Thorne didn't rush.

He let the hush of the chamber fill every corner, an expectant, suspended silence.

And then, softly, he exhaled.

His breath shimmered in the cold air, motes swirling.

And in that breath, he shaped something new.

A thin coil of corruption bloomed from his lips, nearly invisible except for the way it made the ambient aether bend. Distort. Fray.

Entropy Breath.

The three Ignis students stared in confusion, unable to see the tainted motes drift lazily toward them. They didn't recognize the danger, not yet.

Thorne watched the trail of corruption sway in the dark, reaching like skeletal fingers for their bright, eager cores.

Good, he thought. Let them wonder.

He smiled, wide enough to show teeth.

The first threads touched the ambient aether and immediately seeded their decay. The motes around the corruption darkened, turning sluggish, brittle. The corruption spread in slow, delicate tendrils, like mold across fresh bread.

Their fates were sealed.

But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy himself in the meantime.

After all, they were the ones who challenged him.

He didn't reach for the raw, overwhelming force that would have ended this in a heartbeat. He didn't want it over too soon.

Instead, he shifted his weight forward. His left hand flexed, feeling the familiar readiness in his tendons and bones.

He felt Unarmed Combat settle over him, an old companion, honed in alleys and empty storerooms and the back rooms of Uncle's safehouses. It had been so long since he had fought without a weapon.

He let Ashthorn drift into his right hand, the wand's pale wood gleaming softly in the dim light.

It was almost unfair, really. But fairness had never interested him.

The older Ignis student recovered first, shoving the younger ones behind him. His face was white but determined.

"You stay behind me," he ordered, voice cracking just slightly.

Thorne tilted his head, studying him with interest.

How brave, he thought. How predictably stupid.

The older student lifted his wand, fingers twitching through the beginnings of a complex array of sigils.

Thorne didn't wait for it to finish.

He flicked Ashthorn, and the Levitation spell leapt to his command, instinctual now, an extension of his will.

A hum of aether crawled across the chamber, and the wand in the hands of the smaller Ignis boy shot upward.

The boy yelped, clutching empty air as his focus was yanked away and hovered neatly over Thorne's open palm.

The next instant, the same boy rose from the floor, feet kicking uselessly.

Thorne shifted his gaze to him, meeting his wide, terrified eyes.

"Stay there," he advised mildly.

He flicked the wand again, and the boy drifted higher, just out of reach of the older student trying to grab his leg.

The older Ignis scion's spell completed, a lance of compressed air punched toward Thorne's chest, faster than an arrow.

Deadzone Reflex activated.

The world slowed to a crawl.

He saw the shape of the projectile, the faint eddies of aether trailing behind it.

He stepped sideways, casual as a man avoiding a puddle.

The spell passed by his shoulder and shattered a wooden beam behind him.

Skill Level up! Deadzone Reflex: 2 → 3.

He felt the improvement immediately, his perception a fraction sharper, the world a heartbeat slower.

The scion's eyes widened, realization dawning that this wasn't going to be the quick intimidation he'd imagined.

Good.

Thorne surged forward, closing the gap in three strides.

The first Ignis boy tried to raise a ward, but Thorne drove the heel of his hand into his sternum with clinical precision. The boy folded over, air whooshing from his lungs.

Thorne stepped past him before he hit the floor.

The older student's next spell was a twisting snarl of fire, more advanced than he'd expected, with enough heat to crisp skin.

Thorne let the aether slip around him, shifting his weight so the flame coiled past his ribs without touching cloth. He could smell the scorched air in its wake.

The scion barely had time to widen his stance before Thorne was in range.

He moved low, Unarmed Combat flowing through his limbs like memory. His elbow drove into the boy's diaphragm.

The older student gasped, just in time for Thorne's hand to clamp around his throat and shove him back into the wall.

They locked eyes.

"Still think you're stronger?" Thorne asked softly.

The boy's only answer was a strangled noise.

Thorne twisted his wrist, driving the Ignis scion's wand out of alignment.

The corruption drifting through the room thickened, a delicate, drifting cloud of decay.

The last free Ignis boy made a panicked grab for Thorne's arm.

Thorne didn't even look.

He lashed out with his foot, catching the boy's knee. The joint buckled with a sharp pop and a scream.

The older student tried to rally, pulling in a ragged breath to cast.

Thorne raised Ashthorn, channeling a single, controlled burst of force.

A crackling shock hit the boy square in the chest and threw him across the room. He landed hard, skidding across the floorboards.

Ashthorn hummed softly in Thorne's palm, its glow reflecting in his bright, steady eyes.

He didn't smile this time.

Instead, he turned to the last standing Ignis boy, the one still levitating helplessly near the ceiling.

"You," he called up, voice mild.

The boy whimpered.

"You'll be next."

He flicked Ashthorn again.

And the boy began to drift slowly down, kicking and scrabbling at nothing.

Thorne let the levitation spell drop.

The young Ignis student fell like a sack of grain, hitting the floor with a hollow thud that rattled the shelves along the walls. He let out a strangled cry and curled onto his side, clutching his shoulder.

Thorne stepped toward him, unhurried.

Ashthorn flicked up in his grip, the wand's chipped wood humming with a thin charge of aether. He pointed it at the boy's ribs and released a precise, stinging burst, just enough to make him shriek in pain.

He didn't want to kill him. Not yet.

He just wanted them all to remember.

Behind him, the older Ignis scion was struggling back onto his elbows, face pale and smeared with sweat. He glared up at Thorne, fury and humiliation warring in his expression.

"You…" he panted. "You think…you're strong… But you are just a savage, using muscle instead of magic!"

Thorne looked at him, feeling the last threads of patience peel away.

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"No," he said, voice soft. "I just think you're pathetic."

The scion tried to lift his wand again.

Thorne lunged.

He closed the distance in a single stride, one hand closing around the boy's wrist and twisting until the wand clattered to the floor. His other hand balled into a fist and drove into the side of his jaw.

Bone crunched.

The boy sagged back against the wall, dazed.

Thorne didn't stop.

He dragged him upright by the front of his uniform. His own breathing was slow, measured, every heartbeat coldly deliberate.

He slammed his fist into the boy's gut.

Once.

Twice.

The air left the Ignis scion in a choking wheeze, his eyes rolling.

Thorne shifted his grip to his throat and pinned him there, letting the weight of his body dangle.

"You said you were the strongest," he murmured, leaning close enough that their foreheads almost touched.

The boy tried to speak. Nothing came out.

Thorne smiled faintly.

"Let me show you what stronger looks like."

He drove his knee into the boy's ribs.

The body in his hands convulsed. A thin, broken sound slipped between the boy's lips.

Skill level up! Unarmed Combat: 28 → 29

He let go, letting the scion crumple in a heap on the floorboards.

The corrupted motes drifting around them had thickened, turning the air heavy and sour. He could feel the way they licked at every surface, seeping into the wounded boys' shallow breaths.

Too much, he realized distantly. It will kill them soon.

He crouched, fingers resting lightly on the older boy's shoulder.

"You're going to live," he said, voice soft. "Congratulations."

The boy groaned weakly, blood trickling from his split lip.

Thorne looked over his shoulder at the two younger Ignis students.

They were huddled near the far wall, frozen between terror and indecision.

"Take him," Thorne ordered, his tone snapping them out of their stupor. "Get him out of here."

They hesitated.

Thorne's smile returned, slow and cold.

"Now."

They scrambled over each other to obey, grabbing their battered ringleader under the arms and hauling him upright. He sagged between them, barely conscious, blood smearing across their sleeves.

As they shuffled toward the door, Thorne took one step forward, letting the aether rise around him in a soft, menacing ripple.

"One last thing."

They froze, wide-eyed.

"If you ever speak of this," Thorne said quietly, "to anyone, anyone at all, I won't be so gentle next time."

He paused, just long enough to let the words sink in.

"I'll carve you apart. Piece by piece."

Their eyes shone with uncomprehending horror.

They nodded, quick, desperate jerks of the head and turned, half-carrying the older student out into the hallway.

The door swung shut behind them, and silence closed in.

Thorne exhaled.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand.

The corrupted motes hung in the air, swirling like a dying storm.

He focused, narrowing his will around them, isolating each contaminated thread from the clean aether beyond.

One by one, the motes began to collapse in on themselves, unraveling their own decay until nothing remained.

He watched until the last glimmer flickered and winked out.

Until the air was clean again.

Only then did he straighten, dusting blood and splinters from his uniform.

No traces.

No evidence.

Just a quiet room and the memory of three boys who would be dead soon.

Thorne stood alone in the quiet room, listening to the silence that always came after violence.

For a few minutes, he didn't move.

He felt drained, bone-tired in a way that had nothing to do with bruises or spent aether.

It had already been a long day. Longer, even, before those idiots decided to test how much patience he had left.

He closed his eyes, wondering, just for a moment, if it might have been wiser to kill them outright.

To end it cleanly instead of risking the spite of petty nobility, but the truth was he wanted to test his new skill, to see how effective it was.

Then he shrugged, brushing the thought aside.

If it came to consequences, he'd deal with them like he dealt with everything else.

One corpse at a time.

He turned and slipped out the door, checking the hall with a slow sweep of Veil Sense.

Nothing. No footsteps. No curious onlookers.

Good.

He stepped into the corridor and tucked his hands into his pockets, feeling strangely lighter.

Venting his frustration always helped.

Amazing, he thought drily. Nothing clears the mind like murdering a few people.

He crossed the Convergence Room, the great sigil wheel overhead rotating in its slow, ponderous dance. The shifting runes spilled pale light over his shoulders as he passed beneath.

The hooded guardian statue watched him silently, the purple candle flame flickering over its stony features. In its other hand, the book gleamed faintly in the dark.

He inclined his head in a mock salute, stepping into the dim hall that led deeper into Umbra House.

By the time he reached the common room, it was empty, only the quiet crackle of the hearth and the faint scent of ink lingering in the air.

Good. He wasn't in the mood for conversation.

He walked past the reading alcove, toward the narrow stair that led to his assigned cell of a room.

He stopped just short of the door.

An aether construct waited there, featureless and tall, holding a silver tray in both hands.

A single letter lay atop it.

Thorne groaned aloud, rubbing a hand over his face.

"No," he muttered to nobody. "Not at this time. I just want to sleep. What fresh calamity is this?"

He snatched the letter off the tray and shouldered his door open, ignoring the construct's polite stillness.

The door clicked shut behind him.

He flipped the envelope over, scanning the seal with a dull sense of inevitability.

Argessa.

Of course.

He broke the wax with a tired flick of his thumb and unfolded the note.

Thorne, I expect you at my shop tomorrow after your classes. I have a new shipment waiting for your inspection.

A.

He groaned again, louder this time.

"Perfect," he sighed to the ceiling. "Exactly what I needed."

He let the letter drift from his fingers onto the desk, too exhausted to care if it fluttered to the floor.

Then he crossed to the narrow bed and fell face-first onto the blanket, breathing in the faint scent of clean linen and ink.

He didn't even bother undressing.

Sleep found him before he could think of anything else.

***

Thorne had never realized how satisfying a quiet breakfast could feel until this morning.

He'd woken before dawn, his sleep so deep it left him groggy for the first few minutes, unsure if the night before had actually happened or been some unpleasant dream stitched from old memories.

But when he rolled his shoulder and felt the dull ache where that aether serpent had sunk its fangs, he knew it had been real.

Still, he'd woken with a mood that was almost…calm.

He was even humming softly under his breath as he found his seat in the Astral Hall, a plate of toast and eggs in front of him.

Rowenna sat across from him, her book propped against a jug of spiced tea. She hadn't looked up once since he arrived, the only sign she noticed him at all was the occasional wrinkle of her nose when he hummed off-key.

Thorne tore a chunk of bread in half and popped it into his mouth. He'd nearly forgotten the simple relief of a normal morning.

For once, he thought, no threats, no hidden knives, no...

"Good morning!"

He blinked up as Isadora appeared beside the table, her hair gleaming in the morning light, Lucien trailing after her with the expression of a man already regretting getting out of bed.

Isadora eyed Rowenna with a bright, teasing smile.

"Rowenna," she began, her voice syrup-sweet, "are you aware you're sitting at the Umbra table?"

Rowenna's quill stopped mid-sentence.

Her green eyes lifted slowly.

"I'm aware," she said flatly.

Isadora raised her brows in mock astonishment. "Just making sure. Wouldn't want you to forget where you belong."

"I'm not lost," Rowenna snapped, her shoulders going stiff. "It's quieter here. Which is more than I can say for my table."

"Ouch," Lucien murmured, sinking into the seat beside Thorne.

Isadora only laughed, the sound chiming like a bell. "Relax, I'm teasing. You're welcome to eat here. Even if it is…a bit dim."

Thorne swallowed a mouthful of eggs and pointed his fork at her. "You're one to talk about dim. You sat on a candle your first day here."

Lucien choked on his tea, and Rowenna actually cracked the ghost of a smile before burying it in her book.

"Traitors," Isadora sighed, though her lips curved.

Before Thorne could answer, a tall figure appeared at the edge of their table.

Garridan, his uniform immaculate as ever, stood frowning at them.

"Look who finally woke up," Isadora called, her tone sing-song. "Don't tell me you overslept like Lucien."

Lucien glowered. "I didn't oversleep. I was up late working."

"You were snoring in your chair," she countered.

"I was meditating."

"Right."

Garridan didn't join the banter.

He pulled out a chair, but instead of sitting, he set both hands flat on the table.

"You heard the news?" he asked.

They looked up at him as one.

Thorne felt his stomach tighten, though he kept his face carefully blank.

"What news?" Isadora asked, her voice suddenly cautious.

Garridan exhaled.

"Three Ignis students were found dead this morning," he said. "In their beds."

For a moment, no one spoke.

Thorne felt something cold trace the inside of his ribs.

He'd almost forgotten.

Almost.

His eyes lowered to his plate, careful not to meet anyone's gaze.

"They're sure they're dead?" Lucien asked after a long moment.

Garridan shot him a tired look. "No, Lucien. They're just taking an unusually long nap."

Lucien flushed.

"What happened to them?" Rowenna demanded.

Garridan shook his head. "Nobody knows. They had injuries, bruises, cuts, like they'd been in a fight. But no one can find any curse marks or lingering spell signatures."

Thorne let out a slow breath, hiding it behind his teacup. Relief prickled under his skin.

Good, he thought. No traces. No questions I'll have to answer.

Isadora leaned forward, her eyes wide. "But they didn't find the cause of death?"

"No," Garridan said. "It's all over the common room. Even the professors don't know. They've brought in two medicae to examine the bodies."

Rowenna's frown deepened. "Which kingdom were they from?"

"They were from the southern holds, from the Ash Coast," Garridan replied. "Ignis families, all of them."

Rowenna's gaze grew distant. "Then it could be politics."

Lucien looked skeptical. "In the first month of classes? Even for Ignis, that's fast."

Isadora tapped a manicured finger on her chin, thinking.

"Or," she said slowly, "it could be connected to the Enforcers yesterday."

That pulled Thorne's gaze up despite himself.

Isadora didn't notice, her brow furrowing.

"Maybe someone is hunting students," she went on, her voice low. "Or maybe they were here looking for whoever did it."

Thorne's mouth quirked into a hidden smirk.

If only you knew how close you are, he thought, feeling something dark and satisfied uncurl in his chest.

Vivienne would have loved this conversation.

Rowenna glanced at Isadora sidelong. "So the killings have begun," she said, her tone flat and unsettlingly calm.

Isadora shivered and folded her arms. "Don't say that."

Lucien leaned closer to Thorne, lowering his voice. "It can't really be that serious…can it?"

Thorne took a bite of toast and didn't answer.

Inside, he was remembering the looks on their faces, the fear in their eyes as he'd let them crawl out the door.

The last thing they'd seen was him, standing in the dark, watching.

He swallowed and lifted his cup again, wondering if any of them would ever guess that the real danger had been sitting beside them all along.

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