CHAPTER 283
The doors of the mansion swung open without a sound.
Thorne stepped inside behind Varo and stopped.
It wasn't the scale that halted him. Though the atrium was vast, all gold-veined sandstone and domed ceilings etched with ancient script, spiraling upward into light-soaked glass that refracted the sun into a prism across the floor.
It wasn't the craftsmanship either. The floors were polished to a mirror shine, the walls inlaid with lapis and obsidian mosaics forming the crest of the Empire, a rising sun, its rays devouring the world.
No.
It was the people.
Fifty of them, maybe more, knelt in silent rows before him.
Human, elven, beastkin, dwarves, and others Thorne couldn't name. All dressed in modest robes of cream and rust, all with bare feet resting on the cooled sandstone. Every one of them bore a bronze armband, glowing with red aether, and not a single one met his eyes.
They didn't speak.
They didn't move.
They simply knelt, with their heads bowed and their gazes locked to a single point on the floor directly ahead of Thorne. A star-shaped symbol etched into the stone, glowing faintly with golden light.
Varo didn't stop walking.
He strode through the parted sea of bodies as though they were furniture, his cloak whispering behind him, his boots soft on the floor.
"Greet your master, my darlings," Varo sang lightly.
As one, the fifty voices spoke, low, reverent, unified:
"We greet the Third Light. Servant of Dawn. Voice of Empire."
Their tone was neither fearful nor eager. Just… hollow. Rehearsed. As if the words had been branded into them as deeply as the bands at their arms.
Thorne didn't speak.
He didn't move.
The sight rooted him, a slow churning settling into his gut.
Even Uncle had never dealt in slaves. Not truly. Caledris had its shadows, but chains weren't among them. This... this was something else. A quiet machine of obedience.
He swept his gaze across the room.
Some of the kneeling figures were older, men and women with weathered faces, and their armbands pulsed with a slightly brighter hue, orange or yellow flickering beneath the bronze. Years of service, maybe. Seniority? Privilege?
And then he saw them.
Three figures who didn't kneel with the rest.
They stood to the side, silent, still, but upright. Their clothes were finer, less uniform. Their armbands were different.
Silver.
And one...
Thorne's eyes locked onto him.
Gold.
A tall man, dark-skinned, with silver hair braided back tightly and a gold band on his bicep that shimmered not with red, but with green. His posture was regal, his face unreadable. Yet even he didn't look Thorne in the eyes. He too stared at the etched star on the floor, as though it were some magnetic center no one dared defy.
"What… is this?" Thorne murmured.
Varo's voice was chipper, unbothered. "Your household, of course."
"I didn't ask for a household."
Varo twirled once, hands outstretched in mock surprise. "But of course you didn't! That's the beauty of the Empire, Thorne. We provide what is required. Not what is requested."
Thorne's gaze swept over the room again. "They're slaves."
Varo clucked his tongue. "They are citizens in service. Bronze-banded, red-ranked, bound by oath and collar alike. Fifty of them, your station permits no more."
"My… station?"
"Once you accept the sponsorship, that is. Until then, they are technically mine. Consider this a… demonstration of Empire efficiency."
Thorne didn't reply. His throat was dry.
He didn't miss the way some of the kneeling figures shifted ever so slightly. Knees trembling. Shoulders twitching from the strain of remaining still.
It wasn't cruelty.
It was just… protocol. Ritual.
And that was somehow worse.
Varo turned, his voice syrup-slick. "Of course, not all here are quite so low-ranked. You've already noticed the exceptions."
He nodded toward the three standing.
"The silver bands are your stewards. Supervisors. Managers. Highly skilled, highly obedient. The one with gold, ah, he's something special. Comes with the estate."
Thorne's brow furrowed. "He's a slave too?"
"Technically." Varo shrugged, unconcerned. "The band says no, does it not? But every household has a golden name to keep things running. Most are bred for it. Raised with etiquette, accounting, battle-readiness, and discretion. That one, what was his name again…" Varo waved a hand. "You'll learn it soon enough."
Thorne's jaw tightened. "You treat them like inventory."
Varo turned slowly to face him.
"Because, my dear Thorne… they are."
For a long moment, silence stretched between them.
And then Varo beamed. "Come! Let me show you the kitchens, automated, of course. The bathhouse, the study, the training hall, and your quarters. You'll find everything has been prepared in accordance with your tastes."
Thorne didn't move at first.
Then, slowly, he followed.
He didn't look back.
But he felt all fifty pairs of eyes, still downcast, watching him all the same.
The estate was a palace unto itself.
Towering archways carved with swirling motifs of suns, falcons, and flowering aether-blooms led them from one open courtyard to the next. The architecture bore the heavy, ancient weight of a bygone desert dynasty, vaulted ceilings, sandstone mosaics, and intricate inlays of lapis and crushed crystal, but every space shimmered faintly with modern aethercraft.
"True imperial design," Varo explained as they moved through a colonnade ringed with pomegranate trees. "Beauty that doesn't need to shout. Subtle utility masked in timeless grace."
Thorne said nothing. But he couldn't help noticing how every pillar hummed with minor wards, how the walkways cooled underfoot with each step, and how the breeze always arrived from the right direction to stir the silk drapes lining the paths.
The gardens were lush beyond reason.
Lattices of gold-threaded vines climbed alabaster walls. Palm trees rose tall and swaying beside fountains of starlight-filtered water that never seemed to run dry. The vertical gardens, dozens of them, crawled up the sides of the spiral towers, bursting with edible leaves, rich fruit, and herbs too rare for most common tables.
A small aqueduct carved from glowing quartz ran upstream against gravity, feeding the gardens in gentle trickles.
"All this," Varo gestured broadly, "produced with minimal effort. The Empire prizes self-sufficiency. Your estate is both gift and test."
Before Thorne could ask what kind of test, they were no longer alone.
Four figures stepped through a rounded arch framed with golden sunbursts.
They walked in formation, flanked by guards who peeled away upon entry. They wore loose desert robes belted with sigil-marked sashes, their arms adorned with silver armbands glowing with green and violet aether, marks of free citizens, ranked high.
All four bowed in unison.
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"Third Light," they intoned.
Varo waved lazily. "Yes, yes, you've practiced. Very good. Now, do greet our dear Thorne. He's to be your obsession from now on."
The first of the four stepped forward, a striking woman with russet skin and dark hair coiled into a crown braid.
She bowed slightly, her voice smooth and careful. "I am Layani of the Fourfold Bureau. Your liaison to the Empire. I will advise you on etiquette, required appearances, courtly maneuvering, and House politics. When to bow, when to strike, when to vanish."
Thorne nodded once. "Good to meet you."
She offered a smile, slight and distant, and stepped back.
The next was a lean, hawk-eyed man with calloused fingers and faint scars tracing his wrists. His face was calm, hard like sunbaked clay.
"Javed," he said simply. "Combat master. I am to hone your skills. And strategize… should things escalate."
His words held the promise of violence, refined, disciplined violence. He said no more.
Then came a broad-chested man with rings on every finger and a parchment scroll tucked into his belt.
He smiled broadly. "I am Haroun, Master of Interests. Trade, influence, supply lines, debts owed and debts paid. I will expand your reach inside the city's veins. You have enemies already, Lord Thorne. Let us build stronger friends."
Thorne blinked. "I didn't expect…"
"A full retinue?" Haroun's grin widened. "It's an investment. From the Empire."
"And we do so hope to see returns," Layani murmured, brushing nonexistent dust from her sleeve.
The fourth figure stepped forward with a grace that marked her as different.
She was old, not elderly, but ageless in the way of people who had seen too much. Her robe was midnight-blue, trimmed in copper thread. Her hair was pure white, braided with tiny bells. Her eyes, when they met Thorne's, were like knives wrapped in silk.
"I am Sitra," she said. "And I am your Voice."
Thorne tilted his head. "My what?"
"If you ever wish to address the Empire officially. If you must speak before the Court of Dawns. If your tongue falters, or should not be the one to speak. I will be your words."
Thorne looked to Varo.
"Public addresses are… delicate," Varo said cheerfully. "Every syllable means something here. Best not to risk misinterpretation. Sitra knows how to speak without saying anything at all. A gift, truly."
Sitra bowed shallowly. "I speak only when ordered. But I listen always."
Thorne exhaled slowly.
It was too much. Too fast. A fortress disguised as a gift. Servants who weren't servants. Guides he hadn't asked for.
But it was also… calculated.
The Empire hadn't just welcomed him. It had built a scaffold around him. A net. A stage.
Thorne inclined his head to each of them.
"I appreciate the Empire's… investment," he said carefully. "Let's hope I prove worthy of it."
Javed gave a single nod.
Haroun laughed lightly. "Oh, I think you'll be very expensive. But the kind worth buying."
Layani arched an elegant brow. "That depends entirely on how well you learn to dance."
Sitra said nothing.
Only Varo beamed, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Now then," he clapped once, "shall we see your quarters? The stars are rising, and your future waits with bated breath."
And with guards behind and attendants before, Thorne followed the Third Light deeper into the gilded heart of his new life.
They continued deeper into the estate, winding through a colonnade lined with flowering fig trees and white marble benches. Ornamental pools reflected the glowing runes embedded in the sandstone walkways. The stars above had fully emerged, casting the entire compound in a surreal tapestry of blue and gold light.
Thorne walked slightly behind Varo now, half-listening.
The Third Light was speaking, chattering, really, bouncing from topic to topic with childlike glee and theatrical flair.
"…and I told the councilor, if he thinks burning twelve hundred tons of spice will keep the gods from sneezing on his crops, then by all means, let the man sneeze himself into extinction!"
Varo laughed at his own joke, loud and delighted.
Thorne didn't smile.
Something… shifted.
It began with the faintest whisper at the edge of his senses, a subtle tremor in the ambient aether, like a string pulled taut in his mind. His Veil Sense flared to life without warning, unbidden and sharp, flooding his vision with glowing outlines and flickering motes.
He stopped walking.
"Thorne?" Varo's voice drifted lazily from ahead. "You'll miss the silk canopies I had brought in from Rassien, priceless things. You've never napped until you've napped beneath a tent sewn from..."
But Thorne wasn't listening anymore.
He turned his head.
The sense deepened, grew heavier. Aether curled around his mind like smoke caught in a windless room, tugging at him. Guiding him.
His eyes brightened, pupils dilating, and the world slowed. The levels of every living soul around him flickered into view. All in the low tens. Servants, slaves. Meek. Dull. Mundane.
Except one.
He peeled away from Varo without a word.
The guards glanced at him, then to the Third Light for confirmation, but Varo merely smiled wider and gestured for them to let him pass.
Thorne drifted through the courtyard like a blade caught in a dream, drawn forward by a resonance he couldn't explain.
There.
A young man, no older than seventeen, knelt beside a low stone wall, tending to a flowering herb bed. He was slight, barefoot, clothed in the dull robes of a slave. A bronze armband glinted on his sun-darkened bicep, glowing faint red. His head was bowed low, body bent in quiet, obedient rhythm.
But the aether around him…
It rippled. Just faintly. Like light skimming the surface of a deep, dark sea.
Thorne's breath caught.
He stopped just a few feet away, his gaze piercing. The motes swirled faster, pressing in. He didn't need confirmation. His soul knew.
"You," Thorne whispered.
The boy froze.
His hand halted mid-motion, clutching a small iron trowel. His back stiffened, but he didn't lift his head. Didn't look up.
"Yes," Varo said from behind, suddenly much closer. His tone held no madness now. Only something cold. Ancient. Measured. "He's an elderborn."
Thorne turned sharply, fury blooming in his chest like a wildfire.
"You chained him," he said, voice low. Dangerous. "You made him a slave."
Varo arched a brow. "The Empire made him productive. There's a difference."
"He's one of us."
"Is he?" Varo's tone was flippant again. He shrugged, gesturing airily. "Bloodlines mean little without purpose. Talent means less without guidance. Not all who are born great live greatly. Some are content to scrape weeds until they die of sunstroke."
Thorne clenched his fists.
His aether stirred, responding to his anger. The ground beneath his feet groaned, the veins of magic in the sandstone twitching subtly.
"I should burn this whole place down."
Varo laughed. "Yes! There he is. That's the fire I adore."
Thorne looked back to the boy.
Still kneeling. Still silent. His head remained down, eyes fixed not on Thorne, not on Varo, but on the star etched into the tiles below. Just like all the others.
He didn't move. Not even to defend himself.
They've broken him, Thorne realized. Or taught him to break himself before anyone else can.
A horrible pressure twisted in his chest.
He'd spent so long fighting to survive, to hide what he was. Now he was being paraded like a prize. And this boy, this elderborn, was treated like property.
He turned back to Varo, voice like sharpened steel.
"Undo it."
Varo blinked innocently. "Undo what?"
"The collar. The classification. The chains you tied to his life. Free him."
Varo's smile faded, just slightly. "Thorne… this isn't a play you can write on impulse."
Thorne didn't respond.
Varo sighed, long, low, and theatrical, but the undercurrent was real. "You can't just release a slave. There's order here. Structure. Procedures. You know, the very things that make an empire last more than a generation."
Thorne's jaw clenched.
"And besides," Varo added, voice softening into something colder, "I don't want to. That boy, whatever he was, is part of this estate's balance. Uprooting him would cause ripples. Disruption. Chaos. And we can't have that, can we?"
Thorne stepped forward, eyes sharp. "He's elderborn. You're chaining your own."
Varo tilted his head. "I'm preserving him."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Varo's tone shifted, lighter but no less precise. "Come. We should talk. Privately."
He turned and gestured toward the mansion's western wing, his golden armband catching the torchlight in a ripple of black aether.
Thorne gave one last glance at the boy, still kneeling, still silent, and followed. His mind was already racing.
The doors sealed behind them with a dull, final thud of sandstone on sandstone.
The room they entered was quiet, but far from plain, walls of warm crystal pulsed with faint, amber light, as though the entire chamber breathed. One long table stretched before them, empty but for a single crystal decanter filled with a golden liquid. The air shimmered faintly with still-active wards.
No attendants. No guards.
Only silence and the growing weight of Varo's gaze.
He didn't waste time.
"You are destined to join the Twelve, Thorne," he said, voice soft, reverent. "To become the Thirteenth Light."
Thorne blinked, then scoffed. "Thirteen? That's very unlucky of me."
Varo chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. "Oh, but luck is for those still clinging to fate. You are far beyond that now."
He paced a slow circle around Thorne, hands clasped behind his back. "Elderborn. Eclipsed core. Aether that answers you like a favored son. Training under an assassin's hand, and now tutelage under the Mirror Witch herself. You were forged, not born."
Thorne's fists clenched. "And yet here I am, being told to fall in line. To obey."
"Yes," Varo said, turning sharply. "Because all power requires obedience first. You cannot wield the empire's strength if you don't first learn to walk without tripping over your own arrogance."
Thorne's voice dropped to a hiss. "In our first meeting, you told me you weren't free once. That you wore chains. And now you want me to..." he leaned in, the words barely above a whisper, "...watch another like us wear the same?"
Varo stilled.
A beat of silence.
Then came the humorless smile.
"You can speak the name here, Thorne," he said, almost kindly. "Elderborn. It is not a curse here. Not a brand. No one will hunt you for it. Here, the Elderborn are treated as any other citizen."
Thorne's expression twisted with disbelief.
"Truly," Varo went on, "they are held to the same laws. Bound to the same oaths. Watched, yes, closely. But only because our potential is greater, our danger sharper. That boy you saw?" He waved a lazy hand behind him. "He may be Elderborn, yes. But he is weak. Fragile. He cannot hold what you hold. And that, my darling Thorne, is the difference."
His tone shifted, becoming something brighter, fiercer. His eyes shimmered like heat mirages.
"You think this city thrives on cruelty. But what I see, what I know, is that it thrives on purpose. On truth. On light."
Thorne narrowed his gaze, sensing the shift.
Varo kept going.
"The Emperor brings clarity to a world choking on chaos. He shows us the path. He doesn't force order, he illuminates it. Every gleaming brick in this empire, every prayer spoken at dawn, every rule followed… it's not submission, Thorne. It's devotion. It's unity."
He began to pace again, faster now, cloak swirling like storm clouds.
"I hated him once. Hated everything he stood for. I spat on the banners. But then I saw. The Light, it isn't just power. It's guidance. It's shape. And when I let it in…"
He paused, breath catching.
"I stopped being a shadow."
Thorne watched him carefully. "You're preaching."
"Because you're still blind."
"No," Thorne said. "Just not willing to burn in someone else's sunrise."
Varo's smile returned, this time sharper, unsettling. "Ah. But wait until you see what dawn looks like from within the light, Thorne. Then you'll understand what true power feels like."