The next day was… weird.

Thorne had expected Elias to be distant, maybe even angry after the conversation last night. He wouldn't have blamed him. But the elf showed up to first class acting like nothing at all had happened. If anything, he was closer than usual, following him through the halls, making bad jokes, grinning at him like the previous night's tension had been a fever dream.

By the time they reached the lecture hall for Spellcasting Precision & Aether Flow Control, Elias dropped into the seat beside him and shoved a sandwich under his nose.

"Breakfast," he said proudly.

Thorne blinked at the sorry-looking thing wrapped in parchment. The bread was lopsided, stuffed with eggs and something suspiciously green.

"You made this?"

"Technically, yes," Elias said. "I mean, I assembled it. That counts as cooking, right?"

Thorne stared at him, unimpressed.

"You do know there's food in the common room too, right?"

Elias grinned. "Yeah, but then I'd have to compete with Nyssha for the last cinnamon roll, and I value my life."

Thorne sighed and took the sandwich anyway. "You're insufferable."

"Good," Elias said, leaning back in his chair. "That means I'm doing my job."

Thorne bit into the sandwich. It was, against all odds, edible.

Alchemy class was next, and for once, Thorne had something to contribute. He'd brought the collection of potions he'd purchased the previous night from Daron Vell, the apothecary who looked like he'd been asleep for a decade before Thorne walked into his shop.

Professor Sorrell, the four-armed alchemist from the eastern provinces, adjusted his spectacles and began examining the bottles one by one. His upper left hand uncorked one, while the lower right scribbled notes across a glowing slate.

"Hmm," Sorrell grunted, the sound almost approving. "These are surprisingly good. Old, though. They've been sitting too long, you can see the crystalization in the base."

"Hmm. Interesting." He uncorked the first vial; a faint shimmer of violet mist rose before snapping back into liquid form. "A displacement Elixir. Pour the potion in two different locations and whatever you throw in the liquid, will emerge in the other half. Old recipe. Difficult to brew correctly. Not very practical of course, but... This batch is stable, though the sigil weave has degraded. Duration, half what it should be. Still, useful for short-range displacement."

He moved to the next bottle, filled with a faintly metallic liquid that pulsed in rhythm with the room's aether currents. "And this," he said, surprise creeping into his tone, "is a Kinetic Skin Tonic. Haven't seen one in years. Temporarily hardens tissue against blunt impact. Expensive, rare, and absolutely not something you find in street shops."

Thorne's brows rose slightly.

Sorrell's upper arms worked while his lower ones gestured sharply toward another vial, this one swirling between blue and gold as if arguing with itself. "That one is mislabeled. Not Frostweave Draft, as written. It's a Dual-Channel Catalyst, allows elemental conversion mid-cast, but only once per infusion. Very advanced, very temperamental. Try not to explode."

He sniffed another flask, dark red with thin silver veins coiling inside. "This is… ah. Bloodbinding Concentrate. Not illegal yet, surprisingly. Increases aether efficiency by channeling through living matter. Drains stamina rapidly, though." He gave Thorne a pointed look. "Not recommended for students with a sense of self-preservation."

Thorne said nothing, but mentally filed it under definitely using that one.

Sorrell handed the satchel back with two hands while the other two were already grading another student's work. "You have a good eye, Mr. Silverbane. Or a good nose for bargains."

"Let's hope it pays off," Thorne said, tucking the crate into his dimensional pouch.

By lunch, his patience for the day was running thin.

He found himself seated with the rest of the Caledris students, something that had become rare lately. Between missions, his double life, and the general absurdity of academy politics, Thorne had been avoiding this table for weeks.

Ronan was mid-boast when Thorne sat down, his voice loud enough for half the hall to hear. "and then I stabilized the sigil without a focus stone. Professor Marr said it was textbook precision!"

Across from him, Garridan stared into his soup like it had personally insulted him. The man's confidence had been eroding for months; the proud noble who once lectured everyone about legacy now barely spoke. Thorne didn't need to be a seer to know how that story would end. By the end of the year, Garridan would be asked to leave.

"Congratulations," Lucien said dryly, stirring his drink with a flick of his finger. "A spell that makes your quill float perfectly level. Truly, the realm is safer now."

Isadora snorted into her glass.

Thorne bit back a smile, taking a seat beside her.

He didn't bother looking down the table where Rowenna sat. The tension between them was a permanent fixture at this point. She didn't hide her disdain; he didn't have the energy to pretend it mattered.

"So," Isadora said, breaking the lull, "we were thinking of going down to Evermist tomorrow, the three of us. Maybe get a drink, or two. You in?"

Lucien raised a brow. "A night off, imagine that."

Thorne leaned back. "Might be nice."

"Good," Isadora said. "You can pay."

Before he could reply, a sharp voice cut in.

"Of course you're planning another night out," Rowenna said, her tone brimming with disdain. "Drinking, laughing, wasting time while our kingdom stands at the brink of war."

Lucien's grin faltered. "Oh stars, here we go."

Rowenna ignored him, her gaze sweeping across the table like a storm front. "You think this is a joke? That we can pretend nothing's happening while Caledris bleeds?"

Lucien leaned back, frowning. "I'm all for Caledris, Rowenna. I grew up there too, remember? But what exactly do you expect us to do from here? March home and throw fireballs at the border?"

Her eyes flashed. "Don't mock me."

"I'm not," Lucien said, his tone suddenly flat. "I'm serious. What do you want from us?"

Before Rowenna could answer, Isadora cut in, voice sharp and impatient. "What he's trying to say is that your patriotic sermons are getting old. We all want what's best for our kingdom..."

Thorne, listening, couldn't help but scoff internally. I am not...

"but unlike you," Isadora continued, "the rest of us don't act like lunatics about it."

Rowenna's nostrils flared. She turned her nose up, her voice tightening into something brittle and cold. "You're all so clueless. You don't even know what's happening."

"Oh, please en­lighten us," Lucien said dryly.

Rowenna's lips curled into a smug, knowing smile. "Diplomats from Caledris arrived in Evermist two nights ago. They've come to seek alliances against the Thal'Dorei. An official act of war will be declared soon."

That earned her silence. Even Isadora's expression shifted, her narrowed eyes betraying sudden calculation.

Rowenna pressed on, voice dripping with superiority. "While the council debates terms and soldiers prepare to die, you..." her glare moved between Lucien and Isadora "... spend your days mingling with the enemy. Drinking with them, laughing with them…" She paused, her tone lowering into venom. "…and sharing your beds with them."

The last word hit like a slap.

The entire table froze.

Lucien's smile disappeared completely. Isadora's hand tightened around her glass.

Rowenna's sneer deepened. "You think no one notices? You think the elves don't talk? You disgust me."

Isadora inhaled sharply, about to speak, likely something explosive, but Vivienne beat her to it.

"Hold on," she said sharply, eyes wide. "How do you know about that?"

Rowenna blinked, caught off guard.

Vivienne leaned forward, her expression somewhere between disbelief and anger. "My father is one of the Caledrian envoys. He's part of that delegation, and I only found out about it last night. So tell me, Rowenna, how do you know?"

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That drew the attention of everyone at the table.

Even Garridan, who had been quietly trying to disappear into his soup, looked up. "Maybe," he said slowly, "we shouldn't be talking about secret meetings and political alliances in the most enchanted hall in the Academy."

Ronan blinked. "What do you mean?"

Garridan gestured vaguely upward. "I mean that the Astral Hall's acoustic runes let a whisper travel from one corner to another. And any half-competent scribe with a listening charm could record this entire conversation."

Lucien whistled. "Wonderful. So if the council didn't know we were gossiping about diplomatic secrets before, they do now."

Rowenna didn't seem to hear any of it. There was a strange gleam in her eyes, something between pride and scorn, the look of someone who wanted to be caught because she thought herself untouchable.

She snapped her book shut with a loud thud and stood, the motion drawing every eye in the room. "You better get your act together," she said, her voice trembling with fervor. "Study. Train. Master your spells. Because soon, every one of us will be called to defend our homeland and wipe out those scum."

The word scum lingered like poison in the air.

Then she turned on her heel and stormed out, leaving silence in her wake.

Thorne's eyes followed her until she vanished past the doorway. A cold thought settled in his chest, unwelcome but persistent. No… that wouldn't be possible. But the feeling refused to fade.

Lucien was the first to break the silence. "What in all the gods' names was that about?"

The girls, Isadora and Vivienne, exchanged a look. A serious one. And that, more than anything, told Thorne that whatever was coming, it wasn't just Rowenna's paranoia.

When those two got along, the world was usually ending.

Ronan and Garridan still hadn't closed their mouths.

Finally, Ronan said, "I really don't know how to act right now. Usually I'm the asshole at this table."

That earned a weak laugh from Lucien, but the humor didn't reach his eyes.

Thorne said nothing. His mind was already elsewhere, turning Rowenna's words over like puzzle pieces that didn't yet fit.

War in Caledris. Envoys in Evermist. And Rowenna, somehow, knowing more than she should.

He took a slow sip of his drink, watching the ripples fade.

No, he thought again, a flicker of unease twisting in his gut. That wouldn't be possible… would it?

***

The night air bit cold against his face as Thorne crossed the upper terraces of Aetherhold. The city stretched below him in quiet brilliance, Evermist asleep under a veil of blue lanternlight, the canals glowing faintly with residual aether. Above, the aether rivers moved like slow, pale beasts across the stars.

He walked quickly, boots ringing softly against the marble paths that led to the academy's outer edge, to the windswept drop. The cliffs there were infamous, sheer and dizzyingly high, overlooking the entire valley and the glowing dome of the city's wards below. Few students ever came this far unless they wanted solitude or a fast way down.

Thorne's thoughts were anywhere but on the path.

He went over his supplies for the tenth time: potions from Daron Vell, checked and sorted, blades oiled and balanced, wand calibrated. He'd reviewed his spells until the sigils blurred behind his eyes. Still, unease gnawed at him. Not fear of the forest, exhaustion, maybe, or distraction.

War, he thought grimly.

Rowenna's words from lunch had lingered all day, no matter how much he tried to drown them out in lectures and training. War between Caledris and Thal'Dorei. It sounded absurd and inevitable at once.

He imagined Alvar, the city he had once called home, the place that had once felt a cage and his destiny. If conflict came, it would be the first to fall. Only the vast elven forest stood between Alvar and Thal'Dorei's armies. The thought twisted something in his chest.

Jonah, Ben, Darius, Eliza...

Selene…

The name slipped through before he could stop it. Her face came with it, sharp, laughing, bright-eyed, a memory he'd buried beneath too many other things. She'd be on the frontlines if war broke out. Her family's influence would surely bring her to the center of events.

He forced his mind away. Thinking about people you couldn't save was a good way to die faster.

By the time he reached the windswept drop, the wind had picked up, carrying a sharp edge of mountain chill. Among the rocks, the stone platform jutted out over empty space, its surface marked by faint sigils and the coiled shape of a creature carved directly into the rock, the beaked beast.

It looked inert, a massive statue of a winged creature with a raptor's beak and the long, sweeping tail of a serpent. Its surface shimmered faintly under the moonlight, veins of silver aetherstone tracing through its body.

Thorne approached slowly, the wind tugging at his cloak. He placed a hand on the creature's chest, where the runes were faintest, and closed his eyes.

Aether stirred at his touch, sluggish at first, then eager. He reached inward, drawing from the well at his core, not all of it, just enough to wake the thing. The runes responded in sequence, one by one, lighting from dull grey to brilliant white. The beak of the statue creaked open with a grinding sound, and its gemstone eyes flared to life, blazing with blue light.

Energy surged through the ground, the air rippling with raw force.

"Alright," Thorne muttered, tightening his hand, feeling the surge of aether. "Let's hope you still remember how to fly."

The beaked beast answered with a deafening roar that wasn't a sound so much as a pulse through the air. Its wings unfurled with the sounds of rock being ground to dust. Then, with a violent surge, the stored up aether was unleashed.

The world dropped away.

Wind howled past his ears, tearing at his cloak, the city shrinking beneath him into a patchwork of silver and gold. The air around him shimmered as he cut through the clouds, trailing streaks of aetheric light.

Thorne gritted his teeth, half from thrill, half from sheer force pressing against his ribs. The motion wasn't graceful, it was violent, alive, and entirely unrestrained.

For a few heartbeats, there was nothing but wind, light, and the burn of aether thrumming through every nerve.

Then he banked south, following the aether tunnel, toward the vast darkness beyond the city's wardline.

The Primordial Forest awaited, a jagged sea of green shadow and sleeping power.

Thorne steadied his breathing, eyes fixed on the horizon.

His thoughts disintegrated under the sheer momentum; there was no up or down, just motion, until he was through.

He hit the ground hard, rolling over wet soil and tangled roots, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. The scent hit him first, earth and iron and something faintly electric, like rain on metal.

The Primordial Forest.

He pushed himself upright, coughing. The air was thick, alive. The trees weren't just growing; they were moving. Their bark shimmered faintly with veins of light, slow pulses running through them like heartbeats. The ground glowed in places where exposed roots leaked aether into the soil, forming shallow pools that reflected no sky.

It was silent, too silent, no wind, no insects, only the faint hum of energy.

Then the forest exhaled.

A gust of hot air stirred the leaves, carrying with it a deep, guttural sound. Thorne froze, eyes narrowing. The undergrowth to his left quivered.

Something was there.

A low growl rolled through the clearing as the brush parted.

Thorne's Veil Sense flared instantly, threading through the surrounding aether. For a heartbeat, the world sharpened, outlines burned bright, details flooding in. Information scrolled across his vision in cool white light:

Lurking Ravager: Level 59

The creature that emerged looked like a cross between a feline and a lizard, its sinewy frame rippling with wet muscle. Six black eyes blinked in two sets, each reflecting a distorted shimmer of Thorne's own glow. Its mouth was full of hooked fangs that clicked like metal when it moved.

Its presence pressed against the air, dense and wrong.

Thorne didn't move. He felt the familiar tingle of aether gathering around him, an instinct more than a decision. The beast lowered itself, claws digging into the soil, tail lashing.

When it leapt, the world seemed to lurch.

Thorne didn't step back. He pivoted, pulling the condensed aether around his left arm and snapping it forward like a whip. The impact was soundless, air imploded around his strike, twisting the beast sideways.

It hit the ground, recovered instantly, and came again, faster. Thorne caught the next strike with his palm, redirecting the ambient current instead of meeting it head-on. The energy flowed through him, soil, roots, muscle, and he let it bleed back out through his other hand.

The ground buckled. The creature skidded, claws carving glowing furrows in the dirt.

Thorne flicked his wrist.

The air between them solidified into a compressed spike of translucent light, an Aether Lance, that erupted forward faster than sound. It struck the beast in mid-leap, shearing off one of its limbs and hurling it sideways in a spray of glowing ichor. The smell was like ozone and burning iron.

The creature screamed, not in pain, but in fury, and crashed into a glowing root. The impact shook the ground.

Thorne was already moving. He dashed left, weaving through hanging vines that sparked faintly as his aura disturbed them. He used Burst of Speed, propelling him sideways with explosive speed.

The beast slammed into the spot where he'd stood, claws gouging through stone. Its head whipped toward him, eyes flashing. A beam of red light burst from its maw, carving through the air like a molten blade.

Thorne dropped to one knee, dragging his hand along the ground. Ambient aether surged at his call, solidifying into a translucent barrier that shimmered like glass. The beam hit, split, and scattered into harmless sparks.

He exhaled through his teeth. "Not bad."

The beast roared again and charged. Thorne extended both arms this time, pulling at every thread of free energy within reach. The air thrummed, the light bending around him as half a dozen thin Aether Lances formed in a wide arc. He snapped his fingers, and they fired as one.

The forest lit up.

Each lance hit in perfect sequence, slicing through joints, gouging furrows into black hide, staggering the creature backward. It howled and lashed its tail, throwing shards of aetheric bone that shattered trees on impact.

Thorne rolled under one and came up spinning, his hands glowing faintly.

Aether Barrage.

Dozens of pinpoint beams erupted from the air around him, each one a fraction of a second apart, controlled bursts that struck like invisible bullets. The creature staggered, its movements turning erratic as flesh gave way to glowing wounds.

Still not enough.

The thing lunged again, enraged beyond reason, mouth gaping.

Thorne's expression hardened. He pressed both hands outward, pulling the surrounding aether inward, compressing it until the air around him warped. The forest's own glow dimmed in response, as though the world itself held its breath.

Then he unleashed it.

The resulting blast wasn't fire or light, it was pressure. A pure pulse of condensed aether that detonated outward in a perfect sphere. Trees bent, grass flattened, and the beast froze mid-charge, its entire form collapsing under the invisible weight. The shockwave passed, leaving a crater of scorched earth and drifting motes of energy.

Silence returned.

For a few seconds, Thorne didn't move. The haze of power faded from his vision, leaving him standing alone in the glowing crater, breathing hard but steady.

He glanced at the remains, the beast's body was gone, dissolved into raw aether that drifted back into the forest's cycle.

Thorne wiped the back of his hand across his face, the faint shimmer of power still clinging to his skin. He could feel it, the forest's energy thrumming, curious, as if testing him.

"Well," he murmured under his breath. "That was overkill. There's nothing left to harvest. Damn it!"

The moss under his boots pulsed faintly, and the aether around him began to settle once more, folding back into the rhythm of the forest.

He turned toward the faint glow deeper in the trees, a new pulse, different, heavier. Something moving out there, far larger than the creature he'd just destroyed.

Thorne drew a slow breath. His voice came out soft, almost amused. "And here I was hoping for an easy night."

Then he walked on, deeper into the living maze of light and shadow, where the forest whispered and the next hunt waited.

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