THE AETHERBORN

Thorne was running.

Not the quiet, predator's run he was used to, the kind that left no sound, no trace. No, this was a full sprint, boots hitting the uneven streets of Evermist with sharp precision as he weaved past early risers and sleepy shopkeepers unlocking their doors.

Behind him, far below the ground, the city trembled.

A faint rumble rolled through the cobblestones as the underground market convulsed under its own weight. The weakened columns he had gutted were finally giving way in a beautiful chain reaction. Stone crashing on stone. Wards failing one after the other like dominoes.

He didn't look back.

He didn't need to.

The memory of those people screaming, choking on dust as half the market fell around them, was already burned into his mind.

A gift for Brennak. Just as promised.

The people on the surface barely reacted.

A few early risers paused mid-step, blinking at the faint vibrations in the ground. A street vendor setting up his stall glanced down nervously but then shrugged and kept arranging his glowing fruit. A passing mage frowned briefly, murmured something about "unstable ley lines," and kept walking.

Evermist was used to weird.

Buildings here randomly shifted in size. Roads curved in places they hadn't the day before. Sometimes, the city sang in the middle of the night. A bit of ground-shaking? Nothing new.

Thorne darted past them all.

The staircase of light loomed ahead, spiraling up into the sky like a living ribbon. The glowing steps pulsed faintly, reflecting the morning sun as it caught the floating mountain above.

Aetherhold.

He took the first step without hesitation. The magic in the staircase hummed under his boots, supporting his weight as he bounded upward two, three steps at a time. Wind rushed past his ears as the city fell away beneath him.

For a brief moment, with the skyline spread out below, he allowed himself a breath.

Brennak.

The dwarf's face had been priceless, first shock when Thorne walked in alive, then that raw, greedy awe when he handed over the pyramid. Brennak hadn't even had the time to think, to scheme. He'd just muttered to himself like a man drunk on possibility.

And now?

Now Brennak's underground empire was rubble.

Thorne's lips curved faintly as he climbed, his thoughts as sharp as the wind cutting past him.

You thought I was a pawn. Just another disposable errand boy. You waited like a vulture outside the tower, ready to pick over the scraps.

He imagined the dwarf's face when he got the news. When he walked into the underground market and found half of it gone. Merchants screaming about lost goods. Crates of priceless contraband buried under tons of stone.

Would Brennak curse? Would he laugh it off? Or would he realize, in that cold, creeping way, that this was a warning?

Next time, Thorne thought, it won't just be the market.

The thought settled over him like a shadow.

He pushed harder up the staircase.

The floating mountain grew closer, its jagged base veined with glowing runes that anchored it above the city. From this height, the bustling Evermist streets looked like an insect nest, small figures scurrying, unaware of the chaos that had unfolded just beneath their feet.

When he reached the top, the central courtyard of Aetherhold spread out before him, pristine and serene.

It was alive with activity.

Students in their crisp uniforms moved in clusters, chatting softly as they made their way toward their morning classes. Some carried enchanted satchels that floated obediently behind them. Others levitated books or cauldrons beside them with absentminded ease.

It was a picture of normalcy.

And then there was Thorne, dust-streaked, cloak half-fastened, still wearing the clothes he'd infiltrated the tower in.

A few students looked up, eyes narrowing in curiosity as he strode across the courtyard. He caught the faintest whisper of someone murmuring, "Where was he all night?"

He ignored them.

He slipped into the Umbra Common Room, hoping for a few moments to collect himself.

The lounge was almost empty.

His heart sank a fraction.

It was later than he thought.

He cursed softly under his breath and stripped off his cloak, moving fast.

He changed into his uniform in record time, tugging the crisp fabric into place, then ran his fingers through his hair, shaking out the last stubborn bits of dust and debris. It helped; he no longer looked like he'd crawled through collapsing stone. Not perfect, but passable.

Alchemy & Potion Brewing was first today.

He grabbed his bag and the small cauldron he'd need for class.

And immediately regretted it.

The cauldron was awkward, heavy, and kept digging into his ribs no matter how he tried to hold it. He adjusted his grip once, twice, and almost dropped it on the polished floor.

"Damn thing…" he muttered, half-running down the hall.

It slipped again, jabbing him in the side.

This is ridiculous.

Then he remembered.

The other students.

He'd seen them levitating their bags and cauldrons all the time, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Why not?

Thorne stopped mid-run, stepping aside into an empty stretch of hallway.

He pulled out his ashthorn wand, flicked it once, and whispered the incantation.

The cauldron wobbled uncertainly for a moment, its handles spinning awkwardly in the air, then steadied.

It hovered at waist height, bobbing gently.

A small grin tugged at his lips.

"Finally."

He set off running again, faster this time, the cauldron floating neatly beside him, keeping pace like an obedient pet.

For the first time all morning, something was actually easy.

He could almost laugh at the absurd contrast, hours ago, he was unraveling wards and collapsing an entire black-market stronghold. Now? He was sprinting to class with a levitating cauldron.

One world bleeding into the other.

And somehow, it all felt… natural.

Thorne reached the alchemy courtyard, one of the glass-domed structures that clung to the floating mountain's outer ring like a cluster of crystal hives. Morning light refracted through the curved panes, scattering pale rainbows across polished workbenches.

Inside, the air shimmered faintly with layered enchantments, runes traced along the glass glowing like thin veins of gold. Protective wards hummed softly, a sound you didn't so much hear as feel, like invisible insects brushing your skin. Beyond the transparent walls was the drop, an endless expanse of blue sky and drifting clouds where the mountain ended abruptly, reminding every student how precarious this place truly was.

From within, Thorne caught the faint scent of herbs and simmering brews. The soft bubbling of cauldrons mixed with Professor Sorrell's calm, precise voice as he lectured.

Thorne exhaled, then smirked faintly.

Late. Again.

Fine. Time to be invisible.

He activated Veil of Light and Shadow, wrapping himself in its familiar silence. The air bent faintly around him, dulling his presence until he was just another ripple in the room.

He eased the door open without a sound.

The classroom was alive with motion.

Professor Sorrell stood at the front. His three sets of arms worked with mechanical precision, each limb performing a different task. One hand stirred the simmering cauldron in smooth, even circles. Another sprinkled in powdered root with careful pinches. The third measured liquid extracts into delicate vials while the remaining three gestured toward the class, his voice carrying calmly over the bubbling.

"Remember," the professor said, "heat control is everything. If your flame is even a degree too hot, you'll curdle the base essence. Too cold, and the reaction stalls. Alchemy doesn't forgive laziness."

His hands moved seamlessly. A pinch of crushed moonleaf. A swirl. A flick of some translucent liquid that hissed when it touched the brew.

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The smell of the potion, sharp but faintly sweet, spread through the room.

Students lined the long rows of workbenches, each with their own smaller cauldrons. Most were focused, taking careful notes. Others were clumsy, their mixtures bubbling suspiciously as they muttered apologies to their partners.

Thorne's eyes flicked across the room, searching for an empty spot.

The nearest was in the middle row… right next to Ronan.

Thorne cursed inwardly. Of all people.

Ronan sat straight-backed, his uniform immaculate, his hair annoyingly perfect despite the heat of the classroom. His cauldron was already simmering at the ideal consistency, and he was jotting precise notes while occasionally smirking at the mistakes of the less skilled students.

Of course he would have a free seat next to him.

Fine.

Thorne slipped through the rows like a shadow, avoiding the glances of nearby students. None of them noticed the faint shimmer in the air as he passed, although a few looked up at the bobbing cauldron that was following him.

He stopped at the empty stool, sat down silently, and let the veil drop.

Ronan nearly jumped out of his skin.

"What the!" he hissed, jerking sideways and almost spilling a vial of ground powder into his cauldron. He caught it at the last second, glaring at Thorne with a mix of shock and irritation.

"You can't just appear out of nowhere!"

Thorne tilted his head, his expression neutral but faintly amused. "Sure I can. Just did."

Ronan scowled. "Where the hell were you? Class started ten minutes ago. And what's with the dirt? Did you fall into a ditch on your way here?"

Thorne shrugged. "Ran into a bit of… business in the city."

"That's not an answer."

"It wasn't a question."

Ronan's jaw tightened. "You're late. Again. You should inform the professor instead of sneaking in like some..."

"Some what?" Thorne cut in softly, his glowing eyes flicking briefly toward Ronan. "Like someone who doesn't care about punctuality?"

"You're supposed to care," Ronan shot back. "Or do you think the academy bends rules for you?"

Thorne leaned slightly back on his stool, clearly unconcerned. "Well, the rules haven't bent yet. Seems fine so far."

Ronan exhaled sharply through his nose. "You can't keep doing this. You're making a fool of yourself."

Thorne smiled faintly. "No, Ronan. You're the one worried about looking like a fool. I'm perfectly fine."

Ronan's glare could have cut stone. "At least tell Professor Sorrell you're here. It's disrespectful not to."

Thorne lazily glanced toward the front of the room. The professor hadn't even looked their way, too busy demonstrating the next step of the brew.

"I think he's fine without the interruption," Thorne said smoothly. "Besides, if I told him I was late, he might ask why. And you wouldn't want me explaining that in front of everyone, would you?"

Ronan blinked. "What does that even..."

"Exactly," Thorne interrupted, reaching for a set of ingredients with deliberate calm.

Ronan shut his mouth, realizing too late he'd been steered into a dead end.

Pathetic, Thorne thought, a faint flicker of amusement curling in his chest. His Tactful Deflection skill worked a little too well on Ronan's blunt, self-righteous annoyance. His pathetic efforts to insult him felt almost quaint.

"Now," Professor Sorrell said, his voice cutting cleanly through the background chatter, "for those of you keeping up, you should have your base simmering to this consistency."

He held up his demonstration cauldron. The liquid inside was a soft green, swirling smoothly as faint sparks flickered at the surface.

"Next, we add powdered frostcap. Slowly. Too fast, and you'll trigger a separation reaction."

Two of his hands demonstrated the motion while the other four continued tending to the other steps, a display of multitasking no normal person could mimic.

Around the room, students carefully followed his instructions.

Soft bubbling.

The sound of powders sprinkling into liquid.

One table over, someone whispered nervously, "Is this the right color? It looks too dark…"

"Your flame's too high," their partner muttered back.

Ronan, of course, had his potion looking perfect.

Thorne sighed quietly and began setting up his own.

He pulled the ingredients toward him, moonleaf base, a vial of frostcap powder, a pinch of ground wyrmroot. The cauldron he'd been lugging all morning sat solidly on the workbench.

The flame sparked to life beneath it when he infused aether to the sigil at its base.

The base liquid simmered, swirling faintly.

Thorne's mind wasn't entirely on the potion, though. His hands worked automatically, muscle memory from his early alchemy lessons in Aetherhold. But his thoughts wandered.

Back to the market.

Back to Brennak.

The look on the dwarf's face when the news hit would almost be worth the trouble of today's class.

Almost.

"Careful with that frostcap," Professor Sorrell called out, his voice calm but firm. "If it starts fizzing, you've already done it wrong. And no one enjoys an accidental frostburn."

Right on cue, a student at the back gasped as a cold plume of steam erupted from their cauldron. Sorrell's lower hands continued his demonstration while his uppermost pair snapped a counterspell toward the mishap without missing a beat.

The class chuckled nervously.

Thorne smirked faintly. Alchemy students. Always one misstep away from blowing their eyebrows off.

He added the frostcap powder, slow and measured.

The potion shifted color smoothly, softening to the proper green.

Next step.

Another handful of herbs. A stir counter-clockwise, three times.

All while Ronan kept glancing sideways, clearly irritated but too focused on his own perfect mixture to keep arguing.

By the end of the lesson, the glasshouse was thick with the smell of herbs and faintly metallic steam. A few students were still scrambling to salvage their potions, while others sat smugly with perfectly clear brews.

Thorne stared at his cauldron. Somehow, despite arriving late and having to listen to Ronan's constant passive-aggressive sighs, his potion hadn't exploded or turned into sludge.

He glanced at the final line of instructions in his textbook, muttering under his breath. "Reduce the flame… stir three times clockwise, one counter, then add the stabilizing pinch of starpepper."

He did exactly that, keeping his movements measured. The potion inside the small cauldron gave a soft swirl and shifted from its murky greenish hue to a faint, translucent gold. Acceptable. Not perfect, but good enough to pass.

Not bad for someone who just collapsed half an underground market, he thought dryly.

He reached for a clean vial, tipping the cauldron carefully and bottling the contents. The faint golden liquid sloshed inside, glinting faintly under the refracted morning light.

Minor Clarity Draught, a basic focus potion, used to sharpen concentration for about an hour. Not a stamina boost, not a healing tonic, just a simple mind-brightener.

As he corked it shut, Professor Sorrell glided past their bench. Six hands moved in perfect sync as he inspected the students' work. His upper pair gestured toward the clock, while another set carried a tray of finished potions from the front table. His voice carried calmly over the bubbling and whispering.

"Time's up. Finish bottling what you have. Those of you who ended with stable mixtures may submit them for evaluation. Those whose brews resemble toxic sludge…" his middle hands gestured toward a back bench where a potion was belching faint gray smoke, "…try again next class. And remember, flame control is the difference between a potion and a disaster."

A ripple of relieved sighs and low groans followed as students began clearing their workstations.

As Thorne packed away his vials and cleaned his station, Rowenna appeared at his side.

"Where were you earlier?" she asked, her brows furrowing slightly. "I didn't even see you come in."

Before Thorne could reply, Ronan's voice cut in immediately, sharp as ever.

"That's what I asked him. He thinks he can just appear whenever he wants." Ronan straightened, adjusting his already-perfect uniform. "This isn't some low-tier street school. This is Aetherhold, an elite institution that demands the best and expects its students to uphold.."

"Oh, would you shut up already!" Thorne cut him off without even looking at him, his attention still on Rowenna. "Had some things to take care of."

Rowenna tilted her head, curious, but before she could press further, another voice joined them.

"Why does everything here have to be heavy?"

Elias stumbled up, his staff in one hand and his small cauldron in the other, awkwardly juggling both. "Seriously, whose bright idea was it to make cauldrons out of actual iron instead of something light, like, oh, I don't know, enchanted wood? My arms are going to fall off before the semester ends."

Rowenna sighed, already irritated. "Maybe if you stopped skipping your morning drills, you'd have the strength to carry your own supplies like a normal student."

Elias grinned lopsidedly. "Normal is boring. Besides, I'm conserving energy. You know… for important things. Like napping."

"Unbelievable," Rowenna muttered, turning back to Thorne. "We should head to the next class before we're late."

"Yeah, let's," Elias agreed, plunking his cauldron down onto the bench with a loud clunk.

As they started walking toward the courtyard, Ronan called after them. "Try not to be late again, Thorne. Some of us actually value discipline."

Thorne didn't bother turning. "Some of us also value silence," he called back smoothly.

They passed under the archway of the glasshouse, stepping into the open air of the courtyard. Morning light refracted off the gleaming crystal spires that marked the academy's edges.

Thorne glanced sideways at Rowenna. "Sigilcraft & Ancient Spell Forms. Is it actually happening today, or is it postponed again?"

Rowenna shrugged slightly. "We'll find out when we get there. The schedule's been a mess since the last lecture."

"Great," Elias muttered. "So we could be rushing just to find out it's canceled. Again."

"Would you rather sit around doing nothing?" Rowenna asked pointedly.

"Yes," Elias replied instantly. "Absolutely."

Thorne shifted his grip on the cauldron he'd been lugging, sighed, and then flicked his wand casually. "Levitate."

The cauldron bobbed gently into the air, hovering at his side like an obedient pet.

A few students walking past slowed to stare. One even whispered, "How's he already doing that? I can barely lift my quill…"

Rowenna raised a brow but didn't comment.

Elias, on the other hand, groaned dramatically, adjusting his own cauldron with both arms. "Really? Really? You couldn't have done that earlier to help me out?"

Thorne smirked. "Guess you'll just have to… carry your own weight."

"Wow," Elias muttered, hefting his cauldron higher with a grunt. "Show-off."

They made their way toward the main courtyard, where Marian's Crystal Tower dominated the view. The structure gleamed like a shard of frozen starlight, its surface reflecting the sky in prismatic colors. The tower was so tall it seemed to pierce the clouds, the outer wall looping with a spiral staircase of crystal that climbed all the way to the upper classrooms.

Other students were already ahead of them, climbing the staircase in orderly lines, their voices echoing faintly against the crystalline walls.

Rowenna glanced at the crowd, then at Elias. "Try not to trip this time. I don't want to explain to the instructor why you're dangling from the side of the tower like a confused cat."

Elias put on an exaggerated look of offense. "Hey, I only tripped once. And it was slippery!"

Rowenna smirked. "Excuses. Maybe it's just an elf thing, graceful in theory, clumsy in reality."

"Wow," Elias said, pressing a hand to his chest in mock injury. "Racist and mean. You're on a roll today."

Thorne hid a faint smile as they reached the base of the tower.

The students ahead were already halfway up the glowing staircase, their figures weaving like shadows along the crystal surface. The steps shimmered with soft light, each one resonating faintly as feet touched it.

Rowenna adjusted her satchel. "Come on. If we don't hurry, we'll be stuck in the back again."

"Right behind you," Elias said with a grin, spinning his staff once before following.

Thorne glanced up the length of the staircase, the sunlight scattering across the tower's facets. Another day, another climb.

And after this morning's chaos… this almost felt peaceful.

They reached the top of the crystal staircase and stepped into the Sigilcraft & Ancient Spell Forms classroom.

It was like walking into the inside of a giant gemstone.

The room was round, its walls made entirely of seamless crystal, catching and bending the morning light into soft, shifting colors. A dozen portal mirrors lined the walls, faint ripples of magic swirling across their surfaces like slow-moving water. The desks curved in long concentric circles around the center of the room, each one crafted from the same gleaming crystal, polished to a mirror sheen.

Thorne slid into a seat near the middle row, Rowenna sitting beside him and Elias plopping down on the other side with a relieved sigh, finally setting his cauldron down with a dull thunk.

Thorne rested his arms on the desk, half-expecting the inevitable.

Marian had already postponed this class. The last time, she'd left only a floating note on with some vague explanation about "urgent matters."

So, as the students filed in and took their places, Thorne kept glancing at the mirrors around the room, waiting for the shimmer of another written message to appear instead of the professor herself.

Any moment now, a note would probably materialize saying class canceled again.

But when the last student sat down, one of the mirrors at the far end of the room rippled.

And Marian stepped through.

Thorne froze.

He barely recognized her.

The woman who emerged from the mirror was a shadow of the professor he'd seen only days ago.

Her usually flawless posture sagged slightly. Her cheeks were hollow, her skin dull and papery, as if all the vibrancy had been drained from her. Her once-sharp eyes looked sunken, glassy, blurred by exhaustion. Even her robes, usually pristine and glowing with faint enchantments, looked crumpled and faded around the edges.

What happened to her?

Thorne blinked, his mind racing. It hadn't been that long since the last lesson. Just a few days. How could she look like someone who hadn't slept in weeks?

But the moment Marian's gaze swept the room and landed on him, something inside her lit.

Her hollow eyes ignited, blazing with sudden, focused intensity.

The air seemed to tighten.

Thorne instinctively shrunk back in his seat as her glare pinned him in place.

Every other student felt like background noise in that moment. It was just her stare and him.

He swallowed lightly, his usual composure faltering for just a second.

Whatever had happened to Marian in those missing days…

…it wasn't good.

And judging by the way she was looking at him, she might just make him pay for it.