Thorne and Rowenna crossed the eastern bridge in silence, their footsteps leaving imprints on the bridge made of pure light. Below them, far past the railings, aether mists wreathed the lower cliffs in lazy spirals, hiding the depths of the world from view. Normally Thorne found the view calming. Today it just reminded him of how far he still had to fall.

"I couldn't even make a proper spark," he muttered at last.

Rowenna adjusted her grip on the strap of her bag. "You managed a partial reaction from a Tier 1 battle spell. That's more than most of the students at our level can claim."

"It fizzled like a guttering candle," he said bitterly. "I traced everything perfectly. Sigils, incantation, the flow, I could feel it lining up. But the moment I channeled the final thread, the whole thing collapsed."

Rowenna didn't say anything for a while. They stepped off the bridge and onto the courtyard paving stones, where golden sunlight dappled the path through the tall columns. Statues of long-dead Archmages watched them pass with blind, judgmental stares.

Rowenna crossed her arms and tilted her head at him. "What did you expect? To master a battle spell on your first real attempt?"

Thorne opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a look.

"You mastered the levitation spell on your first try, Thorne. That was an anomaly. Most students take a week just to make the first object twitch." Her tone was almost accusing.

"Don't let that one miracle warp your expectations. Battle spells aren't light tricks, they're a different league entirely. You're used to aether doing whatever you want," she finally said.

Thorne frowned. "And?"

"Well," she glanced over at him, "now it wants you to ask nicely."

He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.

That was exactly it.

Back in the forest, or during emergencies, he willed the aether to move, and it obeyed. Even in his early days, when he fought for survival, aether had come to him like a hound to its master. But spellcasting wasn't raw manipulation. It demanded cooperation. Structure. Restraint.

It was like trying to use a scalpel when he was used to swinging a warhammer.

They turned the final corner toward Marian's tower, walking side-by-side past the reflecting pool in the central square. Thorne could see the soft shimmer of aether spirals rising from the base of the crystalline spire, faint pulses of light where ley-lines converged.

But something was off.

Instead of students ascending the tower steps for class, a stream of them were heading away, talking quietly among themselves.

Rowenna's eyes narrowed. "That's odd. Lady Marian's never late."

They approached the edge of the crowd. Thorne flagged down a girl in Aegis robes, her hair braided in three silver loops. "What happened?"

The girl gestured toward the tower's entrance. "Class is postponed. There's a construct holding a message scroll. No explanation."

Thorne and Rowenna exchanged glances and pushed through the crowd. Sure enough, at the base of the spiral staircase, a humanoid aether construct hovered serenely. It resembled a robed man with no face, a floating scroll magically pinned to its chest, gently fluttering in the breeze.

Rowenna leaned in and read aloud. "Professor Marian's class has been postponed until further notice. Please return tomorrow for rescheduling."

Thorne blinked. "...Well, that's just perfect."

Rowenna stepped back and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "It does give us one more free hour."

Thorne gave her a sidelong glance. "You want to go back to the chambers?"

She considered it. "Not particularly. I melted part of the practice circle."

Thorne arched an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

Rowenna huffed. "It wasn't my fault. I was this close to stabilizing the second weave when the chamber pulsed too early and threw off my rhythm."

He snorted. "So you're saying the magical chamber cheated."

"I'm saying it had a design flaw."

They walked away from the tower, back down the columned corridor, shadows slanting low as the afternoon sun dipped further into the sky. Around them, the school was alive, students rushing to other classes, floating texts carried by shimmering motes, bursts of light in the distance as some practical experiment went haywire. And yet, Thorne felt oddly removed from it all.

He crossed his arms. "You know, I'm starting to wonder if anything at Aetherhold works without costing gold, mana, time, or my last remaining shred of dignity."

Rowenna smirked. "Don't be so cheap Thorne."

Thorne kicked a loose stone off the path and watched it vanish into the mist below. He exhaled slowly. "You think I'm being ridiculous?"

She gave him a flat look. "Absolutely."

He raised an eyebrow.

Rowenna shook her head and relented. "You're used to being good at things. That's fine. But spellcasting, real spellcasting, isn't about brute-forcing your will onto the world. It's about finesse. Nuance. It's like dancing with the wind while balancing a sword on your nose."

"Sounds like a stupid dance," he muttered.

Rowenna's lips curled slightly. "Only until you learn the steps."

He went quiet after that. Not because she was wrong, but because she was right. Too right. And it was annoying.

When they reached the archway leading back into the central courtyard, Rowenna gestured toward the east side. "I'm heading to the Archives. I want to cross-reference some of the kinetic theory symbols. Coming?"

Thorne shook his head. "I need to clear my thoughts."

She raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. "Suit yourself. And try not to light anything on fire."

"No promises."

As she disappeared into the hallway, Thorne looked up once more toward the gleaming tower that housed Marian's class.

He sighed.

So much for answers.

***

Thorne leaned over his desk, the spelltome open before him as he reread the same paragraph for the fourth time. The looping script described the aether flow pattern in agonizing detail, and though his eyes tracked each line, his mind kept drifting, back to the chamber, the failed spell, the disappointment etched into Ashthorn's silent judgment.

He closed the tome with a sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. One more class.

Ritual Magic & Magical Theory was his last of the day, a blur of long-winded lectures and diagrams drawn mid-air with trails of gold-tinged aether. He paid attention, enough to catch what he needed, but his mind was already moving ahead. As soon as the class ended, Thorne slipped away and made straight for his quarters.

He changed into his most subdued outfit: plain trousers, a dark fitted shirt, and a faded coat that looked unassuming enough not to draw attention in Evermist. No glimmering glyphs, no elegant stitching. Just enough pockets to carry what he needed.

He passed through the common room of Umbra without a word, ignoring the few curious glances thrown his way. His expression made it clear: not today. Whatever rumors still lingered about the bloodied return of last night were now a dull buzz in the background.

Outside, the cold wind of the floating mountain bit into him. Thorne didn't care. He set off down the winding path toward Evermist, his boots silent against the stone.

He had two goals.

The first: find Argessa. With Marian nowhere to be found, again, she was his next best option. He just hoped she'd be willing to help him sort through the complexities of spell infusion. If anyone could untangle the intricacies of advanced spellcraft, it was her.

The second: blades.

He needed weapons, proper ones. His Aetheric Binding was too volatile, too raw. Ordinary steel warped and crumbled under its strain. Daggers especially, his last set had been destroyed during the vault incident, and he hadn't bothered replacing them, relying instead on Ashthorn and his bare hands. That couldn't continue.

And there was only one person in Evermist whose business had a chance of providing blades that could withstand what he was.

Brennak.

Thorne exhaled, his breath fogging in the crisp air.

Argessa and Brennak.

Knowledge and steel.

He rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of Ashthorn against his thigh.

Time to restock. And maybe… just maybe, regroup.

***

The moment Thorne stepped into Argessa's shop, the familiar pulse of aether greeted him like a slap of warm perfume, heady, rich, laced with spell fragments and residual magic. He navigated through floating glyphs and glowing banners, past students haggling over wands and cloaks, and found his way to the side counter where he spotted the young woman who had given him the testing assignment during his last visit.

She looked up from her ledgers and blinked. "Oh. You again."

Thorne didn't bother with pleasantries. "I need to speak with Argessa."

She hesitated. "Lady Argessa is… currently indisposed."

Thorne's jaw tightened. He was tired. He was frustrated. And the mix of failure and urgency had twisted into something hot and volatile under his skin. His pulse surged, and so did the glow in his eyes, bright, pale, unblinking.

The worker took a step back. Her throat bobbed. "I… I'm sorry, she really..."

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"Please," Thorne said, and the edge in his voice was barely concealed. "It's important."

People were beginning to stare. A couple of shoppers whispered behind a rotating shelf of crystal focus gems. Even one of the enchanted constructs paused in its tracks, as if sensing the change in atmosphere.

Another shop attendant, older and dressed in crisp grey robes, hurried over. "Is there a problem?"

"I just want to speak with Argessa," Thorne said tightly. "Five minutes. That's all."

The older woman's eyes darted to the younger clerk, who looked like she'd just been asked to defuse a bomb and then back to Thorne. Her gaze lingered on his eyes, and something shifted in her expression. She gave a stiff nod. "Wait here."

She turned and disappeared into a narrow hallway near the back of the shop, behind a series of shelves displaying orbs in levitating cages. The moment she left, the tension broke slightly, but Thorne could feel the eyes still on him. He resisted the urge to pace.

After what felt like ten minutes but was probably only two, the woman returned and gave him a tight gesture.

"She'll see you now. Follow me."

Thorne followed, threading past the shelves, through a narrow stone corridor lit with flickering aether-lanterns. They climbed a tight stairwell, and at the top was a thick wooden door, polished and etched with vines of silver thread that shimmered faintly.

The woman opened it, and the scent hit Thorne first, lavender, spice, and parchment. A warmth different from the rest of the shop rolled out.

Inside, the room was nothing like he expected.

It was… cozy.

Bookshelves lined the walls, not with grimoires or high-grade spellbooks, but worn, weathered novels and treatises that looked like they'd been read and reread. There was a plush couch by the hearth, embroidered pillows in mismatched patterns. A dozen potted plants grew in glass globes suspended mid-air by small aether fields. A crystal kettle steamed gently on a floating tray beside a squat table filled with little porcelain cups and honey jars.

It looked like… a grandmother's apartment.

The woman stepped aside, and Thorne blinked as he stepped into the space.

It felt like stepping out of the world.

He looked around, expecting to hear Argessa's dry wit or see her towering presence emerge from some shadowed corner. Instead, he spotted her near the back window, facing the glass, watching something outside. She didn't turn, but she raised a hand in greeting.

"Close the door behind you, boy. And don't drip frustration all over my carpet."

The attendant quietly retreated and shut the door.

Thorne stood there a moment longer, taking in the strange, homey space. Then he exhaled, the tension slowly leaving his shoulders. He stepped forward.

Argessa didn't turn. "So. What have you broken this time?"

She finally turned from the window with a small smile, her staff clicking softly against the wooden floor as she walked toward him with unhurried grace. She was still wearing that same elegant dark gown, adorned with filigree that glinted faintly in the light. Her silver hair was bound in a loose braid over one shoulder, and her sharp eyes sparkled with their usual mix of humor and exasperation.

"Must you harass every poor girl who works for me?" she said with a sigh, lowering herself carefully into the large armchair beside the hearth. "You nearly scared that one half to death."

Thorne didn't bother hiding the guilt that flickered across his face. "I wasn't trying to scare anyone."

"Intent matters little when your eyes are glowing like you swallowed a leyline," she said dryly. "Now then, what is it this time? I don't have a job for you, if that's what you're here for."

Thorne shook his head, stepping forward until he stood beside the low table. "It's not that. I... I just needed help."

"Help?" Argessa raised an eyebrow, gesturing toward the nearest chair with the carved end of her staff. "That's a bit vague, boy. Help with what, exactly?"

Thorne hesitated, then dropped into the seat across from her, feeling suddenly much younger than he had a second ago. "I've been trying to learn new spells. Offensive ones. Battle spells."

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. "So?"

"So it's not working. I can do the motions, I can trace the sigils, the words, I've got them. But when it comes to the infusion…" He scowled at the table, fingers curling into fists. "It falls apart. Every time."

Argessa tilted her head. "And what, exactly, do you expect me to do? Wave a finger and make you a spellcasting savant?"

"I don't know," Thorne muttered, looking up. "You're supposed to be this powerful witch, right? Maybe you could give me some tips. A pointer or two. Anything."

There was a long pause.

Then Argessa groaned and leaned her head back against her chair, closing her eyes for a beat. "What in the name of the dead gods have I gotten myself into?" she muttered to the ceiling.

Thorne stared, unsure if she was actually annoyed or just theatrically so.

Argessa sighed again and leaned forward, tapping her staff once on the floor. The kettle floated from its tray and began pouring two cups of tea on its own, steam curling into the air like lazy dragons. "Sit properly, would you? And take the cup. If we're doing this, I need caffeine."

Thorne blinked. "Tea has caffeine?"

"This one does," she said flatly. "Drink."

He took the cup. It was hot, fragrant, and stronger than any tea he'd had before, floral with a strange mineral aftertaste, like magic itself had steeped in it.

Argessa studied him over the rim of her cup. "Start from the beginning. Tell me exactly what you did, and what went wrong. No dramatics. Just facts."

Thorne took a breath. "I chose a basic Tier 1 fire spell, Flame Needle, from one of the books Rowenna helped me find. I memorized the sigils, practiced the speech. That part was fine. Even the timing of the sigil weaving was manageable, once I got into a rhythm. But the infusion..." He grimaced. "I couldn't hold it. The flame kept sputtering out. Sometimes I'd get a spark. Once, maybe half a second of fire. But that was it."

Argessa didn't respond right away. She stirred her tea slowly, her gaze slipping toward the hearth. Then she set the cup down and sat forward.

"Aether infusion," she said, voice firm, "is the great filter. The difference between children playing with light and actual spellcraft."

She lifted her staff and pointed the end toward the air between them. "Everything in magic, absolutely everything, relies on one principle. Intention made real through aether. Sigils shape the framework. Words give it direction. But it is infusion, true, balanced, and deliberate infusion, that makes the spell come alive."

She let the words settle before continuing.

"The reason you're struggling is because you've only scratched the surface of aether manipulation. So far, you've been using it like a club. Push here, pull there. Dump energy into something and watch it react. That works for simple spells, sure. But it does not work for advanced spells."

She tapped her staff once, and a shimmering thread of aether spiraled upward like smoke from the floor. "To infuse properly, you must circulate the aether. Not force it. Not hurl it. You guide it. Like blood through veins. It has to pass through specific channels, your own body's natural flows, which you've probably never even noticed. Every person's aether channels are unique. The books give a general template, but they can't account for your particular internal geometry."

Thorne leaned forward, frowning. "Then how am I supposed to..."

"Practice," Argessa said flatly.

He blinked.

"That's it?" he asked, incredulous.

She nodded, sipping her tea again. "That's it."

Thorne groaned and leaned back in the chair. "Great. So I'm just supposed to keep failing until something clicks?"

Argessa lifted one shoulder. "More or less."

She reached for a drawer beside her chair and withdrew a thin crystal rod. With a flick of her wrist, she drew a looping sigil in the air, sharp, angular, elegant. Her words, when she spoke them, shimmered with such precision that Thorne could feel the aether humming in his teeth. Then, with barely a gesture, the sigil flared and a tiny bolt of heat pulsed into the hearth, adding to the flames.

"Everything you're struggling with," she said, returning the rod to her lap, "becomes effortless once your body stops resisting your core's flow. You're overthinking. Overcorrecting. Fighting your own channels instead of learning them."

She tilted her head. "You want to improve? Fine. Before you even attempt another spell, I want you to spend the next few nights doing nothing but drawing your aether into your palm. Slowly. Repeatedly. Until you can feel it circulating without strain or backlash."

Thorne muttered, "Sounds boring."

She snorted. "Magic is work, boy. Not all of us get by with glowing eyes and a bad attitude."

He smirked despite himself.

"But," she added, her voice softening slightly, "you'll get there. You've got the raw power, no doubt. Now you need discipline. Control."

Thorne took another sip of his tea and nodded slowly. "Circulation before ignition. No more brute force."

Argessa raised her cup. "Now you're learning."

She set her teacup down with a clink and gestured toward the empty space near the window, where sunlight filtered through a charm-bound curtain, casting soft patterns of shifting runes across the rug.

"Well? Get up," she said. "Let's see if anything I said managed to penetrate that skull of yours."

Thorne stood, brushing his hands against his trousers. "Alright. Circulate, not force. No brute strength."

He extended his right hand, focusing on his palm, and began to call forth his aether.

"Not from your gut," Argessa snapped immediately. "You're still drawing too deep. Start small, pull from your diaphragm, not your core. You're not igniting a battlefield, you're lighting a candle."

He adjusted, breathing through his nose, letting the energy come slower. He tried to feel it as Argessa had said, flowing like blood, not crashing like waves. A faint warmth gathered in his palm.

"Better," she said, watching with half-lidded eyes. "Now move it. Down the arm, through the wrist, let it pool just behind the knuckle before you release."

He did, and the warmth faltered. The pulse stuttered. The aether slipped.

"Stop!" she barked.

Thorne froze.

"You let it cool in the elbow," she said. "Why? That's a bottleneck. You need to keep momentum steady. Think of it like water in a pipe, if you hesitate, the pressure collapses. Again."

He sighed and repeated the process. This time, the glow reached his palm fully. He felt it swirl in a spiral, like a coiled spring waiting to launch.

"Don't cast," she warned, sensing his intent. "Just hold. That's your task. Feel how it vibrates against your hand, your skin. That tension? That's what gives spells power. But it must be clean tension. Refined. Not wild."

He held the charge, sweat prickling on his brow.

"Now let it disperse," she said.

He did, exhaling heavily.

"You'll do that fifty more times," she said, standing. "If your hand cramps, good. That means you're actually doing something useful for once."

She walked over to a corner, where a collection of strange ceramic pots sat beneath glowing glass panels. She raised her staff lazily and flicked it toward the plants. Small blue motes drifted from the staff's tip, like dandelion seeds, and settled over the soil. Each pot shimmered faintly in response.

Thorne resumed his practice while she muttered to the greenery. "Yes, yes, I see you. You're thirsty, I get it. Honestly, you're needier than most men I've known."

Thorne suppressed a smirk.

After a few rounds of practice, he glanced over and saw Argessa lounging in a padded chair by the window, flipping through an elaborately illustrated book. The cover read Moon's Embrace: A Tragedy in Six Parts. The page she had open depicted a half-cloaked elven maiden cradling a broadsword across her lap, gazing longingly at a shadowed figure retreating into the mist.

"You're not helping anymore?" he asked between steady breaths, aether building in his palm.

"Child," she said without looking up, "if I helped you every time you stumbled, I'd be more nursemaid than mentor. You've had your guidance. Now it's repetition. Grind. Sweat. Failure. The sacred rites of true learning."

"Charming."

"Mm." She turned a page. "Now hush. Mariel is about to betray him for the second time. And if I miss it, I'll be in a foul mood."

Thorne snorted and went back to work, the heat in his hand building with every careful cycle.

By the time Argessa finally sighed and clacked her book shut, the sun had dipped low, casting golden light through the window panes. The enchantments on the glass flared gently in response, dimming the light to a cozy orange hue.

"That's enough," she said, standing with a groan and stretching her back. "You'll melt your brain if you keep going. And worse, your hands will cramp, and you'll be no good for anything but whining."

Thorne exhaled, tension bleeding from his shoulders as the aether dispersed from his fingers. His wand hand tingled, but not in the alarming way it had earlier. This was... pleasant. Like he'd actually managed something. He wasn't sure what, but something.

"I think I'm getting the hang of it," he muttered, flexing his fingers. "Maybe."

Argessa raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. Instead, she flicked her staff once, and with a pop and shimmer, a low table appeared between them, set with two steaming plates of food, grilled root vegetables, thick slices of buttered bread, and roasted quail that smelled far too good for magic to be involved.

Thorne dropped into the chair across from her with a grateful grunt. "You know, for a hermit witch with a staff addiction, you cook a mean dinner."

Argessa poured them each a glass of dark, spiced wine. "It's all illusion. The taste is real, but the calories are pure fiction. Helps keep the figure."

Thorne snorted and tore off a piece of bread. For a few quiet minutes, they ate in peace, the only sound the crackle of the nearby hearth and the gentle clink of silverware.

Then Argessa broke the silence.

"So," she said casually, between bites, "have you made a decision about that little sponsorship offer from the Empire?"

Thorne didn't look up. He chewed, swallowed, then shrugged. "I'll ignore it."

Argessa froze mid-bite. Her fork hovered above her plate. "You'll what?"

"Ignore it," he repeated, reaching for another slice of quail. "Maybe if I don't respond, they'll forget I exist."

Argessa set her fork down with a clink and narrowed her eyes. "You really are a special kind of stupid."

Thorne's brow arched. "Thanks. I try."

"Child," she snapped, exasperated. "You don't ignore an Empire like that. They don't send polite letters and then wait patiently while you twiddle your thumbs. They send spies. Enforcers. In some cases, entire armies."

Thorne sighed and leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine. "I know. I really do. I just..." He trailed off, eyes flicking to the flickering fireplace. "I don't want to deal with it. Not yet."

Argessa stared at him for a long moment. Then, she leaned back with a grumble and crossed her arms. "Avoiding problems doesn't make them disappear."

Thorne glanced at her, his lips curling into a crooked smile. "Oh, I know that too."

She narrowed her eyes, then rolled them and grabbed her wineglass. "You're insufferable."

Thorne toasted her with his own. "That's the consensus."

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