The moon cast silver light over a small clearing just off the main road, ten hours from the capital. Crickets sang in waves, joined by the occasional hoot of an owl or distant howl echoing across the hills.
Lorna stood with her arms folded, smiling as she watched her husband struggle with the tent. Dagan refused any help, naturally. But on the third attempt, he finally managed it.
"You're a man among men," she said, half-mocking, half-amused.
"Right?" Dagan flexed an arm, then winced and grabbed his back. "Might've pulled something."
Lorna peeked inside and raised an eyebrow. "A plush mattress? Full linens? You really went all out."
Dagan waggled his eyebrows. "Cookfire's lit. Let's eat and maybe turn in early. I brought brandy."
Two miles away, a small group tied off their horses beneath the tree line. Five in all—stealth specialist in the lead, flanked by two archers, a fire mage, and a dual-blade mercenary. A warhound stalked beside the mage, nearly twice the size of a man, eyes glowing faintly with arcane obedience.
They moved in silence through the tall grass.
And then she was there.
No warning. One moment—empty field. The next—Moriwynn.
She stood between them and the caravan, wearing Glacial Frost armor that shimmered with refracted moonlight. Her sword sang a single, deadly note as it slid free of its scabbard.
The leader froze. Elfen. No mistaking the unnatural grace. A chill passed through him.
"No one move," he hissed. "We mean you no harm."
"Only because you are incapable of doing so," Moriwynn replied, stepping forward. Her blade hung low, slicing effortlessly through the tall grass, each stalk it touched instantly turning to ice.
"We're allies of the elves," he offered quickly.
Her head tilted, expression unreadable. "You're attacking a caravan under my protection."
"Ca—caravan?" His blood ran cold. "We didn't know… Mercy, please. We'll leave. We'll go."
Moriwynn's voice was calm, but final. "Mercy is a human word. It does not exist in my native tongue. Those who do wrong… receive swift justice."
She paused. "However… I will show mercy this once."
The leader exhaled, knees nearly buckling. "Thank you—"
Her eyes flashed blue.
"I shall spare the hound, for it is innocent."
In a blink, she moved. The swordsman's head fell before his body registered the loss. The leader didn't have time to scream. One smooth sidestep—two archers crumpled to the ground, arrows clattering uselessly.
Flames burst from the fire mage in panic, engulfing the spot Moriwynn had stood—but she was already behind her. A blade pierced the mage's chest and exited with a sound like tearing silk. The woman's eyes went wide with regret, but no words came.
Moriwynn's hands shimmered as spiritual energy surged through them. She reached toward the warhound and, with a pulse of light, severed its magical bond.
The beast lowered its head, subdued and confused but no longer aggressive.
With a flick of her wrist, she stored it in a flash of rune-light.
She stacked the bodies into a pile, uncorked a small glass vial, and dashed its contents over them. Blue fire erupted, devouring flesh, bone, and metal alike until nothing remained but ash swirling in the wind.
The night was quiet again.
**
The dream had changed again.
Telamon had warned Cane that the metallurgy dreams weren't dreams at all, but echoes—memories left behind to train him. This time, Cane felt that truth more strongly than ever.
A young woman moved with quiet precision, her hands shaping spirals of metal so intricate they looked like sculpture. Art, not armor. Expression, not weaponry. Above her, a softly glowing anvil pulsed with warmth and rhythm.
She had chosen her path. A path of creation, not war.
Three older men stood nearby, their eyes filled with disapproval.
"We should sanction her until she relents," one said coldly. The others nodded at once. "This path is a waste of her talent and time."
But even as the words left his mouth, light erupted.
A second anvil burst into being—above her, beside the first. Twin glows danced in the air like twin hearts. The old man's voice cracked with awe.
"A second aspect…"
Then the scene faded.
Cane opened his eyes.
An anvil aspect… He sat up slowly, the thought circling in his mind. "Is my star an aspect? Is that why I had this dream—because I have two now?"
He dressed in silence, mind still on the young woman with twin anvils, her calm defiance, the flash of legacy in that second light.
"I need to know more," he muttered. "How it's used. What it means. What the limits are."
It couldn't be coincidence. The second anvil, the second star—there had to be a trigger. A pattern. He needed answers.
But for now, there was work to be done.
"Install the RED rail, and we'll be ready for the final steps—keel and mast," he said, mentally ticking down his list. "Sails and rigging are already on order. Fire-resistant weave… far beyond anything in the navy's standard specs. Trust Ignius to find the most expensive thread in the world."
He smiled faintly and shook the thoughts loose.
Cane stepped out of Seven Tower, eyes set toward the harbor. There was still so much to do.
Cane walked toward the harbor, spotting Dhalia waiting near the main gate.
"You waiting on me?"
Dhalia nodded. "Yeah… I couldn't sleep last night, so I hit the library. Found a badly damaged book on rare beasts. Surprisingly, a few pages on manticores survived."
"Learn anything useful?"
"Maybe. We already knew they're nocturnal, but it's even more extreme than we thought. Their eyes are extremely light-sensitive."
"That helps." Cane nodded. "Since they're flame-tolerant, Fergis should focus on his flare spell—blind them instead of burn. Anything else?"
"Yeah. Clara was right about the bacon. Wild hog is their preferred prey."
"Nice work, Dhalia." Cane stepped onto the rocky path. "I missed the morning workout. How'd it go?"
"Great. It's only been a week and I can actually breathe when I run." She smirked. "Clara and Fergis were racing again."
Cane laughed. "Both vying for fastest ginger at the Academy."
Dhalia nodded, expression flat. "That might actually be it."
They reached the harbor as Brammel and the Metallurgy classes arrived, hauling titanium tubes with platinum coils secured inside.
Brammel grinned. "How do you want to do this, lad?"
Cane kicked off his shoes and scaled the boat's side. "On the deck."
As he climbed, starlight erupted above him. This time, it was different. Everyone stopped and stared.
Cane looked up, unbothered. "Hmm? You've seen it before."
Brammel held up two fingers. "You've got another one up there."
Cane turned, unsurprised. The second star matched the new mark on his chest. It was blue—pulsing—and it orbited the original white star. The combined glow wasn't brighter, but it felt warmer. Soothing. Balanced.
Inside the world of metal, the runed tungtanium shimmered with glacial hues, as expected. But now there were nodes—tiny flickering points within the alloy. Inactive. Disconnected. New.
"What do you see, lad?" Brammel asked, sensing the hesitation.
"Nodes. Don't know what they do yet." Cane backed away. "I'll experiment with them later on a smaller scale."
Brammel clapped. "All right then. Everyone, grab a tube and line them along the rail so our miracle worker can do his thing."
Cane began with Brammel's tube, instantly melding it to the uprights, then walked the length of the deck. Coil and tube became one continuous structure. A seamless perimeter rail.
Once the empty rail was sealed, Brammel pumped oil into the tubes until it overflowed from the release duct. Cane stepped in and sealed both ends, then altered the RED's properties—binding it permanently to the ship.
A rift shimmered open above the harbor. No surprise—Telamon often dropped in to check progress. But this one radiated overwhelming pressure. Only Brammel and Cane stayed rooted in place. The twin stars above Cane flared as something long and white floated through.
Telamon followed behind, and with a flick of his hand, the weight lifted.
Brammel whistled. "Primal bone?"
Telamon's gaze lingered on Cane's second star before he spoke. "Can you install this now?"
Cane nodded. "This is the mast?"
"And the power source," Telamon replied. "Primal Roc bone—naturally imbued with wind essence. Ideal for a ship like this."
"I wasn't prepared for this. How do we get it upright?"
"Leave that to me."
Telamon raised his hands, and the bone lifted, rotating into perfect vertical alignment.
Cane's stars brightened, casting silver-blue light across the deck. He could feel it—the raw residual energy in the bone. Ancient. Potent.
The deck shifted. A socket opened seamlessly, and the mast lowered into place, the titanium hull adjusting to embrace it fully. Even without runes, power arced along the pathways.
"Open the levee—everyone on deck," Telamon said, stepping beside the mast. He turned to Cane. "Ready to place the keel?"
"Yes." Cane glanced at Brammel. "I stacked six sheets of tungtanium in the hull. I'll extend them and shape the keel."
Water rose a few meters—just enough for the ship to nudge forward. Telamon guided it into the shallows of the bay.
Below deck, Cane and Brammel spread the tungtanium sheets end to end.
Brammel slapped his hands together. "Do it!"
Cane melded the sheets, then extended the alloy down into the sea, forming a seamless keel from stem to stern.
"This is it…"
Cane entered the metal-world again, his consciousness walking through the tungtanium. He fused the whole with the Roc bone mast. Mana surged, a storm swirling around the ship. Sparks of energy. Lines of light. The world rang with resonance.
Music.
A symphony of metal and memory, swirling through his senses—until the light began to fade.
Cane stumbled back, breath hitching, stars dimming.
He dropped to his knees.
"This ship's name," he said quietly, "is Starsong."