"Oh man," Clara bit off a hunk of roasted meat, juices running down her chin. "Why does this thing taste so good?"
Cane chuckled. "Because you earned it?"
Fergis lobbed a small pebble at him. "No more motivational speeches today." He grinned, sinking his teeth into the roast in his hand.
Cane raised both hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. How're your feet, Dhalia?"
"Better," she said, gaze fixed on the fire. "I'm buying myself better shoes after this." A pause. "I'm the weak link in training."
Clara shook her head, lifting a finger to argue—but Dhalia gently raised a hand to stop her.
"I get it now. I've got to work harder—not just at healing, but everything. If I slow us down when it counts…"
"Hey," Fergis cut in, voice softer. "None of us are built for running. Yet here we are."
"You all managed," Dhalia said, her tone steadier. "But if we were running for our lives, you'd never leave me behind. So I've learned something."
Elohan's voice cut in from his perch atop a rock. "I was going to make you run back to the Estate."
Groans followed immediately.
"But," he went on with a grin, "since you actually learned something today, walk back at your leisure. Training resumes at dawn."
The team walked together, bodies tired but spirits intact. They passed the steep hill where Dhalia's dried blood still marked the dirt, down through the breeze-kissed snowpea fields, and eventually slipped through the city gate into the slums.
"Have you even been inside your estate since the staff moved in?" Fergis asked, clapping Cane on the back. "Brother… you're in for a treat. First days are a thing in the capital."
"Really?" Cane shrugged. "We got here at dawn and haven't stopped moving since."
The gate to the Ironheart Estate stood open.
They entered as a group, sore and sun-touched, but not broken.
"Look," Dhalia pointed toward the garden. The wildflower bed and weeds were gone—replaced with neat rows of something freshly planted.
"I went with snowpeas," Cane said, a little sheepish. "They're good raw or cooked."
"Shouldn't the gardener be out here?" Clara asked.
The manor's front doors suddenly burst open. A tall, impeccably dressed man strode out in black formal wear, his white gloves pristine against his coat. He clapped his hands once—sharp and commanding.
The staff filed out in perfect order, forming two lines.
Satisfied, the man turned and faced Cane, a pleasant expression already in place.
Cane stepped forward, offering a tired but warm smile. "I'm Cane Ironheart."
The man bowed slightly. "Relen, House Butler."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Relen."
"If I may, sir—I'd like to introduce the staff."
"Please."
Cane followed as Relen made introductions one by one: the gardener, the stableman, the head cook, two kitchen helpers, and four maids. Each gave a respectful nod or small smile.
After the last name, Cane turned to address them all.
"Thank you for the warm welcome. You're an impressive group."
The staff clapped, a few of them grinning ear to ear.
Cane lifted a hand, waving them down gently. "Thanks again. Relen, I assume you'll manage day-to-day issues and bring anything important to me?"
"Of course, sir," Relen replied smoothly.
"That said…" Cane's voice softened, just slightly. "Please take care of them. If someone's struggling—sickness, family trouble, debt, anything—don't let it fester. In addition to payroll and supplies, I want a separate fund. Ten platinum. Quiet money. Use it as needed."
Relen gave a crisp nod. "As you say."
Then, turning to the staff: "Back to your duties. Remember, tonight is Master Cane's welcome dinner. Everything must be perfect."
The group walked inside, each silently committing to one thing before dinner: a long, glorious rest.
"Cane… carry me up the stairs," Clara moaned, gripping the rail and dragging herself upward with dramatic effort.
Cane smiled. "Would you move faster if I said there's food waiting in your room?"
Clara perked up instantly. "Is there?"
"No," he chuckled, dodging the halfhearted protest as he climbed ahead.
A maid stood just beyond the upper landing, waiting near the double doors to the Master Bedroom. She stepped forward and opened them both with practiced grace.
"Thank you. Milly, right?" Cane asked.
The maid smiled. "Yes, sir. Would you like a bath drawn?"
At that, Cane's face lit up. The weight of training, the ache in his muscles—it all caught up with him in that single offer.
"Yes. That's exactly what I need. Could I get something cold to drink too?"
"We have peach or apple cider, ale, and both red or white wine."
"Peach sounds perfect," Cane said, returning her smile. He noted the crisp lines of her traditional uniform. The staff had gone all in.
His psi-rune gave a gentle pulse.
Clara: They actually painted my room light green.
Cane:I know… I told them what you requested.
Clara:Yeah, but they really did it! I may never leave this place.
Cane chuckled and stepped into the bathroom. The scent of clean soap and warm oils lingered in the air. Following the sound of running water, he found the large bath already half full.
Milly stood beside it, hands folded. "Do you require bath assistance, sir?"
Cane froze, blinking. "No… Could you get Relen for me?"
She nodded and stepped out without question.
He listened to the soothing splash of water against porcelain until a soft knock came.
"Sir?" Relen entered, still immaculate, as though not a single wrinkle dared touch his coat.
Cane faced him, serious. "None of the staff are ever to attend guests in the bath. If anyone requests it—refuse immediately."
Relen's expression didn't flicker. "Yes, sir."
"I don't know what kind of guests will pass through the estate," Cane went on, "but I've seen enough of the wealthy to know money and manners don't always travel together. Do you have a family?"
"Yes, sir. A wife and daughter."
"Good. Protect the women on staff as if they were your daughter. I don't care if the guest is a noble, a merchant, or royalty. Anyone gets handsy or makes demands—you throw them out. On my authority."
Relen nodded once. "Understood. Perfectly, sir."
Milly closed the door behind her on the way out, and silence reclaimed the room.
Cane stepped into the bath and slowly submerged. The heat wrapped around him like silk, pulling away every ache, every sore muscle, every heavy thought.
And for the first time in days, he let himself fully rest.
After a long bath—one he was forced to abandon before falling asleep in the water—Cane slipped into a robe so comfortable it felt like wearing a cloud.
He wandered into the master bedroom, chuckling wearily at the size of the bed.
"How many people are supposed to sleep in this thing?" he murmured, shaking his head.
He fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
The dream had changed again.
An infant cried in distress. Young parents stood close, worry etched into every line of their faces. The priest knelt beside a small bed, gently examining the swelling where the mithril strand had entered the child's hand.
"Is it rejection?" the mother asked, her voice trembling.
"Possibly," the priest replied, grave but not unkind. "We'll keep watch. It's been nearly three days. If he hasn't stabilized by then, my tenets demand I remove the metal."
"But you said he passed the screening!" the father protested, then caught himself. "Forgive me… the fault is mine."
"Don't give up hope," the old man said, laying a wrinkled hand over the child's feverish brow. "Keep hope alive."
Cane jolted awake, heart pounding.
His right hand throbbed as though something had burrowed into the bone. He winced, shaking it out—and just like that, the pain vanished, as if it had never been.
Still shaken, he dressed slowly in canvas trousers and a clean buttoned shirt, pulling on freshly laundered socks. The training clothes from earlier had already been washed, folded, and neatly set aside.
On the landing, Milly dusted a high shelf. She curtsied politely as he passed, earning a raised brow from Cane.
"Well, that's a first," he muttered.
Outside, the morning sun warmed the slate paths of the Ironheart Estate. Painters were hard at work refreshing the outer walls, while roofers replaced worn shingles high above.
The once-forgotten estate—empty for decades—was beginning to shine again.
Cane's steps turned toward the forge. The familiar structure stood quietly near the edge of the estate, and as he pushed open the heavy door, the faint scent of coal and oil greeted him like an old friend.
The bins and shelves were stocked. Not with rare metals, of course—but the iron, steel, and bronze were all freshly sorted. A full set of high-carbon tools rested in perfect order across the workbench.
Cane smiled.
"I sense Brammel's hand in this," he said aloud. "Who else would know exactly what a smith needs?"
He moved toward the coal bin and gave it a quick inspection.
"Guess I'm gonna light it up."
He grabbed the flint and steel, his hands already itching for work.