The Spellbinding Ritual.

That was a grand name if Thorne had ever heard one.

He leaned back slightly, arms folded, his white-blue eyes gleaming with intrigue as he turned the phrase over in his mind.

It sounded ceremonial, important, dangerous in its ambiguity.

He let his gaze sweep across the carriage, watching how the others reacted to the revelation.

The expressions were varied.

Some looked confused, their brows furrowed slightly in thought. Others maintained an air of calm detachment, either unconcerned or simply too proud to show any reaction.

Notably, Rowenna, sitting beside him, looked completely unbothered, her gaze still fixed out the window, watching as the rugged mountain peaks slowly gave way to rolling open plains.

Lucian, too, was unfazed, his sharp gaze focused on some unseen thought, calculating rather than concerned.

And then there was Isadora, who remained entirely at ease, swirling the last remnants of her wine in her glass as if none of this affected her.

But the rest?

Their discomfort was obvious.

They had small frowns, their minds clearly racing through possibilities.

And then, of course, there was Ronan.

He sat at the edge of his seat, his back stiff, his fingers drumming against his knee with an agitated rhythm. His earlier confidence had vanished, replaced with barely concealed anxiety.

His gaze snapped toward the Aetherhold representative, burning with expectation.

"Well?" the young noble demanded.

The representative took another slow sip of his tea, unhurried. He exhaled softly, blowing across the surface of the warm liquid before finally responding.

"You don't have to concern yourself with the ritual," he said, his voice calm, measured. "It's a simple ceremony meant to show who has true talent for spellcasting."

His words were even, reassuring but Thorne didn't buy it.

The representative set his cup down on a floating tray, clasping his hands together before adding:

"Not everyone has the aptitude for magic, after all. It would be counterproductive to allow access to Aetherhold's vast knowledge and resources to someone who couldn't use them."

A reasonable answer.

Too reasonable.

Thorne didn't like it.

Before he could ask anything else, Isadora cut in smoothly.

"And a prime occasion to view prospective assets for kingdoms to get their greedy hands on."

Her tone was playful, almost flippant, but there was a knowing sharpness beneath it.

That got a reaction.

Garridan turned toward her, his eyes narrowing.

"What do you mean?"

Isadora only shrugged, her lips curving into a lazy smirk.

"I mean that every powerful person in the world will be in attendance. Kings and queens, archmages, nobles with gold to burn." She lifted her glass and swirled what little wine remained in it. "They'll all be watching, assessing… plotting."

Thorne stiffened.

His entire body went cold.

What?

Aetherhold's admission wasn't just a test.

It was a spectacle.

A stage for every major figure of power in the world to watch, evaluate, and scrutinize.

He could feel the ice creeping through his veins as his thoughts spun.

That was a problem.

A big one.

Too many unknowns.

Too many ways this could end in disaster.

Would this ritual… allow them to scan him?

Would they be able to inspect his core?

To see what he was?

Would they be able to tell that he was Elderborn?

Thorne forced his breathing to remain steady, but his hands, where they rested against his arms, tightened slightly.

He couldn't let them find out.

Across from him, Ronan seemed to be having a similar crisis.

The earlier arrogance and condescension that had practically radiated from the noble was nowhere to be found.

Instead, his face was drawn tight, his lips pressed into a thin line.

His panic was just beneath the surface, restrained but evident.

"What are we meant to do?" he asked.

This time, it was the representative who answered.

"Just cast a simple spell. Nothing special. There's really no cause for worry."

His words were calm, soothing, meant to reassure.

Thorne wasn't reassured.

Neither was Ronan.

The noble let out a forced, uneasy laugh, running a hand through his perfectly combed hair.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered under his breath. "You won't be the one being measured by the whole world."

Outside the carriage, the landscape continued to shift.

Thorne was lost in thought.

The carriage had fallen into silence after the revelation of the Spellbinding Ritual. The tension still lingered, thick and unspoken, but after a while, the young nobles began to speak again. Their voices were more reserved now, their conversations laced with a quiet undercurrent of nerves.

Thorne ignored them.

His focus was on the world outside.

The scenery below was changing at an impossible speed. One moment, they were soaring over sprawling cities, their rooftops glistening with enchantments, their streets alive with the glow of aether-lit lanterns.

Then, in a blink, they were above an endless golden forest, its trees swaying in a hypnotic rhythm, their leaves shifting colors from emerald to sapphire to amethyst as though they could not decide what they wished to be.

Further still, Thorne caught sight of a ruined temple, its broken pillars wrapped in coiling tendrils of living light, whispers of forgotten spells flickering across the air like phantoms of the past.

Then, it was gone.

Vanishing beneath them as quickly as it had appeared.

Everything blurred together, forests, rivers, ruins, entire kingdoms flashing past as if they weren't real.

A part of Thorne felt as though he were watching dreams instead of reality, fleeting fragments of something half-remembered and long-lost.

And then...

A voice from the other side of the bench.

"There's really no reason to worry," Rowenna said.

Her voice was low, calm, almost indifferent. She didn't turn to look at him, her gaze still fixed on the ever-changing landscape outside.

For a moment, Thorne wasn't sure if she was talking to him at all.

He remained silent.

"You either get into Aetherhold," she continued, "or you don't."

Still, Thorne didn't respond.

That wasn't what he was worried about.

He had no doubt that he would pass the ritual.

He would pass with flying colors.

That was precisely the problem.

After a long pause, he finally murmured, "Yeah, that's not what I'm worried about."

At last, she turned to him, her grey eyes sharpening with curiosity.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"What then?" she asked. A pause. Then, knowingly, "The spectators?"

Thorne's jaw tightened.

She scoffed softly.

"What did you expect?" she asked, her voice edged with something between amusement and cynicism.

"They're shown the newest generation of power, the next batch of soldiers to fight their petty wars. Mages are the ones who tip the scales in war. The kingdom with the most is the kingdom that wins."

Thorne grunted.

He had seen exactly what that meant.

The Red Mage had proved it when he had turned Alvar into a burning wasteland, erasing any trace of the Lost Ones in a single night.

Rowenna studied him, her gaze almost searching.

"Don't you find the prospect of being wooed by a king or a powerful noble alluring?"

Thorne gave a short, derisive laugh.

She didn't wait for his answer.

"Most who come to Aetherhold, even the most powerful nobles, are looking for more," she continued smoothly.

"A chance to be seen by someone even more powerful, richer. There's always more to be gained. Being recruited can change your life. Your fortune in an instant."

Thorne's lips curled into a half-smile, but there was no amusement in it.

He had lived that life.

He had been selected by a powerful man once.

Uncle.

And he hadn't exactly been given a choice.

The thought of exchanging one set of chains for another made something in him harden, coil tight like a drawn blade.

He turned to Rowenna, and she met his gaze fully this time.

Her eyes flickered to his own, to the faint glow pulsing within them, white-blue like burning aether.

"No, thank you," he said with a slight, mocking smile.

"I'd rather not have a keeper."

Rowenna held his gaze for a long moment, then shrugged.

"I get that."

And then, as if she had lost interest, she looked back out the window.

But her next words carried a quiet warning.

"Then you'd better not show too much talent during the ritual."

Thorne stilled.

He hadn't thought about that.

Not really.

The more powerful he appeared, the more attention he would draw.

And that was the last thing he wanted.

He had worked so hard to escape prying eyes, and now he was about to step onto the biggest stage in the world.

Rowenna must have noticed his stiff posture, because she added lightly:

"You'd better get comfortable. We won't reach Aetherhold until morning."

Then, without another word, she leaned against the cabin wall, closed her eyes, and let sleep take her.

Thorne sat rigidly in his seat as the hours bled together, the carriage's gentle hum barely masking the roar of his thoughts. The other passengers had succumbed to the pull of exhaustion, their breathing steady, bodies relaxed in their sleep. Only the representative remained awake, his eyes half-closed, though Thorne had no doubt he was keenly aware of everything happening around him.

Thorne's gaze drifted to the window, where the blurred landscape continued to shift. His mind raced, weaving through every potential threat the Spellbinding Ritual could present. What if the enchantment revealed his core? What if it called forth his latent aether, displaying it for all to see? The thought of being exposed in front of kings and archmages made his skin crawl.

The carriage shuddered suddenly, a faint tremor that rattled through its frame. A wash of aether passed through him, cold and sharp, leaving a sizzling sensation beneath his skin. His eyes widened, his senses snapping into focus.

Around him, the others stirred, their sleep disrupted by the strange, uncomfortable feeling. Lucian's brow furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. Garridan muttered a curse under his breath, his hand instinctively reaching for a sword that wasn't there.

Then, another wave of aether.

This time, Thorne could see it, not just feel it. His aether vision revealed intricate patterns, a tapestry of sigils and arcane weaves that shimmered as they passed through the carriage walls.

It wasn't random.

It was a spell.

An enchantment of immense complexity, and for a moment, he was so mesmerized by the sight of it, he forgot to breathe. Each wave of aether was a layer of the spell, its threads binding and weaving together, creating a barrier that felt both ancient and unyielding.

The sense of awe around him became palpable as the other students finally noticed the outside world. Faces pressed against the windows, expressions of childlike wonder and excitement replacing their earlier anxiety.

"What is that?" Ronan muttered, his voice a mix of fear and awe. "Is that... Aetherhold?"

The representative stood, his presence commanding immediate silence.

"No cause for alarm," he announced, his voice calm but carrying a subtle weight of authority. "What you are experiencing are the defensive wards of Aetherhold. These are simple enchantments, designed to prevent unwanted visitors from approaching the academy."

Thorne could see more of the warding layers now. Each new wave of aether carried with it a different set of sigils, each one more intricate than the last. The magic wasn't just a barrier, it was a filter, a means of sifting through the essence of every person it touched.

His fingers dug into the armrest, the polished wood creaking under his grip.

If the wards could see his core, if they could feel the echo of the elder race within him,

He forced himself to breathe, slow and controlled. His necklace, the enchanted piece given to him by his mother, pulsed faintly against his skin, a soothing warmth that pushed back against the probing waves of aether.

Aetherhold was still a distant silhouette against the morning sky, but its presence was already making itself known.

Thorne felt the pull of it, like a tide drawing him closer, its currents wrapping around him. He could feel the raw aether in the air, the sheer magnitude of power that flowed through this place. It was as if the entire world had turned into a living, breathing spell, and he was standing in the eye of the storm.

"We're almost there," the representative said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper of reverence.

Thorne tore his gaze from the sigil-soaked sky and looked around. The other students were still pressed to the windows, their breath fogging the glass, their minds too preoccupied with the marvel outside to notice the dangerous truth beneath it.

Only Rowenna remained where she sat, her eyes half-open, a ghost of a smile on her lips as if she had been awake the whole time.

Thorne stood, his body moving almost on its own, as if pulled by invisible strings. His earlier caution melted away beneath a surge of curiosity and wonder, the kind he hadn't felt since he was a child.

He moved to the window, finding himself next to Vivienne, who immediately shifted away, her delicate nose wrinkling as if he had brought a plague into the carriage.

Thorne didn't notice.

Couldn't notice.

Because everything had faded away, leaving only the miracle before his eyes.

Outside the window, Aetherhold came into view, and the world itself seemed to change in its presence.

The floating castle was perched on the peak of a towering mountain, its many spires and towers wrapped in mist and light. It wasn't just a castle, it was a city in the sky, a labyrinth of bridges and archways, where rivers of aether flowed openly, twisting through the air like serpents made of light.

The floating castle was not merely a fortress in the sky but a living organism, constantly shifting and changing. Towers of white stone and glass rose and fell as if the very structure breathed. Some spires faded in and out of existence, their forms wreathed in mists of aether that shimmered like morning dew on spider silk.

The castle's stones seemed to shimmer, the walls covered in arcane runes that pulsed in time with the beating heart of the ley lines below. The stone itself was not mere stone but a shifting palette, reflecting the sky's hues, changing from dusky blues to warm golds as the sun rose higher.

Bridges of solid light arched between the towers, their surfaces translucent and ever-changing, as if they were woven from sunbeams and rainbows. People, mages and students alike strolled across these bridges, their steps light as feathers, their silhouettes hazy at the edges where the aether interacted with reality.

Balconies and terraces jutted out from the castle walls, some holding lush hanging gardens where vines of luminescent flowers crept along railings of woven silver. There were pools of still water, their surfaces glassy, reflecting both the sky above and the magic coiling through the air.

Every terrace had fountains that danced with aether, streams of water that floated and twisted into shapes, dragons, phoenixes, and creatures Thorne had never seen before returning to their pools.

The air around the floating isle was alive, swirling with latent power. Rivers of light drifted through the sky, currents of raw aether that flowed like streams through an unseen valley. They moved with a purpose, occasionally dipping down to brush the surface of the world below, leaving trails of bioluminescent spores that hung in the air like fallen stars.

Parts of Aetherhold seemed to exist in a state of perpetual flux. He saw whole sections of the castle that would dissolve into mist, only to reform a moment later, walls and arches reassembling as if reality itself was negotiable.

Waterfalls of aether poured from the edges of the floating island, cascading down into the city below. These falls turned into wisps of mist, and where the droplets landed, flowers of crystal and light bloomed, creating patches of glowing gardens among the rooftops of the town.

Beneath Aetherhold, nestled in the shadow of the floating isle, lay the city of Evermist.

It sprawled along the banks of a wide, winding river, its canals shimmering with water that held a soft, ethereal glow, as if moonlight had been trapped beneath the surface.

The city itself was a mosaic of cultures and races, its architecture a blend of human spires, elven arches, dwarven stonework, and other more mystical shapes.

Elven sky gardens crowned the rooftops, their terraces brimming with sapphire blossoms and vines that moved of their own accord. Ivy as thin as smoke coiled around statues of elven kings and queens, their marble faces softened by time and aether.

The dwarven influence was evident in the city's stone foundations. Streets were paved with runic stones, and structures that stood like sentinels over the canals bore the unmistakable touch of dwarven craftsmanship, their surfaces etched with sigils of strength and protection.

Bridges curved gracefully over the canals, their railings adorned with glowing lanterns that bobbed gently, lit by small fire wisps that danced in the glass. Boats drifted through the waterways, their hulls carved with protective sigils, their captains whispering spells to guide their vessels. The water beneath them glowed softly, a gentle azure light that illuminated the undersides of the boats, creating a dreamlike reflection on the stone walls of the canal paths.

Surrounding it all were the massive, warded walls, their stones laced with veins of glowing aether. The walls weren't merely physical barriers but arcane constructs, drawing power directly from the ley lines, their defenses as much magic as masonry.

Everywhere he looked, there was magic woven into the world itself.

Children chased floating motes of light through the cobblestone streets, their laughter mingling with the soft hum of magic. Street vendors sold enchanted trinkets, their stalls alive with moving illustrations and animated displays.

Above the city, a flock of skybound creatures glided through the mist, wyverns, dawn lions, and aether birds, their wings leaving trails of iridescent sparks.

The air crackled with energy. The floating aether currents wound through the sky, shifting like celestial rivers, their colors changing with the sun's angle. Some were soft like candlelight, others bright as molten gold, and where they crossed paths, new colors blossomed, as if the very air was painting the world anew.

Thorne felt the aether hum in his bones, a resonance that tugged at his core, making his glowing eyes flare faintly with its light.

He could almost hear it, a whisper at the edge of his senses, the heartbeat of magic itself.

For a brief moment, he allowed himself to believe in the beauty of it all.

To imagine that a place like this could be a sanctuary.

Thorne's breath caught in his throat.

It was everything he had imagined and so much more.

It was a place where magic wasn't hidden, it was celebrated. It was woven into every stone, every drop of water, every breath of air.

The carriage began its descent, the landscape below coming into sharper focus. The townspeople looked up, their faces illuminated with wonder, some of them raising their hands in greeting or blessing as the students approached.

Beside him, even the ever-composed Lucian looked awed, his sharp demeanor softened by the sheer grandeur of what lay before them.

Isadora's eyes glittered with delight, her fingers pressed against the glass, a rare stillness in her usually restless form. "It's even better than I remembered," she whispered.

Vivienne's earlier disdain had vanished, replaced by wide-eyed fascination, her carefully constructed poise giving way to genuine marvel.

Even Ronan, who had been a ball of nerves since the ritual was mentioned, now looked as though he had forgotten his own name, his lips parted, his earlier arrogance wiped clean.

Only Rowenna remained calm.

But even her stoic expression softened, her lips curving into a small, secret smile as if this view was an old friend.

Thorne felt a pang, a reminder that for all his experience, for all the dangers he had faced, there was still so much he had never known.

He had been surrounded by stone and shadow for so long that a place like this, a place where the world felt alive with magic, seemed almost unreal.

The carriage passed through a shimmering veil, and a rush of cool aether washed over them. It felt like passing through a stream of crystal-clear water, leaving a tingling sensation on his skin.

The sky above shifted, colors blending as if painted by a god's hand, and they passed through wisps of clouds that tasted of frost and sunlight.

Aetherhold's spires drew closer, each one an impossible creation, spiraling into the sky, their tips adorned with gems that captured sunlight and spun it into rainbows.

For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to simply be.

To let the wonder of the place wash over him, to let the endless weight of his worries drift away on the streams of aether that wound through the air.

And then, as they descended into the heart of the academy, he felt the pull of reality returning.

The Spellbinding Ritual awaited.

And with it, all the uncertainty and danger he had been running from.

But for now, for just this moment, he let himself believe in the magic of the world.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.