THE AETHERBORN

Amira was a vision of gold and temptation. Her gown clung as though woven from sunlight itself, diaphanous layers of green gauze drifting with every step like the surface of a warm tide. Gold thread wound through the fabric, catching the shifting light until it glowed faintly against her skin. Chains of delicate jewelry draped across her collarbones, arms, and hips, bracelets that chimed softly, anklets that whispered with her movement, a golden circlet resting against her brow. Even her hair seemed to gleam darker under the lights, black waves polished with faint shimmer.

Thorne didn't miss the way the crowd leaned unconsciously in her direction, as if her presence bent gravity. She knew how to wield attention like a blade.

Her eyes caught his, bright with mischief and something sharper beneath. "You came," she breathed, the words soft enough that they felt meant for him alone.

Thorne let Mask of Deceit slip over him, smoothing his expression, sharpening his posture, flooding his gaze with a counterfeit warmth. On the surface: ease, charm, confidence. Beneath: calculation.

"It seemed unwise to refuse," he said, tone balanced between flattery and caution.

Amira's lips curved, and she looked past him at the small cluster he'd arrived with. "What an honor," she purred, loud enough for those lingering nearby to hear, "that you and your companions would choose my gathering. Truly, this night is brighter for it."

Thorne shifted slightly, adjusting Isadora's weight against him. She sagged like a puppet with its strings cut, her head drooping toward his shoulder. Her dress glittered like spilled wine, her hair disordered in the careless way of someone who had stopped caring altogether. Her pupils were blown wide, her eyes catching the colored lights with an unnatural shimmer. She tried to focus on him but couldn't, her gaze sliding away, restless.

He had seen this before. Not drink, not exactly. Something layered over it, something wrong.

Amira glanced at her for a fraction of a second, but whatever thought crossed her mind, she buried it beneath a smile. She leaned closer to Thorne instead, voice velvet-soft. "I would like to speak with you privately, if you'll allow it. I promise I won't hold you from your friends for long." Then, with a tilt of her head and a flash of teeth: "Unless you want me to."

The words hung in the air like perfume, heavy, intentional.

And then her entourage moved.

They came at his group like a flock of crows, black-haired, sun-kissed nobles whose eyes shone with the same predatory polish as Amira's.

The first was a tall, broad-shouldered man, his coat unbuttoned to show a chest corded with muscle and glittering with fine chains. He stepped forward without asking and slipped Isadora from Thorne's arms, catching her as if it were rehearsed. She giggled, breathless, her head falling back against him like a doll.

A girl followed, radiant in a gauzy gown that sparkled faintly under the lights as though her skin itself was dusted in crushed diamonds. She moved like liquid, looping her arm through Elias's with a single graceful motion. Her lips brushed near his ear as she whispered something low and sultry. Elias's pointed ears flared scarlet, the tips practically glowing, and his grin was half delight, half panic.

Two older men came next, third-years by their bearing, both wearing their shirts open nearly to the waist, skin bronzed and glistening faintly with enchanted oil. They flanked Nyssha like twin shadows, words flowing in low, silken tones as they gestured for her to join them.

Nyssha's voice brushed Thorne's mind, sharp and private. Do you require me to refuse?

Thorne gave the smallest shake of his head.

Understood. Her molten veins pulsed once. I will keep watch. Your elf is vulnerable. The drunk one… compromised. I will not lose sight of them.

Relief bled into him, though faint. Elias was already a lamb in a pit of vipers, and Isadora… she was far past defending herself. Nyssha's presence was a knife he hadn't realized he'd been gripping until now.

"Good," Amira said, and he realized she'd seen the shift in his expression, even caught the flicker of tension leaving his shoulders. Her smile stretched wider, feline, satisfied.

She turned in a fluid motion, hips swaying with each deliberate step. The diaphanous fabric of her gown fluttered like mist trailing from a blade, green and gold flashing with each curve of her body. The jewelry at her waist and ankles sang in soft chimes that seemed to punctuate every movement.

The nobles parted for her, then closed ranks again, their formation neat, practiced. One of her attendants lifted a hand in a subtle gesture, commanding Thorne to follow.

Thorne sighed, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward after her.

The crowd swallowed him whole.

As Thorne followed, the party unfolded around him in dizzying waves. The music surged, not from instruments alone, but from two cantors at the heart of the chamber. Their voices intertwined, one low and resonant, the other sharp and clear, weaving together like threads in a spell. Each note shimmered with subtle enchantment, urging bodies to move, coaxing the crowd into a rhythm that was as much compulsion as it was joy.

Others stood off to the side, shaking small glass vials before tipping them back. The liquid inside glowed faintly, and when they swallowed, light spidered down the veins of their throats and chests, pulsing with the beat of the cantors' song. Some laughed in euphoria, others swayed where they stood, caught between bliss and stupor.

Thorne's eyes caught on a familiar figure sprawled atop a thick emerald rug. Lucian. He was half-buried beneath a sea of limbs, both men and women entwined with him, their hands roaming lazily as they passed around a strange carved horn. Each time someone inhaled, they blew out smoke that curled in impossible shapes, hands, masks, spirals that slithered away before dissolving. Lucian grinned through it all, utterly content, eyes glassy with whatever haze he'd embraced.

Thorne tore his gaze away.

The attendants led him through the throng and out onto a balcony, and for a moment the noise fell away. The air outside was cool, carrying the faint bite of high altitude. Beyond, the night stretched wide and magnificent.

Aetherhold's towers rose like spires of onyx, lanterns glowing along their ridges. Below the floating mountain of Aetherhold, that hung suspended in the void, its cliffs draped with pale fog that shifted and breathed like a living thing, Evermist appeared, draped in blinking lights and long serpentine canals that shimmered with light even at night. And above, the sky was alive. The rivers of aether burned brighter than he had ever seen, veils of green, blue, and violet arcing overhead like celestial tides.

The balcony itself was dressed in decadence. Emerald and gold covered every surface, from the embroidered banners that trailed in the wind, to the jeweled lanterns floating lazily above, spilling warm light in perfect circles. Sheer fabrics hung like curtains, their edges lifting with the breeze to frame fragments of sky and city. Water whispered from small fountains shaped like coiled serpents, their streams catching the lamplight as they trickled into marble basins. Servants glided silently between the clusters of nobles who had been permitted here, offering silver trays of fruit, goblets of wine, and delicate crystal flutes filled with glowing liquid.

The further he walked, the more secluded it became, until finally he reached the heart of it: a pavilion cut off from the rest.

The tent was emerald silk, embroidered in golden thread, its sides drawn in to obscure the view of the students within the tower chamber, but left open toward the balcony's edge. From within, the world outside spilled in uninterrupted: the star-smeared sky, the glittering rivers of aether, the drifting mists of the mountain below.

Inside, it was all excess. Fluffy cushions piled in careless heaps, soft rugs muffling every footstep, the air heavy with spice and perfume.

Amira flopped onto the largest mound of cushions as though she were alone in her own private palace. The movement sent the diaphanous folds of her gown sliding up, revealing the full length of her legs, smooth, sun-kissed, and crossed just so. It could have been unintentional, but the smirk tugging at her lips told him otherwise.

Thorne swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

Amira reclined back on her elbows, ruby lips curving in a sultry, knowing smile. "Why don't you sit, Thorne Silverbane?"

The way she spoke his name, as if savoring the syllables, made it sound less like an invitation and more like a command cloaked in velvet.

Thorne sank onto a cushion across from her, the silk sinking under his weight, the air heavy with incense and faint wine. Mask of Deceit clung to him like armor, steadying his expression, hiding the flicker of wariness under his calm.

Amira lounged in her nest of emerald silk, one leg draped over the other, the gold chains at her ankle glinting with every shift. Her eyes never left him.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"You wear Vellin's work well," she said, voice lilting, as though the words were a caress. "Sharp. Elegant. A man dressed to be noticed."

"Or to avoid embarrassment," Thorne replied, tone dry.

Her smile curved. "You do not embarrass easily."

The words hummed against him, faint pressure brushing the edges of his will, a skill, subtle but deliberate, probing for cracks in his composure. His Mindguard flexed in response, dulling the edge of the intrusion until it felt no more threatening than a whisper against glass.

She tilted her head, as though reading him anyway. "Tell me, Thorne Silverbane… what are your intentions here at Aetherhold? With the Empire's sponsorship, the eyes of the world are on you."

Thorne gave nothing away. "My intentions are what they've always been. Study. Train. Learn."

Amira's laugh was soft, amused, and entirely disbelieving. "You could give that answer to a professor, perhaps. But you are not speaking to a professor." She leaned forward, her jewelry chiming faintly as she rested her chin in her hand. "You are speaking to someone who knows the weight of a name. Who knows how far one promise, one… alliance, can reach."

Her eyes gleamed in the shifting light, predatory behind the softness.

"The Emerald Sands have enjoyed a long and prosperous friendship with Caledris," she said, voice smoothing into a diplomat's cadence. "Trade, mutual protection, cultural exchange… bonds forged not by accident but by intent. You, of all people, should appreciate how valuable such connections are."

There it was. The pivot, the probe. Through him, she wasn't just testing curiosity, she was seeking the Empire, measuring how tightly it held him, how open he was to influence.

He'd been told Aetherhold was more than the most prestigious magical academy in the world, it was also a battleground for diplomacy, for the subtle games of kingdoms and empires. Still, this was the first time someone had approached him directly not for his skill in class, not for his dueling, but for what his sponsorship meant.

Amira was smiling, watching him in silence now, as if daring him to speak, daring him to slip.

Thorne let his lips curve, not too much, just enough to mirror her smile with one of his own. "Connections are valuable, yes. But sometimes, Princess, people overestimate what they can draw from a name." He leaned back slightly, the cushions sighing beneath him, his tone smooth and measured. "Or underestimate what it costs to ask."

Skill Level Up! Mask of Deceit: Level 41

Amira's smile only widened, ruby lips glistening in the lantern light. She had caught the shift in him, had noticed the wall sliding higher, and seemed delighted rather than discouraged. She snapped her fingers, a sound like a small spark of power, and one of the silk curtains stirred.

A servant girl entered, carrying a slender silver tray. Two curved glasses rested on it, filled with thick, amber liquid that shimmered faintly, like sunlight trapped in honey.

"A taste of the Emerald Sands," Amira said, plucking one glass with effortless grace before handing the other to Thorne. "Sweet… but with a bite."

Thorne lifted the glass, tilting it in the light. The surface clung thickly to the glass walls, slow to run, syrup-like. He sniffed, the scent was rich, ripe with exotic fruit and spices that prickled faintly at the back of his throat.

He took a cautious sip. The liquid rolled across his tongue heavy and velvet, honey-sweet and perfumed with cloves and citrus. For a moment it was almost too sweet, then the burn struck. A sharp, stinging fire unfurled down his throat and into his chest, leaving a heat that lingered long after the swallow.

He exhaled slowly, a faint laugh escaping him. "Sweet," he said, setting the glass down with deliberate care. "But it hides fangs."

Amira's smile gleamed, sharp and pleased. "Exactly like my people."

The Emerald Sands were famous for their serpents. Vipers that slithered through their jungles like living strands of emerald fire, venomous enough to kill a grown man with a single bite. The imagery of snakes was everywhere in their culture, in jewelry, in tattoos, in the names of their noble houses. They were predators that struck swiftly, fatally, and always with beauty to disguise their danger.

Amira leaned closer, green silk whispering over the cushions, the gold chains at her hips chiming softly with her movement. The scent of her perfume, spiced and heady, filled the space between them. She let one long finger trail casually along the line of his thigh, the touch feather-light but deliberate.

"Perhaps," she murmured, her voice like velvet over steel, "the next time you meet with the Third Light, you might say a kind word about my father. A seed of favor. A nudge of influence. It would be… mutually beneficial."

Thorne's jaw tightened, but before he could respond, she tilted her head, catching his gaze.

And then he felt it.

Her eyes.

They weren't simply watching him; they were holding him. Irises gleaming too bright under the lantern glow, pupils narrowing and widening in patterns too fluid to be natural. There was movement there, like shifting sand dunes under moonlight, like the subtle sway of a cobra's hood. The pressure of her skill slid into him not with brute force, but with a dancer's grace, slipping past defenses in hypnotic rhythm.

The world seemed to narrow, his awareness drawn into the green-gold depths of her gaze. His thoughts slowed, spiraling, his heartbeat falling into rhythm with hers. He felt the cushions beneath him, the warmth of the alcohol in his chest, the perfume in the air, all of it blending into the sway of her presence.

Her eyes are strange, he thought distantly, the thought sluggish, already half-caught. Like a cobra. And I'm already leaning in…

For a breath, he was prey, mesmerized, still, perfectly willing to let the serpent strike.

Amira struck like a serpent. One heartbeat she was smiling at him, the next her lips were on his, hot and claiming.

His Mindguard skill flared, a surge of resistance rose in him, clarity, warning, fire, and then it was snuffed out, silenced as if crushed under coils of velvet and gold.

Thorne didn't even realize when the struggle ended. The fog slipped in, sweet and heavy. His hands moved without thought, pulling her closer, answering her kiss with hungry desperation. They tumbled across the cushions, pillows flying in every direction as their bodies rolled. Amira's laugh was low and pleased, lost in the fever of lips against lips, teeth grazing, heat flaring between them.

Clothing loosened, discarded. Gold chains slipped from her shoulders, silk falling away in shimmering folds until her skin gleamed under the lantern light. Her perfume was everywhere, cloying and intoxicating, wrapping around him as tightly as her arms.

Lust consumed him, raw and overwhelming, and for a time he drowned in it, willing.

Then, a sudden pressure. Her hand brushed his chest, trailing downward, not tender, but searching. Fingers brushed the chain of his pendant. She tugged lightly.

Something in him resisted. A flicker of clarity, enough to seize her wrist before she could draw it away. His grip was firm, unyielding.

Amira frowned above him, her silks fallen entirely from her shoulders now, hair spilling loose and wild across her face. Her gaze sharpened, irritation flashing beneath the veneer of passion.

Thorne blinked hard, the fog in his mind wavering, almost clearing. His breath came ragged, his vision sharp for an instant...

Then her pupils narrowed to pinpoints, and she dived back down, her mouth seizing his in another crushing kiss. The fog returned in an instant, doubling, dragging him deeper. Her skill was everywhere, coiling through his mind, every thought muffled in heat and sweetness.

And then...

Screams.

They pierced the haze like knives, distant at first, then growing clearer. Shouts, a ripple of panic breaking into the steady hum of music and laughter from beyond the silk walls.

Amira froze against his lips, breaking away with a frustrated hiss. Her chest heaved, skin flushed and gleaming, eyes snapping toward the entrance of the tent. "What in the stars now?" she muttered, her tone sharp, annoyed.

She lifted her head. "Saren!" she called, voice cutting like a whip.

The curtain parted almost immediately, and a servant in dark emerald livery stepped in, a lean young man with sharp features and hair bound in a golden clasp.

Skill level up! Mindguard: Level 21

The fog ripped away like a veil torn from his mind. Thorne blinked, chest heaving, and suddenly became fully aware of the weight pressed against him. Amira's bare flesh, warm and slick with heat, smothered him, her silks tangled uselessly on the floor.

And for the first time, he saw her not as a goddess draped in emerald light, but as a predator, poised above him, her smile promising both sweetness and venom.

Saren bowed low at the threshold, eyes flicking once to Thorne sprawled half-dressed among the pillows before snapping back to his mistress. "The lord's company," he said carefully, "are causing… some trouble."

Thorne frowned, dragging himself upright, still trying to scrape the cobwebs of Amira's influence from his mind. The room tilted for a moment before steadying. His pulse still thundered with the memory of her touch.

Amira's eyes slid to him, then back to the servant. Her smile sharpened. "Call my ladies."

Saren barked the order without hesitation. Two women slipped inside almost at once, heads bowed, their gowns plain compared to the extravagance surrounding them. Without a word, they crossed to Amira, who had risen smoothly to her feet. She stood in the center of the pavilion, bare as the day she was born, starlight and lantern-light painting her skin in gold.

Thorne's breath caught despite himself.

The maids moved with mechanical precision, fastening emerald silks back over her shoulders, tugging jeweled chains into place, cinching fabric around her waist until she looked less like a predator and more like a goddess once more.

Amira glanced over her shoulder at him, a wicked smile curving her lips. "You should dress as well, Thorne Silverbane. Not that I mind the spectacle."

His gaze dropped, and he realized with a jolt that his condition wasn't much better than hers had been. Heat rose to his face, whether from shame or anger, he couldn't tell, as he yanked his coat back into place, fastening clasps with sharper motions than necessary.

The screams outside had quieted, but angry shouts rose to take their place, muffled but urgent.

"I hope," Amira said idly as her maids adjusted a final clasp of gold at her throat, "that this isn't the makings of a diplomatic incident. My father would be… furious."

Thorne grunted, pulling the last buckle of his belt tight. He didn't know whether to be furious with her for nearly unraveling him entirely or impressed at how effortlessly she wielded her skills.

They swept from the pavilion together, her attendants falling into formation like shadows. The silk curtains parted, and the chaos of the tower chamber came into view.

The center of the room was cleared, the music stilled. Students clustered at the edges in nervous silence, leaving only three figures in the open floor.

Isadora lay sprawled on the ground, eyes half-lidded, skin pale and slick with sweat. Lucian knelt over her, his hands cupping her face, trying to rouse her with urgent words.

And above them stood Nyssha.

Golden light poured from the cracks in her obsidian flesh, her molten veins blazing like a forge. Sigils, sharp and geometric, rippled across her arms and chest, glowing brighter with every pulse. Her crown-like ridges gleamed with living fire. She looked less like a student and more like a creature carved from a god's wrath, every inch of her body poised between restraint and violence.

Amira stopped beside Thorne. Her lips parted, but the words that spilled out were not hers.

"What is the meaning of this?"

The voice was a deep baritone, a man's, reverberating from her throat. The sound shuddered across the chamber like a bell struck too hard, commanding silence.