"I'm told two crates are accompanying the cannon," Ria said, still speaking through her psi-rune. "One about two meters by six, the other much smaller."
"Right—that'd be the ammo," Cane replied, moving toward the rail a few meters behind where the main gun would mount. "We'll put the smaller one here and the larger in the hold."
A few minutes later, a rift opened behind the helm.
Without exception, the crew of the Defiant stopped to stare in awe.
"What the hell is that thing?" Rhiati muttered, watching as the rift shimmered closed—only for another to appear a few meters closer to the rail. This time, it delivered an open crate filled with half a dozen encased cartridges.
Cane climbed into the gunner's seat and began rotating the platform. "Got a small blind spot where we can't fire—unless you're tired of your sails."
He kept cranking. "I'm guessing we've got about a 330-degree firing lane. Should be plenty."
Ria blinked. "Three-thirty degrees? Show me how it works."
Cane stood and motioned toward the seat. "Captain, if you'd do the honors."
He talked her through the cranks, showing her how to adjust horizontal and vertical aim.
"I look through this?" she asked, pointing to the 'X'-shaped reticle.
"Yes."
Cane was about to suggest a test shot—but paused, frowning. The smooth wooden deck… the smooth base of the platform…
"Shit," he muttered. "I need to anchor it. It'll slide every time it fires."
"What do you need?" Ria asked.
"Nothing." Cane lay down on the deck, placing both hands on the base.
He closed his eyes and dropped into the metal.
The silvery-gold brilliance of adamantium welcomed him—fluid, radiant, responsive. Of all the metals, this one came easiest.
Instead of spikes or burrs that might damage the deck, Cane threaded hair-thin tendrils down into the wood, shaping them into spiraled corkscrews that twisted gently. Hundreds of them. Anchoring the base without weakening the structure.
From her seat, Ria felt the shift—the platform subtly settling, locking in.
Neri watched as well, her half-lidded eyes tracking invisible patterns of mana. Only she could see the way the currents swirled around Cane—steady, complex, beautiful.
Moments later, Cane stood and walked to the smaller crate. He hefted one of the meter-long cartridges and returned slowly.
The crew had gathered by now, curious and murmuring.
"What are you carrying?" Ria asked. She could tell it was ammunition—but it was like nothing she'd seen.
"These are fully encased rounds for the main gun," Cane said, gently setting it down. "Ignition's in the base. The casing holds the powder. And this—" he tapped the steel tip "—is the projectile."
Ria tilted her head. "And this… works? You've tested it?"
Cane grinned. "Neri, that big boulder up the shore—what's the range?"
Neri raised her spyglass. "Little over eight hundred meters. Call it plus ten."
Cane loaded the cartridge into the gun. The breech slammed shut with a solid metallic clang.
"You're kidding, right?" Ria said, raising an eyebrow. "Cannon shots past a few hundred meters are a waste."
"This isn't a cannon," Cane said. "It's a gun. The Main Gun."
He knelt beside her. "Take this lever and line up the mark with the reticle."
Ria turned the crank smoothly. "Got it."
"Now take the vertical one. Match the line marked '800' with the reference line—right here."
She followed the instruction and smiled when Cane nodded.
"Now what?"
"Cover your ears," Cane warned the crew. "And pull that lever."
BOOM.
The telescoping barrel recoiled with a thud, barely a tremor on the deck.
Two seconds later—
CRACK.
The distant boulder exploded into shards of stone and clouds of dust.
Silence.
"…The hell was that?" Maude finally asked, breaking the quiet. "That's eight hundred meters…"
Cane turned to Rhiati, grinning as she stared in disbelief at the obliterated boulder.
Captain Rhiati stared at the shattered boulder for a moment longer, then stood abruptly and strode to the rail. Her psi-rune flared as she began an intense, silent exchange.
After a few minutes, she stepped back, eyes gleaming.
"Navigator, to the helm," she ordered, descending the steps from the helm to the main deck. "Heave around the anchor!"
Cane moved aside, gripping the rail to stay out of the crew's way as the Defiant came alive around him—sailors racing to stations, lines snapping taut, boots thudding across deck boards.
Rhiati waited until the anchor was stowed.
"Hoist the sails! Navigator—full speed to the Scorpion Straits!"
Cane raised an eyebrow, still leaning on the rail. He reached up as his psi-rune pulsed behind his ear.
Sophie:The Archmage says you'll be gone for two days.
Cane:What? I'll be back in a few minutes.
Fergis: Two days? That's just in time for our first training session with Elohan!
Clara:What's going on??
Cane muttered a curse under his breath. "That's what I'd like to know."
Captain Rhiati approached, hands clasped behind her back, grinning like a cat who'd found a canary in a cage with the door open.
She cleared her throat, putting on her most official tone. "Cadet Cane, I hereby conscript you into the service of the Defiant for the next two days. During this time, you are to serve as Gunner and Munitions Expert, and are expected to train the crew on the proper use and care of the Main Gun."
Cane narrowed his eyes. "I'm a member of the Academy staff. I can't be conscripted."
"Unless the Archmage says otherwise," Rhiati replied sweetly. "And he just did."
She clapped him on the shoulder.
"Welcome aboard, Crewman Cane."
From the other side of the deck, Neri gave a delighted clap.
Cane sighed dramatically. "So this was a setup?"
Rhiati winked. "No setup. Just excellent timing."
Cane inspected the gun, immersing himself briefly to check for abnormalities. Satisfied that it was in pristine condition, he stepped back, scanning the deck for something useful to do while the crew moved about their business.
His gaze drifted to the crate near the rail. Five rounds remained. In an extended fight, that wouldn't be nearly enough.
"I should build a rack," he muttered. "Something to store and protect the rounds properly."
Then cursed under his breath—he'd upgraded to a silver storage ring, but hadn't thought to stock it with raw metal.
With nothing immediate to work with, he walked toward the helm where the navigator stood. Her hands rested lightly on the wheel, eyes ever on the horizon.
"I'm Cane," he offered.
The woman with salt-and-pepper hair gave a small smile. "I know. Lost twenty silver to you last time you were aboard."
"Did you?" Cane rubbed the back of his neck. "Beginner's luck…"
"Hmm. Sure. Name's Bula. And thanks—for what you did for Tulip. No one's saying it out loud, but it meant a lot."
Cane nodded, eyes distant. "Lost my best friend a few hours after stepping on a ship for the first time. But somehow… I still don't hate the sea."
Bula's smile deepened, the wrinkles on her weathered face softening. "The sea turns us all into poets."
Cane chuckled. "Trust me—no one wants to hear the poems I write." He glanced back toward the crate. "Say… any metal scraps aboard?"
"We toss anything we can't use."
"Figures," Cane muttered.
Bula tapped her fingers on the wheel, thinking. "Maybe our old swords? Since you gave us new ones…"
Not long after, Cane sat cross-legged near a stack of worn sabers—mostly bronze, a few steel. He rested his hands across several at once, letting the deck's rhythm settle beneath him. Bula watched from the helm, glancing between the horizon and the metallurgist at her feet.
The pile shifted.
Cane closed his eyes and immersed himself into the metal.
What greeted him was a world of darkened steel and corroded bronze—dull, chipped, lifeless. He clicked his tongue. "Meld for me."
Handles and guards slid away. Anything not metal was rejected, discarded.
The remaining mass began to coalesce. He pressed deeper, letting his senses touch the warped layers. "I won't allow this in my world, he whispered to the metal. You've forgotten your voice. Let me remind you."
Inside, the gray and yellow churned. Cane narrowed his focus to a singular spot of shadow, then gently pushed outward.
Light bloomed.
There was no sound—so he gave it one.
The steady rhythm of a forge hammer. The crashing of waves on a quiet shore. Sophie's laughter, soft and golden.
The seed of sound took root. And then, it sang.
The metal responded—unmuted, renewed. Its own otherworldly harmony rose, flooding out the decay. Impurities fled. Bonds reformed.
When it was done, a single block of breel remained. Pure. Alive.
Unseen by Cane, the ship had gone quiet. Sailors who had no immediate duties felt it—the pull of something strange and beautiful near the helm.
Neri stood silently, arms slightly outspread, her siren's voice rising to meet the resonance in the air. Others heard it. But she felt it.
Back in the metal world, Cane exhaled slowly. The metal hummed with potential.
I'll make it hexagonal.
He shaped the rack—six hexes wide, eight tall. Each compartment just large enough to cradle a single main gun round. Room for forty-eight, if they ever had that many.
As a final step, Cane mirrored the anchoring method he'd used on the Main Gun. He extended hundreds of hair-thin tendrils into the wood beneath, spiraling down like roots, fastening it solidly to the deck.
With one last look, checking the dimensions from memory, he slowly withdrew from the metal.
Warm midday sun kissed his face.
And silence greeted him—alive, not empty.