THE AETHERBORN

Thorne was practically vibrating with anticipation. The weight of the spelltomes in his hands sparked a familiar kind of thrill in his chest, the promise of real power. Of new tools, new tricks, new ways to survive.

"Let's start practicing," he said, unable to keep the grin from spreading across his face. "I want to see how these spells feel."

Rowenna raised an eyebrow from behind the book she was thumbing through. Thorne leaned in, trying to peek at the title, but she quickly turned it away, shielding it with her hand like a child protecting a secret diary.

"No peeking."

He gave her a mock pout. "You wound me."

She ignored the comment and snapped her book shut. "We're not flinging spells around in here. Or have you already forgotten what happened during your illumination lesson?"

Thorne winced slightly. "That was one time."

"That was one fireball away from evacuation," she said, giving him a pointed look.

He sighed. "Fine. Where should we go then?"

"There are training facilities," she replied, adjusting the stack of books under her arm. "Proper ones. Enchanted chambers for magical casting, made specifically for students like you who get overly enthusiastic and blow things up."

"I didn't blow anything up," he said, indignant.

She gave him a look.

"...That badly."

Rowenna just rolled her eyes and turned toward the front desk. "Come on. We need to check these out before we leave."

Thorne sighed dramatically. "Is anything easy in this place?"

"No," she said flatly.

The older mage who had greeted them earlier was still stationed behind the front desk. A balding man with a long, ink-stained beard and pale blue robes that looked perpetually crumpled, he looked up as they approached.

"Books," he said curtly, holding out both hands.

Thorne passed his over, and Rowenna did the same. The man shuffled back to a small metal cube nestled beside a larger record-keeping tome. The cube was etched with complex sigils, glowing faintly beneath the surface like molten veins.

He passed each book over the cube, one at a time. With every swipe, the sigils flared, first blue, then white, then dimmed again.

"There," he muttered. "Registered. They've been marked with tracking runes. You're expected to return them by tomorrow afternoon. If not, your name gets noted and you'll be charged one gold per day, per book."

Thorne gulped. "A gold?"

The mage arched a brow. "If you think knowledge is cheap, you're in the wrong school."

Rowenna thanked the man, scooping up both sets and handing Thorne his own books as they turned to leave.

Outside the library, Thorne narrowed his eyes. "So. Where are we doing this?"

"We're heading to the Arcanum Ring," Rowenna said, already setting a brisk pace down the hall.

Thorne's brows drew together. "The what?"

"It's the western training compound, the one with all the battle arenas where Battle Magic & Spell Augmentation classes take place. There are perfect for training, massive circular structures built with absorption wards and projection enchantments. Think of it as a gladiator's playground, but for magical prodigies."

They passed under a stone arch flanked by glowing runes, and the castle's shadow gave way to the open skies. The Arcanum Ring sprawled before them like a collection of miniature coliseums. Each one had a different shape, height, and color, some covered in moss, others inscribed with runes that shimmered against the late afternoon sun. Students and instructors milled about like ants in a hive, and bursts of colored light flared from various arenas, followed by distant shouts or cheers.

"There are all kinds of simulation chambers," Rowenna explained as they made their way down the descending stairway toward the central yard. "Basic ones for raw casting, wards that absorb attacks so you can test spells safely. Then there are ones with terrain simulation, hills, marshes, icy plains, desert storms. Some even shift the weather or simulate environmental hazards to test affinity-specific spells."

Thorne's eyes widened. "So it's like... magical boot camp."

"Exactly."

They stepped aside as a trio of older students passed by, sweaty and bruised, laughing about a near-miss with a fire trap. One of them was still covered in soot.

"And the advanced arenas," Rowenna went on, "are for tactical challenges. Simulated opponents with semi-intelligent enchantments. You fight against conjured constructs that behave like real enemies. Ideal for learning positioning, pacing, control..."

"And the price?" Thorne asked warily, already suspecting the answer.

Rowenna smiled sweetly. "Ten gold per hour for the basic ones."

Thorne groaned. "Of course it is."

"The advanced ones are twenty," she added cheerfully.

"Is anything free in this place?"

"Not your education, and certainly not your survival."

He sighed again, dragging a hand through his hair. "You know, I used to think learning magic would be all wonder and glory. Turns out it's just homework and bankruptcy."

Rowenna smirked. "Welcome to Aetherhold."

They finally reached a stone-tiled courtyard that overlooked the inner Ring, the individual training domes glowing faintly with protective wards.

"Get your coins," she told him. "Then meet me back here."

Thorne nodded, then paused. "Hey."

Rowenna tilted her head.

"Thanks. For helping me with all this."

She rolled her eyes but didn't hide her smile. "Just don't explode anything."

"No promises."

Thorne sprinted through the outer courtyard like a man possessed, his boots pounding against the stone walkways. The moment he was clear of the castle entrance, he triggered Burst of Speed.

A surge of power rippled through his legs, and he shot forward like an arrow. The wind howled in his ears, then the walls nearby shimmered and glowed, arcane runes flaring to life along the stone. His body jerked slightly, and he felt a pulse of backlash magic rush through his limbs, a feedback system designed to punish overly enthusiastic skill use in public zones.

"Right," he muttered. "Should've known. Nothing fun is free."

He slowed down briefly, then activated the skill again once he was in an open corridor. More runes, more flares, another jolt of magical reprimand. But he was too excited to care.

By the time he reached the Umbra dorms, he was gasping and grinning. He burst into his room, found his coin pouch in the drawer where he'd stashed it, and bolted right back out again, practically bounding down the stairs two at a time.

When he returned to the Arcanum Ring's central building, Rowenna was already inside. The room was built like a grand lobby, its floor tiled with geometric patterns of shifting blue and silver. On opposite walls, shimmering archways stood tall and silent, pulsing faintly with protective enchantments. They shimmered like rippling curtains of water, dense with held-back energy. Small placards floated beside each one, listing what kind of training chamber lay beyond.

Behind a large counter sat several older mages, each dressed in robes that bore the crest of the Arcanum Ring, a stylized ring of fire encircling a shield.

Rowenna stood at one of the desks, deep in discussion with a grey-haired woman who looked like she'd rather be napping. They were talking about chamber types, and Thorne caught fragments:

"...terrain stability is solid, but the feedback wards are a little weaker," the older woman said.

"I don't care about terrain," Rowenna said, flipping through a transparent scroll that flickered with maps. "I want one with layered warding and full feedback suppression."

The woman hummed and waved a hand over a floating sigil. "Chamber N-9 has what you're looking for."

Thorne approached just as Rowenna turned and beckoned him over.

"Perfect timing," she said. "I made a reservation for both of us. One chamber each."

"You are training too?"

"We barely have an hour before next class," she cut in, brisk and efficient. "And these aren't always available on short notice. And yes, I will be attempting to learn my first battle spell."

She turned slightly and lowered her voice. "These are some of the better beginner chambers. Not the cheapest, but reliable. Privacy wards, spell feedback neutralization, even temporal compression for recovery if you push too hard. I've heard their confidence wards are extremely strict, no one sees what happens inside except the person training."

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Thorne tilted his head, impressed. "And all this for just ten gold?"

Rowenna gave him a pointed look. "Eighteen actually."

He groaned, reached into his pouch, and pulled out the gold coins.

"Chamber L-2," the mage behind the desk said, tapping her ring against a sigil. "You'll be escorted. Payment processed."

Another mage, this one a tall, bored-looking man with a tattoo of a shifting constellation on his cheek, emerged from a side hallway and gestured to Thorne.

"Follow me," he said, not bothering to make eye contact.

Thorne followed him down a long corridor lined with shimmering wards. Each step echoed softly, and the magical energy in the air thickened the further they went. Finally, they reached a shimmering archway. A plaque hovered beside it: L-2 – Beginner's Chamber – General Spellcasting – Full Absorption Layer.

The mage turned and pointed to the arch. "Your time starts the moment you step through the veil. You'll receive an auditory ping when you have five minutes left. Step through the veil again to exit. No spellcasting outside the chamber. No companions. No peeking through wards. Standard stuff."

"Got it," Thorne said.

He reached out, his fingers brushing the surface of the veil. It resisted him, just slightly, like walking through heavy water, and then, with a deep breath, he stepped through.

Thorne stepped through the veil.

The sensation was strange, like pushing through warm syrup. It clung to his skin for a moment, then peeled away with a quiet pop. He stumbled one step inside, blinking against the sudden shift in light and pressure.

The chamber wasn't large. Maybe ten meters wide, circular, and lined with smooth obsidian walls etched with glowing runes. The floor had the faint give of enchanted stone, firm but not brittle. A soft, ambient glow pulsed from above, with no visible source, casting everything in an even, shadowless light.

He turned in place, noting the familiar shimmer of containment wards lining the outer edge. They pulsed in gentle rhythm, matching the beat of his own core if he paid close attention.

No windows. No distractions.

Just him and the echoing stillness of his thoughts.

He sighed, slipping the trio of books out of his satchel and crouched beside a low bench at the edge of the room.

Only one hour, and each tick of the invisible timer was costing him a gold coin.

"Time to be efficient," he muttered, tossing a glance toward the shimmering archway behind him.

He flipped open the first book: Sparks and Claws: Basic Offensive Spellcasting.

The first few pages were dry, outlining magical conduct, safety procedures, and a long-winded disclaimer about spell resonance and the dangers of aether channeling.

He turned to the next: Tier 1 Fire Affinity Spells.

His fingers lingered on the page as he scanned the opening paragraphs, his eyes catching on a few highlighted spell names: Flame Needle, Scorch Palm, Ash Grasp.

Flame Needle stood out immediately, it was a single-target precision spell, not too flashy, but with decent piercing power. The image showed a long, glowing sliver of condensed fire aether, sharp enough to pass through leather armor or light shields.

"That'll do," he murmured.

The third book, Kinetic Flow, The Basics of Impact Magic, was tempting, especially Force Jab or Aether Push, but as he flipped the pages, he frowned. The diagrams were full of complex vector drawings and movement lines. It looked like a treatise on physics disguised as a spellbook.

"Not today."

He returned to the fire affinity book, propping it on the bench, and sat cross-legged before it. His heart beat a little faster.

He was excited. Really excited.

His first real battle spell.

Until he started reading.

And felt his excitement drain like a punctured wineskin.

The Flame Needle spell was a nightmare.

Four sigils.

Not one, like the levitation spell. Four.

Each one had to be traced in exact sequence, and they weren't simple geometric shapes either. They were complex aetheric diagrams with twisting curves and embedded runes inside the core patterns. Worse, he had to trace them not only correctly, but at speed, the longer the delay between sigils, the weaker the spell's formation became.

Then there was the aetheric speech.

Three words. Not long, but each required a distinct intonation and pitch. A slight variance in syllables could mean the spell fizzled… or detonated early. The phrase was written in glowing script, annotated with notes about vocal inflection and internalized intent. He had to mean the command, think of it, visualize it, as he said it. Like acting and casting at the same time.

Thorne rubbed his forehead. That wasn't even the worst part.

The infusion requirements were brutal.

So far, every spell he'd cast had followed a single principle: pull aether from his core, push it into his wand.

Simple.

But Flame Needle had a separate diagram. One of the body. Veins, meridians, energy lines, annotated with fine-inked directions.

Aether had to flow through his left side, loop around his back, and surge down his right arm in three distinct pulses, each held for half a second before being released into the wand.

One wrong timing?

The spell destabilized.

And if he used too much aether? The needle would explode before launching, possibly burning off his eyebrows or worse. Too little, and it would fizzle with a pitiful spark.

"Of course it's not easy," Thorne muttered, dragging his fingers down his face. "Can't have a school where everything works on the first try. That would be too reasonable."

He let out a breath and sat straighter, staring at the sigils again. His fingers traced them in the air, just to memorize the flow.

Flame Needle.

He whispered the words once, just to feel their shape in his mouth.

It didn't help that everything was more refined. Less intuitive. Less like shaping raw aether, which he had grown used to, and more like threading a delicate, ancient mechanism. It wasn't about willpower or brute force.

It was about precision. Harmony. Discipline.

And that was not his strong suit.

Still...

He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck.

"Alright," he said. "Let's make you work."

He lifted Ashthorn from its holster and began again.

Thorne adjusted his grip on Ashthorn, inhaled through his nose, and began.

The four sigils came first.

He raised his wand and traced the first one in the air, fingers flicking in smooth arcs. The wand's tip shimmered with responding light, the aether obediently shaping itself into the first glyph, a curved talon encased in a circle. Easy.

The second: a trident-like rune split down the center.

Third: a spiral with sharp edges, pulsing once as he completed it.

The fourth, a pointed diamond with an inner line coiled like a snake.

He completed them all in one breath, and when the last sigil stabilized, they hung in the air before him, flickering with potential.

A small smirk tugged at his lips.

Sigilwork was supposed to be one of the hardest parts for beginners. But he could see the spell structure, the correct lines, the stable formations, glowing in the aether like blueprints written by light. Aether Vision made the invisible visible, and as far as spell shapes went, this was as easy as copying from a chalkboard.

One advantage down.

"Now for the fun part," he muttered.

He inhaled and began the aether flow.

Following the diagram etched in the book, he directed the energy from his core, slow and steady, toward his left side. It was like coaxing hot oil through tight pipes. The current pushed against his ribs, looped up his spine, and curled toward his right shoulder.

So far, so good.

He opened his mouth and spoke the incantation.

"Sevarin Kal Tyreth."

The syllables hummed in the air, he got the pitch mostly right. The spell framework shivered in anticipation, waiting for the last trigger.

The final step: Infusion.

He clenched his jaw and tried to guide the built-up energy down his arm, but something snagged. His channeling faltered. The pulse stuttered, became uneven. Instead of flowing down cleanly, the aether twisted sideways, getting caught behind his elbow.

The glowing sigils flickered, destabilizing.

"Damn..."

The spell discharged in a harmless fizz, sputtering into motes of warmth that danced away like dandelion seeds. Thorne staggered slightly, his arm tingling from the sudden backlash.

"Okay," he exhaled. "So that's where it goes wrong."

He shook out his right hand, flexing his fingers.

The issue wasn't the control. It was… the refinement. He was strong, too strong, and his aether wasn't used to playing nice. Ashthorn had always responded to overwhelming force. He'd always just shaped aether into what he wanted, not infused it through narrow channels like an old man threading a needle.

He grimaced.

This was like forcing a river through a flute.

Still, he wasn't deterred. His body remembered pain. His mind remembered repetition. And the thrill of casting this spell, of finally, truly fighting with fire, lit something inside him.

He tried again.

First sigil. Then second. Third and fourth, fluid and crisp.

He repeated the incantation, slowing the final syllable, and began the infusion.

This time, he controlled the surge more tightly, reining in the power from his core with mental clamps. He felt his circulation channels heat up, his arm growing hot as the energy built pressure, and just before it buckled, he released it.

The spell almost took.

He could feel the snap, the point just before ignition, and the way the fire should've leapt forward in a narrow dart.

But the direction skewed, and the needle shot off at an angle, punching into the wall and leaving a scorched black line like a hot nail dragged across stone.

He stared at it.

"Well," he muttered, grinning despite himself. "That's progress."

Ashthorn vibrated faintly in his grip, almost… pleased.

He rolled his shoulders and got back into position.

He was going to get this spell down.

Even if it burned every gold coin from his pouch.

Dozens of attempts later, Thorne stood in the middle of the scorched chamber, breath ragged, sweat clinging to his brow.

He cast again.

The sigils shimmered, the incantation left his lips with practiced cadence, and finally, finally, a sputtering tongue of flame burst from the tip of Ashthorn.

It flickered.

And died.

"Are you kidding me?" he growled, lowering the wand.

Ashthorn pulsed in his grip, not with encouragement, but with something colder, sharper. Judgment. Disappointment. As if it too had expected more from him. From this.

He glared at the wand. "Don't look at me like that."

The truth was impossible to ignore.

He had trouble channeling.

Even when everything else worked, the sigils, the chant, the timing, the moment it came to the final phase, to syncing the aether with the pathways in his arm and hand, it just… misaligned. Bent at the wrong angle. Collapsed before impact.

He was used to overwhelming things into submission.

But refinement?

Precision?

It wasn't his strength.

A sharp ping echoed through the chamber, and the entire room flashed with soft light.

His hour was up.

He stood there, wand hanging loose in his hand, shoulders tight.

Not even one successful cast. Not one.

He sighed and looked at the ceiling.

What a waste of gold.

Well. Not entirely a waste. He'd learned something important.

He had a problem.

And it was going to get in his way.

He needed help.

The chamber shimmered open behind him, and Thorne stepped out, slipping the books into his bag as he exited. His uniform was damp with sweat, his hair a mess, but none of it mattered.

He had class next.

And the good news?

He had class with Marian.

Maybe, just maybe, she could help him fix whatever the hell was wrong with him.

Or at least, help him figure out how to make fire do what it was told.