Thorne sat near the front of the atelier, sipping tea from a porcelain cup that refilled itself whenever he set it down, a soft sigh of steam rising from the rim like a contented exhale.

The seat had rearranged itself for him the moment he'd sat down, a plush armchair conjured from thin air, upholstered in a deep violet velvet that matched House Umbra's color exactly. He suspected it had done that on purpose.

He glanced down at himself.

His new clothes were simple. Regal. Symmetrical. Not as ornate as what he used to wear in Alvar, Uncle had always favored embroidery, gold-threaded cuffs, and sharp silhouettes meant to intimidate or impress. This was different. Tailored perfectly to his frame, the material soft but clearly expensive, functional yet undeniably refined. The kind of quiet power that didn't need to shout.

And despite himself, he liked it.

The seams were precise. The boots fit like a second skin. And the fabric didn't catch at his shoulders when he moved. Everything had been custom-fitted within minutes, the moment he'd pointed to the design he wanted, two seamstresses had appeared like summoned spirits, bolts of fabric and scissors floating behind them like a swarm of enchanted birds. He'd barely finished saying the word "unenchanted" before they had already started cutting.

"Darling, that's criminal," Vellin had declared when he refused enchantments. "No glowthread? No elemental lining? No social shielding rune? What am I supposed to tell the other tailors?"

"That I prefer function," Thorne had replied evenly.

"You're going to look like you hate parties."

"I do."

Vellin had made a noise like a stabbed cat but conceded. At least one of his new uniforms, the one with the minor self-repair charm, had passed the tailor's scrutiny. Barely. It had also cost one hundred and fifty gold coins, which still made Thorne's stomach twist.

Now, he sat, one leg crossed over the other, gaze unfocused as he tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair, not from boredom, but calculation.

He'd brought a satchel full of riches from Alvar. Coins, gems, magical trinkets, everything he'd amassed across years of missions and assassinations. At the time, it had felt like enough to start over.

Now?

The satchel felt half-empty.

Because it was.

A good portion of his gold had already vanished, poured into tailoring fees, deposits, and the subtle ways Evermist bled you dry while smiling. A few carefully selected gems remained, tucked deep inside hidden compartments. More value than coins, sure, but he'd need to find someone who dealt in jewel appraisal without trying to rob him.

And worse, some of the artifacts he'd brought might attract the wrong kind of attention. He needed a fencer. Or a scholar willing to barter. Or both.

He exhaled quietly.

If only Jonah and Ben were here. Jonah would already be five shops deep and friends with every vendor. Ben would've brewed a minor charm to track the city's best prices before they'd finished breakfast.

Thorne wasn't helpless. But he was alone.

And the more he considered his next steps, fees, supplies, books, tuition, unknown costs, the more the anxiety started to rise like a cold tide in his stomach.

He needed to plan. Fast.

The bell above the atelier door jingled suddenly, and Thorne looked up just in time to see Elías step into view.

He looked...

Defeated.

His hair was a mess. His new robe, an elegant Zephyrus cut with silver edging and a braided sash was beautiful, but he looked like it had been forced on him mid-chaos. He held a small paper bag with his receipt like it was a death sentence.

Behind him, Vellin glided into the room with the air of a man who had just finished painting a masterpiece with live dragons.

"A triumph," the tailor declared. "A perfect mess polished into art."

Elías dragged his feet toward the chair beside Thorne and slumped into it.

"You left me alone with them," he said flatly.

"I know."

"I'm emotionally wounded."

"You look very polished."

"Don't you start," Elías muttered.

Vellin gave a satisfied huff, adjusted a bolt of fabric with a flick of his wand, and vanished behind a wardrobe with theatrical flair.

Thorne took another sip of tea.

"Better start getting used to it," he said. "This city isn't cheap."

Elías stared down at his receipt. "Do you think Vellin accepts installments... or blood?"

Thorne chuckled quietly and leaned back, the weight of the satchel pressing faintly against his hip.

And still... Not nearly heavy enough.

Thorne took another sip of tea, watching the steam curl upward like a question he hadn't yet asked.

Beside him, Elías was still processing the trauma of being styled within an inch of his life.

"So," Thorne said casually, "what's next?"

Elías groaned into his cup. "Supplies, I guess. Wands, focus tools, notebooks, whatever else Aetherhold thinks students need to survive their first year. Possibly an emotional support charm."

"I was thinking wand shop," Thorne said.

"Great. Amazing. Let's just... throw money into the wind and see what sticks."

There was a pause.

Then Elías dramatically slapped the side of his head. "Oh no. Oh no, no, no. My grandmother is going to kill me."

Thorne blinked. "What?"

"She made me swear, swear on her third-favorite cane that I'd choose a staff. 'We are a staff family, Elías,' she said. 'Staves are dignified. Noble. Traditional.' If she finds out I even looked at a wand, she'll hex my breakfast for a month."

"Then don't tell her."

"I'm too honest," Elías said, despairingly. "I'm cursed with integrity."

"Wait here," Thorne said, standing smoothly.

Elías blinked. "What?"

But Thorne was already walking away.

*

He found Vellin in the back of the atelier, mid-conversation with a seamstress whose hands were a blur of movement, directing floating bolts of fabric into layered spirals of color. Vellin's attention was on a small, levitating crystal near his shoulder that hummed with incoming orders.

Thorne approached with measured ease, his posture shifting, not too relaxed, not too stiff. And as he moved, he activated one of his most reliable skills: Sculpted Persona.

It wasn't illusion. Not exactly.

It was posture, poise, the angle of his smile, the warmth of his voice, all subtly altered to project confidence, charm, and ease. It wrapped around him like a tailored cloak of likability.

Vellin glanced up.

His eyebrow raised immediately. Then his eyes narrowed slightly, just enough to say: I see you.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

But he didn't comment.

"Can I help you, darling?" he asked smoothly.

Thorne offered a pleasant smile. "We've still got a few more errands before we're properly outfitted for Aetherhold. I thought you might have some... recommendations."

"Oh, I always have recommendations," Vellin said, clearly delighted. "What do you need?"

"Wand shops. Supply dealers. Reliable enchantment scribes."

Vellin rattled off several names with rehearsed ease, conjuring a parchment from midair and jotting notes in elegant, swooping script. "Avoid the east-market vendors, they're all flair and no focus. Go to Argessa's Aetherworks if you want fair prices, and Threefold Quill for spellbooks. And if you want anything bespoke, speak to Drenwyn at Thread & Thaumaturgy. Tell him I sent you."

Thorne accepted the parchment with a nod, but hesitated.

Vellin, of course, noticed instantly. His head tilted. "Was there something else?"

Thorne met his eyes. "I was wondering... if you knew of a place where I could sell a few items."

Vellin arched a brow.

"Family heirlooms," Thorne added smoothly. "Artifacts. Gems. Things that shouldn't be traced back."

The possibility of his stolen goods to be traced back to their owners, was extremely low, but still, one couldn't never be too careful.

Vellin let out a soft, delighted hum. "A man of mystery and hidden depths. I knew there was something else under that stoic exterior."

He glanced over his shoulder, ensuring the seamstress was out of earshot, then leaned in slightly.

"You're in luck. I know a man. Not exactly reputable but very, very effective."

He conjured a second slip of paper and wrote down a name in sharp black ink: Saren Dusk.

"You'll find him in the western district, near the rune-etched bridge. Ask for the sapphire door. Tell him I sent you but be cautious. He deals in contraband. Smuggled goods, banned artifacts. You don't want to make enemies in that line of work."

Thorne nodded. "Thank you. Truly."

And he meant it. He let Echoes of Truth bleed softly into his voice, just enough to anchor his gratitude in a weight that couldn't be dismissed. Something real. Resonant.

Vellin paused. His expression softened for half a second.

Then he waved a hand airily. "Please. You'll be back. I might even gift you a custom ensemble next time. Imagine it: you, walking around Aetherhold, draped in my latest work. You'd be a walking advertisement."

Thorne gave a rare, amused chuckle. "I'll think about it."

He turned to go.

But Vellin stopped him with a single word.

"Careful."

Thorne looked back.

Vellin's gaze was sharp now, glittering with something far more serious than his usual flair. "With your skills," he said. "a social skill, wasn't it? Others may not say anything. But every respectable mage in Evermist has some defense against subtle manipulation. They'll see it. They may not tell you."

Thorne stilled.

Then gave a short, respectful nod. "I appreciate the warning."

Vellin smiled. "I like you, Thorne. Try not to get hexed before your next fitting."

Thorne tucked the slips of parchment into his coat and stepped out into the courtyard sunlight.

Time to regroup.

And maybe steer Elías away from magical bankruptcy.

They walked side by side down a gently curved lane, the cobblestones beneath them shifting hue every few steps from pale blue to soft rose to a sun-dappled gold, enchanted to match the ambient mood of the surrounding foot traffic.

Thorne scanned the list of names Vellin had given him, memorizing the most promising ones: Argessa's Aetherworks circled at the top for focus tools, Threefold Quill for books, and a scrawl in the corner that read simply Saren Dusk – sapphire door.

He folded the paper neatly and slipped it back into the inner pocket of his new coat.

Elías had stopped walking.

"Wait," he said, squinting ahead. "Is that an ice cream cart?"

It was. Hovering just a few inches off the ground, glowing softly, the cart was shaped like a frosted silver teacup with rotating shelves of glowing, color-changing frozen treats stacked high in floating crystal domes. A small sign read: "Melt & Mirth – Spells in Every Scoop!"

The vendor, a red-haired woman with a wand tucked behind her ear, waved cheerfully as they approached.

"First-years?" she asked with a grin.

"Guilty," Elías said, already scanning the flavors like he was solving a complex magical equation.

"First scoop is discounted," she added. "Try 'Dreamsicle Dusk' if you like floating."

Thorne opted for a lavender-hued scoop of something called Moonroot Chai, which glowed faintly under the sunlight. Elías picked a double-layer swirl of Spiced Aethercream and Caramel Comet, handed over a few silver coins, and took one bite.

He groaned.

Loudly.

"Oh no," he said, staring at the cone like it had just personally insulted him with perfection. "This is... this is evil. This is how they get you."

Thorne raised an eyebrow. "They?"

"The city. The school. The world." Elías took another dramatic bite. "If this is what life here is like, I'm going to be out of money in a week. My grandmother is going to hunt me down and banish me to the broccoli fields."

Thorne chuckled softly. "I thought you had a staff budget."

"I do," Elías said with a sigh.

Elías snorted. "My whole clan barely has savings. They pooled everything they had to send me here."

That made Thorne pause.

They started walking again, along a curved path beside a canal that sparkled under the overhead lantern-spires, each glowing softly with daylight charms. A street musician played a harp that sang its own harmonies, the notes echoing faintly across the water.

"My clan's small," he said finally. "Minor. Forgotten, mostly. We don't belong to any kingdom, not anymore."

Thorne glanced sideways but said nothing.

"We're called the Greenleaf Clan. Used to be part of Thal Dorei, back before the old wars, the schisms, the... everything." He waved a hand vaguely, as though brushing away centuries of political drama. "But at some point, we said enough. We left. Chose the wilds over the walls."

We live in the southern woods, tucked between rivers no map dares to name. Our homes are grown, not built, woven into the trees with a kind of old magic most scholars would call superstition. We hunt. We harvest. We make do."

"Elven court mages call us feral. Faded. But they don't see what we've kept. Our songs. Our names. Our freedom."

"But why did you choose to leave Thal Dorei? To live that way sounds... difficult."

Elías took another bite before answering. "Because elven kingdoms, the high courts, the great halls, all that shining marble and gold, they're cages. Beautiful, powerful, immortal ones, sure. But cages all the same."

He glanced at Thorne. "You don't choose your life in a place like that. You're born, and the path is already carved, everything is already decided for you, your rank, your mate, your career, your education. Every breath planned before you take your first."

Thorne said nothing. But he listened.

"That kind of system?" Elías continued. "It makes kingdoms like Thal Dorei rich. Powerful. Everyone has a purpose. Everyone contributes to the machine. That's how they stayed on top for millennia. That's how Thal Dorei became what it is, a kingdom so vast it cuts the continent in half. Want to travel south? You pay the toll. Want to trade with the forest tribes? You bow to their customs first. They've built their empire on order, lineage, legacy."

Thorne glanced sideways.

"Oh yes, I know," Elías said with a smirk. "Thal Dorei, crushed by a tiny, backwater human kingdom. The shame! The scandal! The absolute poetry of it."

He took another bite.

"But even after the war, Thal Dorei thrives. You can't go south without passing through their lands. They charge for everything, roads, air rights, mage passage. Even their defeat didn't humble them. It just... shifted their methods."

He looked at Thorne, genuinely curious now.

"Where are you from?"

Thorne's eyes narrowed. "Caledris."

Elías blinked.

Then laughed.

"Oh, of course you are. Of course. Here I am pouring out my tragic elven backstory, and you're from the kingdom that took a hammer to it. Naturally."

"I didn't say I was proud of it."

"No need. It's written all over your tragic cheekbones."

Thorne rolled his eyes. But it was hard to be annoyed.

Elías grinned and flicked the last of his cone into a floating wastebasket that hummed approvingly.

"But don't worry. Us Greenleaf elves don't hold grudges. That's the court elves' job. We're more the sulk-in-a-moonlit-grove type."

They walked a little farther, past a fountain of water that poured upward instead of down. Children were riding the streams like playground swings, laughing as the magic caught them mid-air.

Thorne, quiet for a moment, then asked, "If you're not part of a kingdom, how did Aetherhold accept you?"

Elías didn't hesitate. "Every few generations, someone in the clan shows real magical talent. Not just sparks and a knack for herbcraft, real potential. When that happens, the clans come together. We gather everything we've got, coin, artifacts, favors and send them to apply to Aetherhold. Hoping. Betting everything on the idea that maybe, just maybe, this time the door will open.""

"And this generation..."

He smiled and tapped his chest. "Yours truly."

Thorne didn't speak.

Elías's smile softened. "You have no idea what an Aetherhold mage means to a clan like mine. Our magic's... broken. Fragmented. What we know, we've preserved through stories and song. We've got no scrolls, no grimoires. Only oral memory. And that fades."

He shook his head, voice low.

"The spells we use? Diminished. Flickering echoes of what they once were. But if someone like me, trained properly, taught real spellwork, if I go back one day..."

He paused.

"We won't just survive anymore. We'll thrive."

Thorne looked at him, really looked, and saw the weight behind the words, no matter how casually they were said.

"That's a heavy burden."

Elías looked over.

Then grinned.

"Good thing I'm awesome."

The grin widened. "I mean, time affinity? Come on. Rarest of the rare. Just last night I was invited to private meetings with not one, but two royals. And I haven't even picked my sponsor yet."

He laughed to himself.

"I don't know how Aetherhold chooses their students. But I'm glad I made it here."

Thorne just nodded, quiet again.

Elías raised an eyebrow. "You?"

"What about me?"

"You glad you're here?"

Thorne thought about the aether-wrapped staircase from the sky. About the tailor who saw too much. The weight of his satchel. The weight of his past.

He didn't answer.

But his gaze was already on the shop ahead, a wide, black stone building with swirling silver letters above the door:

Argessa's Aetherworks – Foci for the Faithful and the Flawed.

"Come on," Thorne said. "Let's find out what wand you'll betray your grandmother with."

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