Thorne sat slouched in the small common room that linked the bedrooms of the Umbra tower's second floor, a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a half-eaten slice of honeyed bread in the other. The scroll spread across his lap looked like it had been cursed to grow the longer he stared at it.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

The text blurred.

Arcane Fundamentals & Spellcasting (Theory & Practice)

Magical History & Arcane Law

Sigilcraft & Ancient Spell Forms

Enchanting & Magical Item Crafting

Elemental Theory & Control

Alchemy & Potion Brewing

Ritual Magic & Magical Theory

Then, the electives:

Battle Magic & Spell Augmentation Political Strategy & Magical Diplomacy Magical Beasts & Aether Creatures The Theory of Magical Constructs Thaumaturgic Astronomy & Celestial Phenomena Magical Symbology & Lost Languages The Ethics of Power & Magical Warfare Magic in Art, Music, & Performance Magical Flora & Herbology The Arcane Properties of Metals & Magical Alloys The Fundamentals of Spell Resonance

He blinked slowly, letting the scroll uncurl a little further until it brushed the table's edge.

Was there a class for surviving impossible expectations? Or maybe one called "How Not to Collapse From Magical Exhaustion"...

The enchanted tray beside him shimmered as he reached for a piece of crisped fruit. The moment he sat down earlier, it had blinked into existence, some spell keyed to hunger and furniture proximity, no doubt. He wasn't going to complain. The strawberries were incredible.

He'd already seen two other students shuffle past from their rooms. One darkling girl with moon-colored eyes and a stack of books she could barely carry, and a tall, willowy elf who walked like she'd been trained to glide across a ballroom floor, even in sleepwear.

Neither spared him more than a nod. Good.

His head was already aching from the scroll alone. He didn't need conversation on top of it.

Mandatory courses were one thing, fine, expected, but the electives? He had to choose three of them. And each one sounded like it belonged in a different lifetime. One filled with either battlefield glory, political scheming, or enough theoretical nonsense to drive a man into an aetheric spiral.

Battle Magic was a lock. Obviously.

There was no hesitation there.

His whole life had been a long, brutal form of field training, might as well put that to good use. And maybe learn how to throw his new wand's power without vaporizing half the room in the process.

The rest, though…

He leaned back against the chair, letting his head fall slightly and the scroll droop from his hand. He stared up at the ceiling, where faint threads of violet light curled from a nearby lantern, flickering in lazy arcs.

Most of these sounded incomprehensible, or worse... boring. What did "Thaumaturgic Astronomy" even mean? Would he be using starlight to cast spells? Or just naming constellations while freezing his ass off on a tower roof?

And Magical Diplomacy? That was just… lying with fancier vocabulary. He already knew how to do that. Uncle had trained him well.

Still, he'd need more information. Some context. Maybe that Elias idiot would know something useful, assuming he hadn't already gotten himself lost again. Or maybe Isadora, she'd probably memorized the entire list already and had color-coded annotations ready.

He glanced back at the scroll.

There were too many choices.

Too many demands.

His schedule would be packed tighter than a noble's gala, and that was without Argessa's errands or whatever other madness Aetherhold had in store.

He just hoped he'd have the time to keep up with it all… and enough coin to survive.

The sound of a door opening drew Thorne from his brooding.

Isadora stepped out of her room in a sweep of her deep violet gown embroidered with silver thread, her dark hair pinned up with casual precision. She looked like she was about to attend a royal luncheon, not survive an academic gauntlet.

She paused, gave him a once-over, then smiled.

"Well, at least one of us looks marginally alive," she said, drifting toward the table. "You've been staring at that scroll like it insulted your lineage."

"It might have," Thorne muttered. "If not directly, then spiritually."

He held up the parchment like it was a cursed item. "Did you know there's a class called Thaumaturgic Astronomy? I don't even know what regular astronomy is."

Isadora's grin widened as she leaned down to peer over his shoulder.

"It's stargazing with extra existential dread," she offered lightly. "And yes, it's real. You'd hate it."

"Encouraging."

"I've already picked my electives," she said, plucking a strawberry off his breakfast tray like she owned it. "Political Strategy and Magical Diplomacy, obviously. I have to keep up appearances."

"Of course you do," Thorne said dryly.

"Magic in Art, Music, and Performance," she continued, undeterred, "because I'm not soulless."

"Debatable."

"And Magical Flora & Herbology."

Thorne gave her a look. "Because?"

She beamed. "Pretty flowers."

Of course.

She hummed thoughtfully, eyes scanning the list.

"Well, let's see. Magical Beasts is mostly screaming and running unless you like getting trampled. Construct Theory is for people who want to build magical butlers and accidentally unleash golems in the hallways. Symbology & Lost Languages is beautiful, but brutal, apparently the final exam makes people cry.

Magical Metals is surprisingly cutthroat. Lots of hammering and posturing, but I would stay away from it. Too many stinky dwarves. And The Ethics of Power is where idealists go to argue with future war criminals."

She tapped the scroll with one manicured finger.

"Basically, choose three that won't make you want to explode. Or do. It's your life."

She reached into her sleeve and checked a small, glimmering crystal, a thin chain dangling like a thread of starlight.

"I have a busy day. Several meetings with potential sponsors. House Valara's ambassador. One of the Farreach envoys. That sort of thing."

Thorne stilled.

The word sponsor echoed through his chest like a dropped stone in still water.

For a moment, he wasn't in the room.

He was back in Varo's mirrored chamber, the echo of the elf's voice curling around his spine like smoke.

"I will be the only one who can help you become what you're meant to be…"

He swallowed hard.

Isadora noticed the change in his posture and arched an eyebrow, but didn't comment.

"You should respond to yours," she said instead, adjusting one of her earrings. "Custom dictates we acknowledge all formal invitations during the grace period. You don't have to meet with all of them but the ones you ignore should be passed over politely, in order of social station."

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She looked at him meaningfully.

"Unless you're trying to spark a diplomatic incident before your first lecture."

Thorne groaned and slumped further in his chair. "Please stop saying things like social station and diplomatic incident. I already have a headache."

Isadora smiled sweetly. "Better get used to it. You're at Aetherhold now. Magic isn't the only battlefield."

With that, she gave a little wave, the hem of her gown swirling behind her as she sashayed out of the common room and vanished down the stairwell like a violet breeze.

Thorne leaned back, exhaled, and stared at the ceiling.

So much to do.

He needed to return to Evermist and find the fencer. Figure out which of his artifacts he could sell without raising suspicion.

Then there was his schedule, his sponsor responses, and whatever mysterious expectations Argessa had planned next.

And beneath all of it… the reason he'd come here at all.

His sister.

Bea.

He still had no idea where to start.

But he'd find her.

He had to.

Thorne returned to his room and sat at his desk, a neat stack of sixteen envelopes in front of him, their seals pressed in wax and gleaming with every noble house's favored sigil. The scroll listing his classes lay forgotten beside them, his quill resting just out of reach.

He had barely peeled the wax from the fourth one and already his head hurt again.

Each letter was perfectly phrased. A performance of power, tailored with just enough warmth to sound personal and just enough distance to remind him he was being evaluated. Every one promised opportunity. Prestige. Access.

And a price.

He sighed, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling of his room, etched faintly with soft runes that pulsed every so often.

Maybe Isadora was right. He needed to respond before the grace period ended.

But choosing a sponsor wasn't just about courtesies.

It was about control.

None of them, of course, came without strings.

He read them all. Some twice. He tried to guess which of these seals might cost him the least.

The Council of Ethalyn, a circle of high-altitude scholars and sky-mages rumored to breed prodigies in silence and frost. Their invitation was clipped, formal, and faintly arrogant.

House Ashmere, a sprawling merchant-noble family from the eastern dominions, wealthy, influential, and far too comfortable branding every mage they touched.

The Lyrian Collegium, a cabal of spellcrafters and magical artisans known for eccentricity and endless funding. Their letter had been glitter-dusted and smelled faintly of inkberry pie.

And The Court of Painted Vows, who made no pretense of their nature: spies, performers, and illusionists with eyes in every corridor and secrets for sale.

No thank you. He was done sulking in the shadows playing the assassin. That part of his life was behind him, and he was ready for something new.

Each one glittered in a different way. Each came with cost.

But two letters lingered at the edge of the pile, held apart by his instincts.

One, a formal letter written in an almost mechanical hand, sealed with the Verdian Order's insignia. A golden flame entwined by a coiled serpent. A militant faction of mage-knights rumored to serve as magical enforcers across borders. Their sponsorships were rare and usually tied to contracts for field missions and combat study.

And the other…

Lady Corvessa Nyre.

He didn't know the name. But her letter had stayed with him.

The seal, deep navy, marked with a lion holding a broken chain. The paper was handmade. The ink violet. The handwriting curved with elegant confidence, not ostentatious, just measured.

She hailed from Eltherra, a small coastal kingdom across the Whispering Sea. Isolated. Quiet. Known for its wind-magic and stormbound spellwork, old traditions that relied on breath, tone, and emotion rather than strict structure. It was said their grimoires sang when opened. That their battle mages whispered their incantations into the gales and let the wind carry them forward.

Her family had once been the custodians of Eltherra's Thunder Archives, where spells were read aloud to stay remembered. According to the letter, she had mentored three Aetherhold students in the past. "All intact," she'd written dryly. "One only mildly traumatized."

Her tone wasn't flowery. Nor demanding. But it was curious.

Thoughtful.

Like she wanted to see what he'd do without anyone trying to shape him.

That made him wary.

And, somehow, more intrigued than he expected.

Still, a third name lingered in his mind, unsent, unspoken, but heavy.

King Aranth Calenhall of Caledris.

His offer had been gilded with dignity. All the official channels. It came with promises of funding, access, even potential roles in the kingdom's magical corps. And most of all, hope.

Hope that, under the king's eye, Thorne might gain access to knowledge others wouldn't. Hidden records. Forgotten pathways.

Maybe even a lead on Bea.

But he hadn't forgotten what Percy told him.

Not a friend. Not a contact. But a mark. A minor noble from Valewind he'd encountered on a mission more than a year ago. A Guild job gone messily right. The man had resisted interrogation until Thorne had gotten… persuasive.

"You don't understand," Percy had said, lip split, pride bruised. "The king doesn't recruit. He binds. Magical contracts. Blood signatures. You serve for life or until your usefulness expires."

At the time, Thorne hadn't cared. He wasn't planning to be a mage, or anything else.

Now…

He wondered if Percy was still in Aetherhold. If he saw him, recognized him, would he talk?

Would he tell anyone?

Would he try something stupid?

Thorne set the letter aside and returned to the two envelopes he hadn't answered yet.

The Verdian Order.

Lady Nyre.

He'd meet with both.

He'd listen. He'd ask questions.

He hadn't decided whether he wanted a sponsor at all, but if he did, it would be on his terms.

Let them try to impress him.

Let them see just enough to want him without understanding what they were really asking for.

By the time Thorne penned his final signature, his fingers were aching.

Responding to sixteen offers, declining fourteen of them without offending fragile egos, was like navigating a noble's banquet with knives instead of forks. Phrasing mattered. Titles mattered. The order of rejection mattered.

It had taken hours.

But it was done.

Only two letters had earned a real reply: one to Lady Nyre, the other to the Verdian Order.

He'd asked to meet at their convenience, formal enough to be respectful, vague enough to keep the upper hand.

Still, the effort had drained him more than expected.

And now, it was time for the other half of his day.

Thorne stood, rubbing at the stiffness in his neck, and opened the small wardrobe in the corner of the room. Most of the pieces inside shimmered, glittered, or had been cut with such precision they looked like they'd walked off a theater stage.

Vellin's influence.

Flamboyant. Luxurious. Dangerous in the wrong alley.

After a few minutes of determined effort, he found the least ostentatious thing he owned, dark trousers, a soft high-collared shirt, and a worn charcoal vest. Over it all, he draped Isadora's cloak, the only thing truly muted in his entire wardrobe.

It made him feel smaller. Less noticeable.

That was the point.

He grabbed his satchel, checking the contents, a few of the gems he hadn't sold yet, a pair of magical trinkets still unidentified, and a tight bundle of folded cloth holding the more questionable items.

No weapons. Not anymore.

Except the wand.

It sat against the inside of his thigh, hidden in a slim sheath he'd fashioned out of enchanted thread. He still didn't know how to wield it, not really. It didn't feel like a weapon yet.

And without his daggers, without his tools...

He felt naked.

Maybe the fencer would have something. A knife. A hidden blade. Anything to fill that void.

He left through the Umbra bridge, passed the statue of the cowled man with the book and candle, and made his way toward the central convergence. The massive sigilwheel was turning slowly as always, threading gold and violet strands of aether into the air. His footsteps lit the Umbra sigil beneath him as he crossed.

Then came the staircase.

Except now, it wasn't stairs of light.

It was night.

And the staircase shimmered with stars, each step a pinprick in a floor of moving sky. He descended quietly, the world folding around him in silence. The clouds broke around his form without touch, as if he passed through a dream rather than weather.

And then...

Evermist.

The lights were already lit.

Floating globes of colored flame drifted above the streets. Bridges shimmered with soft enchantments. Shop windows glowed. Music from stringed instruments danced through the alleys, and the canals pulsed with magic beneath the gondolas.

But Thorne didn't slow.

He moved with practiced caution, watching corners and noting every shadow.

The plaza at the base of the staircase was still crowded, though less chaotic than before. Fewer hawkers. More late-day browsers. The floating signs for shops and taverns glittered overhead like banners in the air.

He pulled his hood up.

Time to find a man who sold things he wasn't supposed to.

Vellin hadn't given him a name, just a description, a location, and a word to say.

The western district was quieter.

Older.

Here, the floating signs above shops flickered slightly at the edges, enchantments thinning with age. The cobbled streets sloped more, pressing closer to the canals that curved like dark veins through the city. Ironwork lanterns lined the alleys, lit not by flame, but by the dim, steady glow of enchantments past their prime.

Thorne passed a tavern spilling out laughter and off-tune lyre music, keeping his head low.

Vellin's instructions echoed in his mind.

"You'll find him in the western district, near the rune-etched bridge. Ask for the sapphire door."

He hadn't needed to ask what kind of man it was. Vellin's tone had said enough.

A seller of rare things. No paperwork. No questions. Just coin or something better.

It was exactly what Thorne needed.

And exactly what he hated relying on.

He crossed an old canal bridge, its stone sides chiseled with runes nearly worn away by time and weather. The magic still pulsed faintly beneath his boots, residual and tired, like a sleeping beast that hadn't been fed in decades.

On the far side, the streets narrowed. The buildings were tightly packed now, leaning in like conspirators. The shops were unlabeled. Shuttered. A few had barely visible sigils etched into the door frames, signs meant for those who already knew where they were going.

He paused at the end of a crooked lane and scanned the row of doors.

There.

Third on the left.

A sapphire-colored door.

Its wood was painted a rich, deep blue, smooth and unnaturally unmarred. In a district this old, a door with no scratches or weathering was a statement. There was no knocker. No signage.

Just a single, faint glyph on the lintel.

Thorne approached and knocked twice, slowly.

No sound inside.

Then, the faintest creak.

And the door eased open by an inch.

No one stood behind it.

He hesitated, then stepped inside.

The door closed softly behind him.

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