The Cold Iron cube. His grandfather Philas, a metallurgist from the First Rise of Man. Finally, his parents—alive, and waiting in the timeless world within the cube.
Telamon listened quietly, face unreadable until Cane paused.
"Incredible," the Archmage said finally. "Your parents—brought back within Cold Iron. Alive, but bound."
"It's not resurrection," Cane said softly. "They're there. I can visit. That's enough."
Telamon nodded. "And Jonas?"
"We have to rescue him. He's alive. On the Western Front."
"We will. I'll have Elohan meet with you. Do some recon."
Cane hesitated, then added, "There's something else. I caught a spy."
Telamon's gaze sharpened.
"I didn't kill her. Knocked her out and tossed her into the ring. If she's bonded or connected to someone powerful, she might be trackable… or expendable."
"Smart move," Telamon said. "Let's see what she knows."
He traced a rune in the air, forming an opaque dome of silvery light that settled around the two of them like a curtain.
"Bring her out," Telamon said calmly. "Let's ask some questions."
Cane sat the woman in the chair, keeping a firm hand on her shoulder while Telamon cast a binding spell. A flicker of guilt twisted in his chest—he'd struck her hard. She was slim, black-haired, dressed in expensive clothes that didn't match a typical spy's garb.
Telamon stepped forward and gently touched a finger to her forehead.
Her eyes snapped open.
"What is this?" she gasped, alarm flashing across her face—then vanishing beneath a sudden, eerie calm.
"Who do you work for?" Telamon asked, tone friendly, conversational.
"I don't work for anyone," she said lightly.
"A lie," Telamon replied, smiling faintly. "Let's try again. Are you an agent of the Zuni Empire?"
"Zuni Empire?" she scoffed. "I'm a merchant! This is a mistake."
Her emotions were well-crafted—but they rang false. Too even. Too rehearsed.
"Another lie," Telamon said with a small sigh, tapping his cane on the floor. "Do you know what happened to the people of Hybacus village?"
"I've never heard of that place. Please… just let me go."
"Not one truth so far," Telamon mused aloud. "Fascinating."
He studied her as if assembling a puzzle. "The Zuni don't collect corpses, not like this. Only one force I know of has ever shown this much interest in the dead."
His voice sharpened. "Do you work for Terror?"
The woman blinked. "What? No. I don't even know what that is—Terror?"
Telamon waved a hand, silencing her instantly.
"She's one of Terror's agents," he said flatly. "Now that we know, we don't need to waste kindness."
Cane stepped closer, watching her. Her calm was eroding now—not quite fear, but wariness. Wariness laced with recognition.
"I can see it," Cane said. "That facade you're hiding behind—it's not strength. It's ignorance." He leaned down slightly. "This is Archmage Telamon."
The woman's face changed immediately. Her eyes widened, panic spilling through them. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her pupils dilated. She trembled.
She knew the name.
Telamon shook his head. "You're one of Terror's creatures. This is no longer a civilian matter—this is military. You'll be turned over to our intelligence interrogators. But first…"
He traced a sigil in the air, the runes sharp and black as ink. A tendril of shadow rose from the woman's forehead, slithering upward like a serpent made of hate. It twisted, writhing in the light—radiating fury, pain, and rot.
The moment the entity was pulled free, the woman collapsed, unconscious.
Telamon produced a clear crystal vial, calmly capturing the darkness as it tried to flee. The tendril hissed in the glass, then curled in on itself.
"Another tethered agent," he murmured, corking the vial and slipping it away. "Terror's reach is growing."
Cane exhaled slowly, jaw tight. "The Strix that attacked us during the main gun test… that was Terror's doing."
Telamon nodded once. "And now you understand the stakes. This war has layers the public doesn't see—and agents like this are the knives being slipped between our ribs."