A few days passed.

With the mark burned from his hand, a weight Thorne hadn't realized he was carrying was suddenly gone. One of the last ties to Alvar, severed. One more complication untangled. Sometimes he wondered if there would ever come a day when the fire and ash of that city would fade into something distant, blurred, a half-remembered dream. But not yet. Not while every quiet moment still left him hearing echoes of screams in the back of his mind and the fate of his friends still unknown.

He hadn't returned to Evermist since his little "delivery" at Brennak's doorstep. Too risky. He was almost certain the moment he stepped into the city proper, trouble would find him, Brennak's retribution in some form, sharp and bloody. And so he lingered in Aetherhold, grinding through classes and training with the kind of manic focus only danger could spark.

After the tongue-lashing Marian had given him for missing yet another lesson, he'd made a point of being punctual. The aether phasing technique remained a nightmare. Where raw aether bent easily to his will, phasing demanded precision, patience, and the steady layering of constructs within constructs. Marian told him bluntly that for most, of the very few who even knew the technique, it took years to achieve even a passable level of mastery. When Thorne asked where she had learned it herself, she had only said, "My mentor," and left it hanging like a closed door.

He didn't push. Not this time.

Instead, he poured his frustrations into spellwork. Sunderstrike, the brutish arcane hammer of a spell, had come to him after hours of sweat and shattered sigils. The ripple of force had a strange beauty to it, like the world itself stuttering for a heartbeat before breaking. He mastered it at last, slotting it alongside Flame Needle, Wick, and Levitation.

But raw offense wasn't enough. Not anymore. He needed something disruptive, something sharp enough to carve an opening when he had none. That's when he found Grave Spark.

It surprised him how quickly it came together. Only two sessions and the spell was his. A lance of dark aether flickering into a target's nerves, not lethal, barely damaging, but its sting was pure agony, enough to seize muscles and break concentration. Perfect for disrupting a caster or snapping momentum at the right instant. The faint black spark left no wound, no evidence. Only pain.

By the end of the week, his arsenal had grown. He had more tools than he'd ever dreamed of back in Alvar. And yet…

It wasn't enough. Not for him. Not anymore.

The training chambers and dueling floors of Aetherhold couldn't slake the itch building in his veins. He wanted a real fight. A dangerous fight. Something worth testing himself against.

And so his thoughts kept drifting, again and again, to the wild tangle of green on the horizon. The Primordial Forest.

Thorne leaned back in his chair, spinning Ashthorn idly in his fingers, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. Yes. It was time to see just how far he'd really come.

The Astral Hall shimmered with its usual brilliance, lantern-light mingling with drifting motes of aether overhead. Students filled the long tables, laughter and clatter echoing across the chamber. At the end reserved for Umbra House, Thorne sat between Isadora and Lucien, idly picking at roasted lamb while his mind wandered far from the noise.

Isadora and Lucien weren't so withdrawn. They leaned toward each other, voices pitched low but insistent.

"I heard it from a cousin in Blackspear," Lucien murmured. "The armies are already moving. South, toward the border. They say Caledris is preparing for something bigger."

Isadora's jeweled fingers drummed against her goblet. "If that's true, then we'll be at war by spring. The Thal' Dorei won't just stand by and watch."

Their words flowed around Thorne without really touching him. His thoughts were elsewhere, on the thick shadows of the Primordial Forest, on the last beast he'd faced there, the way its claws had nearly ripped him in two. He remembered the pain, the exhaustion and the exhilaration that came after. The thrill of surviving what should have killed him.

This time, he would be ready.

Marian's lessons were postponed for the rest of the week, she'd told him, her tone brisk but weary. She had matters to attend to, duties she'd neglected thanks to their nightly training. Thorne hadn't asked questions. The reprieve was welcome, it gave him time to plan.

He pushed his plate away. The food vanished in a silent pop, whisked back into the hall's enchantments.

Both Lucien and Isadora looked up at once.

"Where are you going?" Lucien asked, an eyebrow arched in suspicion.

"Studying," Thorne said simply, slipping to his feet.

Isadora groaned, tossing her braid over her shoulder. "You're impossible. I was going to drag you to the second-years' party tonight, they're throwing it in the Chamber of Echoes. Do you know what that is?"

Thorne tilted his head, indulging her.

She leaned closer, eyes alight. "It's a resonance hall under the library. The acoustics make every word stretch and repeat like music. They're going to fill it with illusions, lights, dancers, spell-chimes. It'll be like stepping inside a dream."

Thorne gave her a small smile. "Sounds fun. But I've got spells to look over."

Lucien snorted. "You'll still be a prodigy tomorrow, Thorne. You can relax for one night without the world ending."

"True," Thorne said, lips curving into a smirk. "But where would the fun be in that?"

Lucien rolled his eyes, Isadora pouted, and Thorne turned, cloak brushing the floor as he walked away. The hall's murmurs faded behind him, his steps already angled toward the quiet of his room.

The door to his room clicked shut, muffling the echoes of laughter and chatter from the hallway outside. Thorne exhaled slowly and dropped into the chair by his desk. His room smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and the ever-present hum of Aetherhold's wards woven into the stone.

He pulled Ashthorn from his belt and set it carefully on the table, the chipped black wood gleaming faintly in the candlelight. One by one, he began laying out what he would need.

His nullite daggers, their edges black as moonless night, swallowing the light instead of catching it. A plain set of black clothes, nothing ornate, nothing to catch the eye, just practical and forgettable. The cheap cloak, thick enough to shed rain but not fine enough to draw notice. A small tin of salves, pressed into his hand by Argessa after the ritual, her words still echoing: "idiots who collect wounds like trophies." A single stamina draught, his own work from Alchemy class. He hadn't tested it outside the classroom, but after the chase he'd endured with the feral gralloc, he was willing to gamble on his own craft. Temporary endurance in a bottle.

Last, he drew out the bag he'd bought in Evermist, on the night he'd returned from Argessa's. The leather looked ordinary, scuffed even, but the runes stitched along the seams whispered faintly with power. Its enchantment stretched the interior far beyond its modest size. If he found something worth taking from the forest this time, he wouldn't have to leave it behind.

He arranged them neatly, his mind running over each item, weighing their usefulness. The forest wasn't forgiving; he'd learned that the last time, when a single beast had nearly ended him. He could still feel the phantom ache of claws across his ribs.

And yet, the thought made his pulse quicken. The danger was the point.

He leaned back, eyes narrowing at the ceiling. Marian's postponed lessons gave him the time. His arsenal was stronger than ever: Sunderstrike for raw force, Flame Needle for precision, Grave Spark for disruption, and the tried-and-true utility of Wick and Levitation. He had speed, stealth, and aether to burn.

But was it enough for what waited beneath the ancient boughs of the Primordial Forest?

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His lips curved faintly. There was only one way to find out.

The dormitory fell silent behind him as he slipped into the corridors, every step wrapped in Veil of Light and Shadow. Aetherhold at night was alive in its own way, lanterns bobbing with no chains, staircases shifting with lazy groans, the occasional whisper of a ward flexing in its sleep. Thorne moved past it all unseen, his heart steady.

He cut through the outer courtyard, past the greenhouses of the alchemy labs, their glass panes glowing faintly with cultivated light. Rows of strange flora pressed against the glass, plants that pulsed, hummed, or breathed faint clouds of vapor into the night air. He lingered only a moment to inhale their sharp perfume before moving on, following the narrow trail that wound downward.

The path led him to the edge. The wind was fierce here, tearing at his cloak and tugging his hair loose. Thorne paused, breath caught in his throat as he gazed at the drop, the endless gulf yawning between Aetherhold's floating mountain and the sleeping city of Evermist far below. His pulse quickened. He remembered what it had felt like the first time: being thrust into the air, flung helplessly through the aether tunnels, no control, only the raw, terrifying rush of speed and magic.

The memory made his skin prickle. And yet he grinned.

There it was. The statue, half-hidden among the rocks. A beaked monster, wings furled, its form cut from ancient stone weathered smooth by the wind. Even dormant, it radiated a presence.

Thorne didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, laid his hand on its cold chest, and pushed. Aether bled from him in steady waves, threads of power sinking into the stone. The statue's eyes opened, blazing blue to mirror his own.

Stone wings flared wide, scattering grit and dust. The great beak cracked open, not in a cry but in a resonant hum that vibrated in his bones. Then the gathered aether exploded outward in a single violent pulse.

Thorne's body lifted from the ground, wrenched into the air. For an instant he was weightless, then the aether currents caught him, flinging him forward, into the waiting tunnels of light and storm.

The world spat him out.

One moment Thorne was tumbling through blinding streams of light, the aether tunnels folding and twisting around him; the next, he was slammed back into reality, air ripping past his ears. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and came up on one knee, heart pounding.

All around him stretched the Primordial Forest.

The trees loomed impossibly tall, their trunks gnarled and ridged like the bones of ancient titans. Their crowns vanished into mist, leaves glowing faintly with bioluminescent veins that pulsed in rhythm with the forest itself. The air was heavy, thick with the taste of raw aether, and every breath felt alive in his lungs. Shadows moved where no breeze stirred, and the silence was broken only by the distant groan of something colossal moving far beyond sight.

He stood at the edge of a vast clearing, the ground torn and scarred as though some beast had passed through recently. Even without his senses, he could feel the weight of the place, the forest was aware, and it was watching him.

Thorne's lips curved faintly. His blood was already singing.

"Alright," he murmured, brushing dust from his cloak. "Let's see what you've got for me this time."

His hand drifted to Ashthorn, the chipped wand pulsing faintly at his touch, hungry for aether. Somewhere in the treeline, something growled low, wet, and promising violence.

Thorne's smile sharpened.

The growl deepened into a roar. The trees shook, birds, if they could be called birds, scattering like shards of glass into the mist.

Thorne's Veil Sense flared.

Aetherhorn Warg [Lv. 58]

He exhaled slowly, disappointment cutting through the rush. "Level fifty-eight? Hells. I was hoping for something better." His fingers flexed over Ashthorn, pulse quickening. "Still… you'll do."

The forest answered with a thunder of claws on earth. From the treeline burst a hulking predator, its body halfway between wolf and stag, bone antlers curving like scythes. Its hide shimmered faintly, as if aether itself was woven into its flesh. Its eyes glowed bright and wild, unblinking as it fixed on him.

Marian's words echoed in his mind: The beasts of the forest are steeped in magic. Too much. Normal spells bend or break against them. Their bodies drink enchantments, spit them back out. That's why Evermist and Aetherhold stand behind warded walls. Without them, the beasts would devour everything.

"Guess this'll be a good test," Thorne muttered. He drew in a deep breath, and then...

Aether Surge.

Aether ignited in his veins. His vision sharpened, the forest snapping into crystalline detail. Every heartbeat, every gust of wind, every rustle in the underbrush slowed, stretched, became something he could predict, react to. His muscles hummed with coiled power, his core swelling with more aether than his body should contain.

The beast charged.

Thorne sprang forward to meet it. His daggers flashed free, black nullite edges drinking the light. He ducked low beneath a swipe of its antlered head, rolled, and slashed across its flank. Sparks flared as if he'd cut stone, shallow but stinging.

The beast twisted faster than expected, claws slashing. Thorne used Burst of Speed, the world slowed, claws slicing through syrup air and he slid under them, daggers scraping furrows in its chest.

The creature roared, spittle sizzling where it struck the ground.

Thorne flicked Ashthorn upward. Flame Needle. Three sparks of fire streaked toward the beast's eyes. They fizzled, snuffed out as they struck its hide, but the distraction was enough, Thorne darted forward, Lethal Flurry unleashing a storm of cuts at the beast's throat and belly.

The stag-wolf reared back, shaking him off. Aether pulsed along its antlers, and the ground shattered beneath him. Thorne vaulted backward, Windborne Agility twisting his body through the air, landing light as a cat.

"Not bad," he muttered. "Try this."

He drew sigils in the air, aether coursing. Sunderstrike. The shockwave rippled forward like a distortion in the world, slamming into the beast's chest. Its hooves skidded back, stone cracking beneath the force, but it stayed upright, snarling.

Thorne's grin sharpened. He flicked his hand again. Grave Spark.

A lance of black light hissed across the space, vanishing into the beast's shoulder. The creature froze, muscles locking. Its roar choked into a pained grunt as its body seized for just a heartbeat.

That was all Thorne needed. He surged forward, blades whirling. Vengeful Blades sang, every strike flowing faster, cleaner, building momentum. His daggers bit deep this time, carving into the seams of the creature's armor-hide. Black blood splattered the clearing.

The beast managed a desperate swing of its antlers, but Thorne met it head-on, Ashthorn raised. Arcane Shield. The ripple flared, catching the blow. The shield cracked, but held, buying him a second. He ducked inside the swing and drove both daggers upward, plunging them into the beast's throat.

The creature thrashed, antlers gouging the earth, claws tearing furrows into the cobblestones of root and stone. Thorne ripped the blades free, spun, and drove Ashthorn like a spike into the soft hollow beneath its jaw. Aether surged down the wand in a violent flood, exploding outward.

The beast convulsed and then went still.

Thorne yanked his weapons free, breath harsh but steady. He wiped black ichor from his cheek, flicked it to the ground, and looked down at the twitching body.

He rolled his shoulders, muscles humming with residual surge. The fight hadn't lasted long. He was faster, sharper, stronger than he'd ever been before.

And still, he wanted more.

His eyes turned deeper into the Primordial Forest, where shadows thickened and the air pulsed with unseen life. He smirked, wiping his blades clean.

"Alright," he whispered to the trees. "Send me something worth my time."

The familiar chime rang in his head.

Character Level Up! Level 49

Thorne's grin split wide. "Finally."

He opened the panel in his mind, fingers twitching as he spread the points. Fifteen to spend. His Spirit was already monstrous, sitting at an absurd 212, but his Willpower lagged at 57 and his Intelligence at 52. His eclipsed core meant he hadn't yet felt the strain of his lopsided growth, but he knew it was a matter of time before sheer Spirit wouldn't be enough.

"Balance it out," he muttered, and with three sharp gestures he pushed the points evenly across the three attributes.

Spirit: 212 → 217 Willpower: 57 → 62 Intelligence: 52 → 57

A faint clarity washed through him, his thoughts sharper, the tether between him and the aether humming steadier than before.

More chimes followed.

Skill Increased: Vengeful Blades 12 → 13 Skill Increased: Lethal Flurry 17 → 18 Skill Increased: Windborne Agility 4 → 6

Thorne laughed under his breath, blades still dripping with the beast's black ichor. "Progress, in my first fight? Now that's what I like to see."

The forest groaned around him, shadows pressing closer, the taste of raw aether growing thicker in the air. Thorne twirled Ashthorn between his fingers, eyes gleaming.

"One more level to fifty," he whispered. "Let's see what the night brings."

Before he turned to go, Thorne glanced back at the beast's hulking body. In his aether vision, the carcass lit like a map, clusters of light pulsing within muscle and bone, pools of concentrated power.

His eyes narrowed. Valuable.

He spun a dagger idly in his palm, the black nullite edge gleaming faintly. "Let's get to work," he murmured.

Kneeling beside the corpse, he traced the lines of aether, marking the glow in his mind. With practiced cuts, he set to carving, sliding his blades along joints and seams where the power was strongest. A shard of the beast's antler came free first, heavy and faintly humming in his hand. Then glands beneath the jaw, swollen with aetheric ichor, their fluid shifting colors like oil on water.

He worked quickly but carefully, slipping each prize into the enchanted bag he'd brought from Evermist. The runes along its seams pulsed softly as the interior swallowed the impossible weight.

When he was finished, the carcass was a gutted husk, shadows of light already fading from it. Thorne wiped his daggers clean on the creature's pelt, slid them back into their sheaths, and hefted the bag onto his shoulder.

"Waste not, want not," he muttered, lips quirking.

Only then did he turn toward the deeper forest, the spoils of his first hunt stowed safely away. The night was far from over.

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