Elohan stood casually within a few meters of a roaming guard as the man passed by, none the wiser. Wrapped in air, his presence bent and scattered, the elf moved unseen—studying the camp's layout with a thief's eye and a scout's precision.
It was standard military fare: a sprawling tent city meant to confuse and deter any would-be intruders. Getting past hundreds of soldiers didn't bother him. He could feel who to avoid—like invisible threads tugging at his senses. A lifetime of danger had taught him the subtle difference between a patrolman and a predator.
Terror was in camp.
Elohan muttered a quiet curse.
The Commandant of the Terror Legion radiated power and depravity.
The elf had considered killing him on instinct—not out of revenge, but because a man like that would carry rare, valuable things. Elohan had always liked stealing things.
But Telamon had warned him: Do not engage. Not under any circumstances.
So he held back.
The core of the camp reeked of darkness. Not metaphor, but true corruption—the kind that clung to the soil and air like rot in the bones of the world. Terror had managed to contain the worst of it to his quadrant, likely because his superiors and underlings preferred their soldiers alive and sane, not turned into mindless horrors.
A field smithy had been set up at the camp's outer edge. Elohan crept closer, eyes narrowing as he studied the rocky terrain. The ground was uneven, the approach exposed—no trees, no natural cover. Worse, ravens were everywhere. Even if Cane's team made it this far unseen, stealth wouldn't last.
He considered teaching the boy to bend air. Cane had shown aptitude for that kind of magic—Elohan had sensed it even at their first meeting.
The auction, he thought, frowning at the memory. He'd slipped through the in-between to steal a blade, confident in his concealment—until Cane had reached in and grabbed him. That moment changed everything.
Telamon had "invited" him to the Academy soon after.
In truth, these days, Cane's team felt like his people.
Elohan continued moving, noting guard patterns, perimeter sweeps, and posture. These weren't soft, lounging garrison troops. They were the real thing—veterans tempered on the edge of war, sharp and focused, like a blade held ready to plunge.
The steady pounding of a hammer drew him in.
He followed the sound to a makeshift forge and stopped cold.
There was Jonas Ironfist.
The smith's hair had been shaved, but his unmistakable red beard remained. He was as broad as two men, arms like hammers, legs like pillars. A shackle bound his ankle to the ground, the chain pulsing with magic—heavy, dangerous, and likely linked to Terror himself. Cutting it would trigger something spectacularly bad.
But it wasn't the chain that gave Elohan pause.
It was Jonas's eyes.
One was bright blue. The other, black as void.
Elohan moved closer, almost breathless. Jonas wasn't just imprisoned—he was tethered. A link of living darkness pulsed through him, trying to consume him from the inside out. But Jonas was fighting it. Not symbolically—physically. His body was a battleground. The corruption had only claimed half of him, and even that half was resisting.
"Interesting," Elohan murmured.
A lesser man would have been lost. But Jonas... Jonas was holding the line.
Still, this mission had shifted.
Rescuing him wouldn't be simple.
Not for Cane. Not for cadets.
Not anymore.
Elohan turned and began his retreat, fading from the enemy camp like mist at dawn.
**
Introduction to Melee Fighting was held in the southern courtyard. Though spacious, the area was bordered on all sides by vibrant, fragrant flowerbeds—perhaps to temper the aggression of would-be warriors with beauty. Tables of practice weapons stood along the edges, alongside a stack of generic leather-and-steel breastplates and a modest medical tent.
Cane peeked inside the open flap of the tent and spotted a familiar figure.
"Hey, you," he said, grinning. "Didn't know you were assigned to this class."
Dhalia looked up from a shelf stacked with vials and tins. "I'm not, really. My intermediate medical class does rotations. I'll be here two, maybe three times this cycle."
"This class get a lot of injuries?"
"Fair share," she said. "Mostly blunt force. These blades wouldn't cut butter."
"What classes are you taking again?"
"Intermediate Medicine, Beginning Runes, and of course… HOM."
Cane groaned. "Ugh. HOM." History of Magic was a mandatory nightmare for all first years. At least he shared the pain with Clara and Dhalia.
"Do you know the instructor for this class?" he asked.
"Just by reputation. Clara hates him."
Cane chuckled. "Is this the guy she claimed was always beating her up last cycle?"
"Yep. Same guy."
"Cya later." Cane gave a quick wave and stepped back into the sun.
Near the weapons table, a tall figure stood inspecting the blades—picking them up one at a time, swiping the air with slow precision before setting each one down again.
"Morning. I'm Cane."
The man looked up. His dark, angular face was marked with a few scars and a nose that had clearly met more than one fist.
"Kunig," he said, extending a hand. "Seen you around at staff meetings."
Cane nodded as they shook. "Yeah. You usually sit behind Selene Morva."
Kunig flushed slightly. "Can I pretend that's accidental?"
Cane laughed. "If you want to." As a merfolk hybrid, Selene's presence tended to draw attention. She also happened to be Neri's half-sister and one of Cane's closest friends.
"I've heard stories about your weapons," Kunig said, his voice turning curious. "Mind if I see one up close?"
Cane nodded and handed him his primary weapon.
"You're using a sword?" Kunig turned it in his hands, his expression shifting from mild interest to focused scrutiny. "I heard you favored a hammer-axe hybrid… and a trident."
"Starstrike's taken a sword form for now," Cane explained. "Starbolt's settled on a spear."
Kunig passed the blade back with a faint grin. "Not bad. But you won't be able to use those in Intro to Melee."
Cane followed his gaze to the courtyard tables—each laid out with blunt, enchantment-heavy practice weapons. Rounded points, dulled edges, and Cane could feel the telltale signature of Telamon's handiwork. Safety spells. Smart ones.
He picked up a practice blade and frowned. It was clunky. Off balance. Boring.
He breathed in and reached out—not physically, but through his trinity aspect—slipping into the tired metal. Starlight flickered overhead as the weapon shifted subtly in his grip. The blade extended, the weight realigned.
Kunig's eyes widened. "Those were enchanted by the Archmage. Did you break the runes?"
"Nope," Cane said, giving the blade an experimental swing. "Just worked around them a bit. The safety runes are intact—it's just better balanced now."
Kunig took the weapon and tested it, slicing the air in a quick arc. "But how? Telamon built a no-tampering clause into the runes."
Cane just shrugged. "Metals belong to the Metallurgists."