THE AETHERBORN

The next few days passed in a blur, a steady rhythm of assignments, classes, training, and the constant hum of murmurs that seemed to follow him like an echo he couldn't shake.

Thorne had long since abandoned the idea of keeping a low profile in Aetherhold. That ship had sailed the moment the Third Light arrived to whisk him off for a visit to the Empire of the First Sun. Whoever hadn't heard about that certainly knew about his duel with a fourth-year. The details changed depending on who told it, in some versions, he'd barely survived; in others, he'd humiliated her with a single spell, but the truth didn't matter. The damage was done. He was the latest shiny piece of gossip in a school full of people who lived for it.

The murmurs came in all flavors. Admiration. Suspicion. Jealousy. Idle curiosity. They drifted down hallways and across dining tables, often falling silent the moment he passed, as if he didn't already know they were talking about him.

One side effect, completely unforeseen and not entirely welcome, was that more people were suddenly willing to talk to him.

Cassian, the golden-haired, self-assured Prince of Rivenwald, had insisted, not suggested, insisted that they partner for Battle Magic & Spell Augmentation. Cassian had a smile like a duelist's feint, bright and practiced, and Thorne couldn't decide whether the prince actually liked him or just wanted to be seen next to "the new golden boy." Probably both. Refusing would have been a political headache, so Thorne let it happen.

Then there was Amira Nahir, Princess of the Emerald Sands. Until recently, he'd seen her only at a distance despite both of them belonging to the Umbra House. She had a way of walking into a room that made people unconsciously shift to make space, as if the air around her refused to be shared. She'd appeared at his table after lunch one day and, with the casual grace of someone entirely used to getting what she wanted, invited him to a party. The way she'd looked at him, warm, just shy of dangerous, had left little doubt that her interest wasn't purely social.

If nothing else, Aetherhold had decided he was worth noticing.

His nightly training with Marian had shifted into more dangerous territory. Gone were the simple shaping drills and cautious attempts at solidifying aether constructs. Now she had him working on phasing them, pushing them in and out of the material plane as if they were slipping between breaths of reality.

An aether blade that passed harmlessly through flesh and armor, only to solidify inside the target.
A wall that could appear from nowhere, phasing into existence without displacing air or stirring dust.
Shapes that left no ripple, no distortion, nothing to betray their presence until it was too late.

The work was intoxicating and maddening. Some nights he nailed it, the construct humming with the strange pressure of being half-real, half-not. Other nights it dissolved entirely into the immaterial and refused to return, slipping out of his grasp like water through clenched fingers.

Classes were another battlefield entirely. The practical lessons, anything involving raw aether shaping, manipulation, or combat application, came to him naturally, like breathing. But the heavy, theory-dense subjects were another story. Magical History & Arcane Law, The Laws of Aetheric Balance… by the second hour, his mind wandered so badly he was convinced even his quill was bored.

The one bright spot was Professor Vorr. Somewhere between their first meeting and now, the woman had gone from cool indifference to something approaching grudging respect. She was the first to check in on Thorne's progress, and her feedback, though sharp, was at least constructive. Thorne even had something to show for it, a new spell he'd mastered in the privacy of his own quarters, away from the eyes and commentary of the rest of the class.

Wick, a useful spell that pulls moisture or liquid from one source into a container or designated area. It was most commonly used in potion work, cleanup and watering magical flora. He knew that once he mastered the spell, he used it to clean up the messes he made in alchemy class.

It wasn't flashy, but it was versatile. And if there was one thing Thorne had learned, it was that versatile could turn deadly if you were creative enough.

The sunlight streaming through the arched windows of Arcane Fundamentals & Spellcasting caught on the faint motes of aether drifting in the air, making the whole room look like it was dusted with shimmering frost. Rows of desks perched on floating platforms formed a half-moon facing the sunken central dais at the front, where Professor Vorr stood like a figure carved from midnight.

She didn't just command attention, she owned the space.

No irises, no pupils, just pools of soft, opalescent white that seemed to take in everything at once. Her skin was the color of polished obsidian, smooth and flawless, her cheekbones high and her features sharp, almost regal. Silver-and-black hair, tightly braided, was pinned back in a pattern so precise it could have been a ward diagram. The braids curved in an intricate sequence that matched the silver sigils stitched along the sleeves of her robe. In her hand rested her focus: a small, rectangular crystal, cool and clear as frozen starlight, nestled in a silver holster.

"Today," Vorr began, her tone even but carrying to the farthest tier, "we study Projection. A utility spell, but no less critical for its simplicity. It allows you to display an image or diagram from any object you touch, a page, a map, a glyph, suspended for others to see without passing it around like a scrap of gossip. Scholars, tacticians, and spies all use it. Those who underestimate it do so at their own expense."

She held the crystal lightly, pressing two fingers to its surface. A thin arc of light traced the air, followed by two quick sigil patterns, Nerath and Calin. A shimmering page appeared above her hand, perfectly sharp, as though it had been torn from a book and hung in the air.

"The casting phrase," she continued, "is Speculo Exscriptum. The gestures are as follows: a counterclockwise half-circle… then Nerath, then Calin. Maintain contact with the source or the image will dissolve. You will work in pairs until you can hold a stable projection for at least five seconds."

Around the room, chairs scraped, wands were drawn, and the low murmur of casting phrases filled the air. Sparks flickered. A few students managed a hazy blur of lines before it fizzled. Others produced accidental bursts of unrelated magic, one unfortunate attempt manifested as a tiny glowing fish that swam through the air until it popped.

Elias planted the butt of his staff on the stone floor and leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin.

Thorne pressed two fingers to the margin of his open book, murmured the words, traced the arc in the air, then drew Nerath and Calin with quiet determination. The image appeared above the desk in perfect detail, every line of text, every small diagram sharp and clear.

"Show-off," Elias said, adjusting his grip on the staff and attempting the same. His first try came out flickering and warped, like the page had been caught in a windstorm. "Bet you've been practicing this for hours."

"Five seconds ago was my first attempt," Thorne replied, not looking up.

Elias grunted, tried again, and got something vaguely page-shaped. "You see Rowenna?" he murmured, tilting his chin toward the front row.

She was seated straight-backed, shoulders square, every motion measured and precise. Her projection hung crisp and steady, just like her posture.

"She hasn't even glanced my way," Elias went on. "Not since the Great Betrayal of Caledris."

Thorne raised an eyebrow. "You're still calling it that?"

"She accused you of selling your soul to the Empire of the First Light," Elias said cheerfully, "and I, as your alleged accomplice, am clearly beyond redemption. Which means she won't even dignify me with an insult anymore. And trust me, Rowenna withholding insults is deeply unnatural."

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Thorne kept his attention on adjusting the brightness of his projection. "Maybe she's just moved on."

Elias snorted. "Moved on? A couple of days ago she passed me in the corridor, stopped dead, stared for exactly three seconds, and then walked away. No words. No sneer. I think she's planning something."

"Or maybe she's practicing self-control."

"Ha. This is the same Rowenna who once filed a formal complaint because I allegedly looked smug during a lecture." Elias's projection collapsed in a messy haze, and he sighed. "She also has this habit of reading extremely loudly in the library whenever I sit nearby. Not actual loud reading, mind you, just turning pages like they've personally offended her."

Across the amphitheater, motes of aether shimmered faintly as more projections began to appear, some steady, some jittering, a few melting into nothing within seconds. The faint hum of the stone floor seemed to pulse with each successful cast. Vorr moved between the rows with measured steps, her crystal focus catching the light, pausing only briefly to watch and correct.

When she reached Thorne's desk, she regarded his projection in silence for a moment, then gave the faintest approving nod before moving on.

Elias leaned closer. "Congratulations. You've officially been acknowledged by the obsidian sentinel herself. That's, like, endgame content."

The hum of quiet incantations filled the amphitheater, layered with the occasional hiss of frustration when a projection fizzled too soon. Thorne kept his focus on the page before him, the motions becoming sharper, cleaner with each attempt. The counterclockwise arc. Nerath. Calin. The more he repeated them, the more natural the sequence felt, until it was almost muscle memory.

He could feel it, that subtle point where the aether didn't resist him anymore, where the spell's structure settled into place like a puzzle piece snapping home. A few more tries and he'd have it nailed.

Beside him, Elias was having less luck. His staff hummed faintly each time he cast, but the projections came out lopsided or blurred, the sigils collapsing before the image stabilized.

"You're bending the second stroke of Calin too wide," Thorne murmured.

Elias frowned. "You can tell that just by looking at me?"

"Yeah," Thorne said smoothly, keeping his tone casual. No one needed to know it was his aether vision picking up the faint glowing outlines of Elias's tracing in the air. Every misplaced line stood out to him like a smudge on clean glass.

He reached over and, with a fingertip, corrected the motion midair. "Like this, tighter angle, keep the flow steady into the curve."

Elias tried again, and this time the projection held. It wasn't perfect, but it was legible, the diagrams clear.

"Well," Elias said, grinning, "looks like I'm in the presence of a natural-born tutor. Shall we start charging for lessons?"

Thorne only shook his head, already back to his own work.

A few rows down, a ripple passed through the air, faint but undeniable, a wave of aether brushing against his senses like the wash of a distant tide. The stone underfoot gave the smallest tremor, and every head in the room lifted instinctively.

Someone had mastered the spell.

The source stood on the far left of the amphitheater: a darkling girl, her skin an obsidian black threaded with molten gold veins that pulsed faintly with her heartbeat. They weren't just random patterns, they traced intricate lines across her arms and throat, curling like runes along the edges of her face. Her hair was silver, heavy and lustrous, spilling over her shoulders in deliberate, perfect waves. Two small, crown-like protrusions jutted from her brow, formed of the same black, stone-like material as her skin.

The image she'd conjured hovered above her desk in flawless clarity, steady as if carved into the air.

A few scattered congratulations broke the silence, but most were mumbled, half-hearted. The girl's appearance was striking enough to turn heads, but it was the way she spoke that unsettled people. No lips moved, her voice came directly into the mind, cool and resonant, as if it bypassed hearing entirely.

It is not a difficult spell, her voice murmured, the words audible to everyone and no one. You simply must commit to the intent.

The murmurs died instantly, and just as quickly, most students found somewhere else to look.

Vorr only gave the girl a slow, approving nod before continuing her rounds.

By the time the class began to wind down, Thorne's projection was holding for longer, the lines cleaner, the image sharper. He could feel he was right there, just on the edge of perfecting it. Another hour tonight in his quarters and he'd have it mastered.

As the staircases began to shift into place for dismissal, he slid his book into his satchel, the crystal-lit dome above casting long, slow shadows across the seats. He took the steps two at a time and stepped out into the wide hall beyond...

... and stopped.

Leaning casually against the wall just outside the doorway was Amira Nahir, Princess of the Emerald Sands. Her emerald-and-gold sash caught the light with every faint movement, and her eyes, warm but calculated, found him immediately.

"Well," she said, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth, "I thought I might have to wait all day."

Amira Nahir stood like she had been painted into the hallway, every detail deliberate.
Her skin carried the warm gold of endless sun, smooth and unblemished. Long black hair fell in sleek waves down her back, catching green-gold glints from the light spilling in through the high windows. She was almost draped in jewelry, each piece clearly enchanted, bangles that whispered faintly as they moved, a layered necklace of emeralds and pearls, rings that caught and bent the light like water.

Thorne let his lips curve into a slow, polite smile as he activated Mask of Deceit and Sculpted Persona, smoothing every flicker of real thought behind a veneer of casual charm.

"Princess," he said, inclining his head. "You've been waiting?"

She tilted her head, lashes lowering in a way that managed to look coy without seeming shy. "Only since the beginning of class. I had faith you'd come out eventually."

"That's dangerous faith to have," Thorne said lightly. "I have a bad habit of vanishing when people expect me."

Amira laughed, a warm, bell-like sound that felt… almost too perfect. "And yet here you are. I was wondering if you'd be coming to the upcoming gathering." She let the word gathering roll off her tongue like it meant something rarer than a simple party. "It's being hosted by the Emerald Sands and our closest allies."

He arched a brow. "And you're here to see if I'm one of those allies?"

"I'm here," she said, stepping just slightly closer, "to tell you I hope you are."

Thorne tilted his head, letting the pause stretch just enough to make her work for the silence. "Careful, Princess. If you tell me you hope I'm a friend, I might start asking how exactly your kingdom defines friendship."

Amira's lips curved. "If you have to ask, perhaps you're not ready to be one."

"Or perhaps I like to know the rules before I play."

The smile never reached her eyes. Behind it, he could feel the faint brush of half a dozen influences pressing against him, little spikes and hooks of intent. Skills. Some probed at his mood, others coaxed subtle warmth into her words, one teased the edges of his self-control like a finger tracing a glass rim. She was trying to make him want to say yes before the question was even finished.

Mindguard stirred against the pressure.

Skill Level up! Mindguard: Level 20

The invisible claws blunted, the pressure lessened. He could still feel the effects, but faintly now, like heat through thick gloves.

"You know," Thorne said lightly, "if you keep leaning on those little tricks, people might get the wrong idea."

"And what idea is that?"

"That the great Princess of the Emerald Sands needs to work this hard to get a simple 'yes' from me."

Her answering smile was slow, deliberate. "Maybe it's not the 'yes' I'm after."

"You are becoming bold," he murmured.

Her eyes narrowed just a hair. "At conversation?"

"At being… persuasive."

"And do you find it working?"

He let the smile deepen, deliberately matching her playful tone. "Not yet. But you're welcome to keep trying. I'd hate for you to give up too easily."

Behind her, half a dozen young women lingered in a loose crescent, her ladies-in-waiting. Some looked only a year older than Amira, others much older, all of them bearing the same high-cheekboned beauty, the same black hair and gold jewelry. Their soft laughter floated like perfume whenever the banter between him and Amira sharpened.

"So is this an invitation or a recruitment pitch?" he asked.

"Why can't it be both?"

"Because recruitment pitches come with contracts and consequences. Parties…" He shrugged. "…only the consequences."

"Then I suppose you'll have to decide which you prefer. You'll come, then?" she pressed.

"That depends." He leaned a fraction closer. "If I can bring guests."

Amira didn't hesitate. "How many?"

"Just a couple."

"Of course." She smiled like she'd won something.

"Good," Thorne said, turning slightly. "Because I'd like you to meet one now."

Elias was right at his shoulder, his staff in one hand, eyes flicking rapidly between Thorne and the princess as though he wasn't sure if he should bow or salute.

"This is Elias," Thorne said pleasantly.

Amira's gaze swept over the elf in a smooth arc, measured, assessing. "A pleasure."

"The pleasure's mine," Elias said, voice a touch higher than normal.

Thorne watched closely for the flicker, any hesitation, any tightening of her expression, but there was none. She accepted it without so much as a raised brow. If she doesn't object to a peasant elf, he thought, how far will she bend?

The staircases clattered into place behind them as students began streaming out of the amphitheater in twos and threes, voices rising as the spell of the lesson broke. Thorne's gaze swept over them and caught on a familiar shape.

"Oh, there she is," he said brightly.

A few students nearby startled at the sudden volume, following his gaze to the tall, dark figure making her way along the far edge of the crowd.

The darkling girl was hard to miss, taller than Thorne, with that same obsidian-black skin patterned in intricate golden veins as the rest of her race, glowing faintly like molten metal in the low light. Her silver hair in waves, falling almost to her waist, and her crown-like protrusions caught the light like polished stone.

Thorne raised a hand and motioned for her to come closer.

She froze mid-step, the crowd flowing past her. For a heartbeat, she didn't move at all. Then, slowly, as if weighing every step, she began to approach.