The spell hovered in the air like a held breath.

Dozens of orbs flickered across the elevated platforms of the Arcane Fundamentals & Spellcasting hall, some dim, others flickering, a few flaring too bright before guttering out like stars swallowed by fog.

Thorne stood perfectly still.

His wand remained unraised. His breath was steady. Around him, students whispered, focused, or squinted up at the ball of lights that exploded more often than not.

But Thorne waited.

Above, Professor Vorr paced the staircases, floating platforms woven from bands of light and rune-threaded stone that drifted between tiers like lazy serpents. Her long grey robes whispered as she passed each group, offering sharp commentary or wordless gestures, her eyes a pale, clouded silver that never blinked.

They said she was blind.

Thorne wasn't sure he believed it.

She paused every so often to correct a student's grip, to comment on core modulation, or to dispel a glowing ball of unstable Lux before it could combust in someone's lap. Her presence carried no weight and all the weight in the world, quiet, still, and absolute.

Thorne's wand was cool in his fingers. The Ashthorn wood felt almost impatient.

It had been hours last night. Hours spent in silence, shaping light, threading spells, refining sigils. Even after the hooded man had vanished into shadow, even after a new potential threat appeared in his life.

He'd stayed. Practiced.

He hadn't mastered it.

But he had learned to resist the ambient aether.

Mostly.

Vorr's steps clicked softly as she approached his platform. Her head tilted faintly, sensing the absence of magic from his corner of the hall. Her blank eyes landed on him, though how, Thorne couldn't say.

He looked up and spoke first. "Professor."

She didn't stop walking, just tilted her chin a hair.

"Can I cast?" he asked.

A pause.

Then, softly, "Have you been practicing?"

Thorne nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"You won't incinerate your classmates?"

A few students glanced over. He kept his voice even. "I won't."

She stopped, finally. Her expression unreadable.

"Show me."

Thorne exhaled slowly. Raised the wand.

The sigil flared to life in his aetheric vision joining the already crowded room full of circular lines, softly woven glyphs, orbiting each other like a quiet solar system. He traced the wand in the practiced arc, letting his core pulse once, just enough.

The orb sparked to life.

A shimmering sphere of light, larger than average, too large, but stable. For a moment.

Then the ambient aether took notice.

It surged toward his creation like moths to a flame, pressing against the construct, eager to feed it. The ball flared. Students on the nearby platform scooted back in alarm.

Thorne clenched his will.

No.

The command wasn't spoken aloud but the pressure of it rolled through his core, down his arm, into the sigil's lattice. The ambient aether froze.

Just long enough.

The orb flickered, pulsed, and then held its size. Contained. Still bright, still bigger than it should've been, but not spiraling out of control.

He drew in a breath.

"Lux," he whispered.

The word settled into the construct like a final stitch.

The orb gleamed. Clean. Solid. A soft, silver-bright light, brighter than anyone else's in the class, but stable. For now.

The ambient aether strained again, pulling at the edges.

He released the spell before it could tip.

The orb vanished in a soundless shimmer, and silence returned to the platform.

Vorr made a soft noise. Not quite a grunt. Approval, maybe.

"Good enough," she said. "Resume practice with your classmates."

Thorne nodded and exhaled softly.

But Vorr didn't move on just yet.

Her eyes, those sightless, pale voids, shifted subtly toward the wand in his hand.

"That focus," she said quietly, "you had no business bonding with it."

A few students turned to listen. She didn't care.

"It will slow your progression. Force your control before you're ready."

A beat passed.

"Maybe," she added, almost to herself, "you'll come out stronger for it. Maybe."

Then she turned and floated away.

Thorne stared at the wand.

It pulsed once. Not with hunger. Not with magic.

With waiting.

For the next two hours, Thorne burned through spell after spell.

Sometimes, the light formed flawlessly, shimmering above his outstretched wand like a captured sun. It hovered, steady and defiant, flooding the space around him with silver-white brilliance. He could feel the awe it drew from a few nearby students, the silence that followed when they paused their own attempts to glance his way.

Other times?

He failed.

Spectacularly.

The sigil would begin to form, the spell taking shape, and then the ambient aether would lurch toward it like a starving beast. But Thorne had learned to see it, those momentary flickers in the air, those threads of wild magic bending just slightly in his direction. And when he saw it, just before the surge hit...

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He cut the flow.

Shut his core off mid-cast.

The light collapsed. The spell fizzled. But it didn't explode.

It was better than another disaster.

But the repeated effort drained him. His core pulsed slower with every cast, his focus thinning, wrists aching from the precision the Ashthorn wand demanded. Sweat slicked the back of his neck beneath the collar of his uniform.

Thorne exhaled and lowered his wand.

He wasn't going to siphon ambient aether in front of this many people. Not here. Not with half the class already watching him like a volatile relic.

He leaned back in his seat exhausted.

From there, he watched the others.

Rowenna stood a few tiers down. Her expression was pinched in concentration, brows furrowed, mouth drawn in a thin line. Her wand work was sharp, precise but her aether seemed... shy. She produced orbs that hovered, flickered, held for a few seconds. Then dimmed. Not bad. A few more tries and she'd have it.

Elias, on the other hand, looked like someone had handed him an unstable potion and told him to juggle it.

His orbs barely formed before they detonated, small, yes, but chaotic. A flash. A burst. A small pop of force. Nothing dangerous, but definitely noticeable.

Thorne winced as one of Elias's spells flared too bright and collapsed with a sharp snap, making a few students flinch nearby.

Ronan wasn't faring much better.

The smug bravado he wore in duels didn't seem to help here. He conjured the orb every time, but the moment it stabilized, it burst apart, crackling sparks and scorched fingers. He cursed under his breath, glanced toward Isadora, then tried again.

Speaking of...

Isadora was practically glowing.

Her orbs weren't just steady, they were elegant. Floating effortlessly, perfectly shaped, as though they belonged in some enchanted chandelier. She cast them over and over, laughing quietly every time one hovered a bit longer, a bit brighter.

Thorne could hear the pride in her voice when she leaned over to one of her friends and whispered something about "getting the hang of it." He smirked. Of course she was good at it. The spell was dramatic and radiant. It suited her.

A bell tolled through the chamber, a low, musical chime that sent vibrations through the air.

Class was over.

Vorr gave no closing remarks, just floated away along the upper staircases like a ghost swallowed by sigils.

Students began to gather their things. The chatter resumed.

Thorne stood and made his way toward Elias, who was frowning at his staff like it had personally insulted him.

"You didn't explode this time," Thorne offered dryly.

Elias groaned. "I think my staff hates me."

"It's not hate. It's just judgment."

"Wonderful," Elias muttered. "That makes it better."

Thorne slung his satchel over one shoulder and glanced toward the stairwell, where Rowenna was already heading for the exit.

He called after her, "Rowenna! Wait up."

She paused at the top of the stairs, glancing back, her expression somewhere between impatience and disapproval.

Elias groaned audibly. "Why are you like this?"

Thorne just smirked. "Come on. She hasn't stabbed either of us yet. That's basically affection."

Elias stared at him, unimpressed. "One of these days she's going to turn you into a torch."

"I've survived worse."

Elias shook his head and followed him anyway, still muttering. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

Thorne didn't answer.

Rowenna waited at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, her expression perfectly blank, except for the way her eyes locked on Elias with open disdain.

Elias sighed like a man sentenced to a slow, painful death. "Great. My favorite person."

When they reached her, she barely acknowledged Thorne before saying curtly, "I can't waste time. I have Ritual Magic and Magical Theory in a few minutes."

Thorne nodded. "Me too. Let's go together."

Elias muttered, "Thank the dead gods." He shifted his grip on his staff and took a step back. "I've got Magical Beasts & Aether Creatures. Should be enlightening. I'll get to learn how to tend to something slimy with too many eyes and legs."

He spun the staff once with a little flair, winked at Thorne, and walked off.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Rowenna muttered, "Maybe one of them will eat him."

Thorne gave her a sideways look. "I heard that."

Rowenna didn't respond, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

They walked together, side by side, their boots tapping softly against the stone as the corridors narrowed and wound toward the east wing lecture halls. Aetherhold was quieter now, most students already filtering into their respective classes, and the quiet between them stretched, not uncomfortable, but tight with something unsaid.

The Ritual Magic & Magical Theory room was a massive, vaulted chamber, its ceiling domed with constellations etched in shimmering light, pulsing faintly with slow-moving sigils. The rows of desks were arranged in a descending spiral, each furnished with a clean slate of enchanted crystal-glass for writing and aether-charged quills that floated just above the surface.

Thorne and Rowenna slid into two seats near the middle, not too far from the front. She didn't speak as she settled beside him, but her movements were efficient, book out, page marked, a few small parchment squares lined neatly beside it.

She was ready. Of course she was.

Thorne took out his own things a little slower. He had the book. He had paper. His quill was... somewhere.

The instructor, the thin elf with the hunched shoulders and bored expression, appeared at the center dais without fanfare, her voice cutting cleanly through the low hum of student murmurs despite her monotone delivery, as if the sheer weight of her authority refused to be ignored, even if her enthusiasm had the day off.

"Let us begin."

The lights dimmed slightly as the diagrams began to bloom mid-air, drawn from her gestures and the aether itself, swirling runes forming around diagrams of ritual circles, leyline convergence models, and the fine detailing of sigil syntax.

Thorne tried to focus. He did, but this class always slipped through his mind through his mind like mist. It was all fascinating stuff in theory, especially the way rituals demanded collective energy and precise control over both ambient and refined aether.... and yet somehow, halfway through every lecture, his brain just quietly stepped out for a walk.

His gaze kept drifting.

Back to Rowenna.

She scribbled notes with practiced speed, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration, mouth pressed in a straight line.

He could understand the edge. The walls. The distrust. He'd seen enough of the world to know people didn't just wake up like that. But her behavior around Elias wasn't just guarded. It was... hostile. Sharp in a way that wasn't normal.

He waited until the professor turned, drawing another arcane model midair, then leaned in just enough to murmur, "What's your deal with Elias?"

Rowenna didn't flinch. Her quill didn't stop.

But her next line of text dug into the page with more force than necessary.

"I don't want to talk about it," she muttered.

Thorne tilted his head, voice low. "That's too bad. Because I do."

Her jaw tensed.

"You can't go around hurting people without cause."

"Without cause?" she hissed, turning toward him. Her voice was sharp, but not loud. Controlled rage. "Elves are murderers. He is a murderer."

Thorne frowned.

He studied her face, drawn tight, eyes cold, but not empty. Far from it.

"I thought you were smart," he said quietly. "Practical. Elias has no connection to those elves. And even if he did, he wasn't the one who waged war with Caledris. He's just..." Thorne hesitated, then finished, "...an elf."

Rowenna's hand clenched around her quill, squishing the feather. "That doesn't mean I'll forget," she said, voice tighter now. "They drenched Caledris in blood. They killed..."

She looked away.

And there it was.

Thorne's eyes narrowed. It hit him all at once, so obvious now he wanted to smack himself.

This wasn't politics.

This was personal.

"Whatever happened," he said slowly, "it wasn't Elias' fault. He wasn't the one who did… whatever happened to you."

Her head whipped toward him, eyes blazing. "Shut up."

Thorne blinked, caught off guard by the ferocity. "You know," he muttered, "sometimes I think you were raised by wolves. I'm just trying to help. Trying to be your friend. And you're ready to bite my head off."

"I don't want friends," she snapped.

The words hung in the air like a slap.

"I had one," she said, quieter now. "Once."

Thorne stared at her, the room fading around him. The diagrams. The professor's voice. The scratch of quills.

He almost didn't ask.

Almost.

But the words came anyway. "What happened?"

He didn't expect an answer.

But Rowenna set her quill down.

"My friend… her name was Triss. We grew up together. She was like a big sister to me. Always there. Always protective. Always funny. Always…" She trailed off. "There. Until she wasn't."

Thorne stayed quiet. Let her speak.

"My father…" She bit her lip. "He took her away. Offered her a position. Said she deserved better than to be stuck looking after me. And that's when I found out."

"Found out?"

Rowenna nodded, just once. "That while I thought of her as a friend, she was simply… the help. The caretaker. Appointed by my father to keep me company. Keep me safe. Watch me."

Thorne didn't interrupt.

"When she got the chance to climb socially," Rowenna said, eyes darkening, "she took it. And she left me."

Silence fell between them.

Thorne leaned back slightly, processing. Oof, he thought. That was complicated. And way out of my area of expertise.

Still.

He tried.

"I'm not her," he said.

Rowenna didn't look at him.

"I'm not Elias either," he added, softer this time. "And neither of us are leaving. Not unless you make us." Every word was infused with his skill Echoes of Truth, making each word land with sincerity.

Still nothing.

But her eyes flicked toward him, just for a second.

It wasn't much.

But it wasn't nothing.

Later, Thorne lay on his narrow bed, staring up at the dimly glowing sigils etched into the ceiling of his dormitory room. They pulsed faintly soft, rhythmic, like the breathing of the tower itself.

He was done.

His arms ached from spellwork, his core felt wrung dry, and his mind was a tangled mess of flickering thoughts, Rowenna's story, Elias' silence, the hooded figure's voice still echoing faintly in the back of his skull.

Emotionally drained. Physically wrecked.

His eyes fluttered shut.

Just a moment, he told himself.

But when he blinked again, something shimmered at the edge of his vision.

Not a dream.

Not normal.

He focused.

Aether vision flared open muted, strained, but still clear enough.

And there, floating above the bed in slow, curling light, words began to form in the air. As if drawn by invisible fingers across a pane of glowing glass.

One word at a time.

Tomorrow. Midnight.

They pulsed once, then faded into silence.

Marian...

Thorne stared at the empty space for a long time, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

Then he rolled onto his back again, exhaling into the dark.

"Of course."

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