THE AETHERBORN

Thorne pushed forward, weaving through the ring of students that had gathered, his shoulders brushing silks and velvet coats. The air was thick with whispers, gasps, and the sharp tang of spilled alcohol.

As he passed, voices warped and twisted around him. A small woman spoke in a deep man's voice and clapped a hand over her mouth in horror. A tall boy shouted furiously at Nyssha to stop whatever she was doing, only for the words to come out shrill and nasal, sending laughter rippling uncomfortably through those around him. Dozens of other voices overlapped, mismatched and dissonant, the sound turning the crowd into a chorus of strangers wearing borrowed throats.

Behind him, Amira tried to speak again, but what came out was a high-pitched, squeaky falsetto, ridiculous and unsettling all at once. The crowd rippled with uneasy laughter, cut short when Thorne shoved the last body aside and stepped into the cleared circle.

Lucian was kneeling over Isadora, his face pale, eyes glassy with panic. "She won't wake," he stammered, voice breaking. His hands shook as he brushed her hair from her damp forehead.

Thorne's gaze snapped to Isadora. Her veins glowed faintly along her throat and chest, threads of sickly light pulsing out of rhythm, stuttering and uneven, like a drumbeat that couldn't find its measure.

"What's going on, Nyssha?"

The darkling stood tall above them, light pouring from her golden veins, the sigils on her skin flaring and shifting in jagged arcs. Her voice cut through the noise, flat but edged with something sharp.

Your friend was given a vial, she said, her words carrying to everyone. She wasn't herself. Didn't seem to know what she was doing. That man, she pointed with one obsidian finger toward a young noble skulking at the edge of the crowd, practically forced it to her lips.

The boy flinched as a dozen eyes swung his way.

Nyssha continued, the light around her body blazing brighter. She danced for a moment, then collapsed. When I tried to help her, he stopped me. Called me… her lip curled faintly, things better left unsaid.

She shifted her burning gaze back to Thorne. So I took matters into my own hands.

Then her voice narrowed, threading only into his mind. I am holding a ritual spell. It is not very effective, but it is… disruptive enough. It swaps the voices of those inside a selective radius. That is why the princess speaks with a stranger's throat.

Her voice sounded strained, like each word carried a weight. I cannot keep it long.

Thorne's jaw tightened. He dipped his chin in the smallest of nods and murmured, just for her, "thank you."

By the time the word left his lips, his hand was already at his side, Ashthorn whispering into existence against his palm, black wood, hungry, alive.

The crowd stirred, sensing something shift.

And Thorne exhaled once, sharp, steady, all the haze and heat of before burned away.

Thorne raised his wand. Mana gathered, the shape of his anger sharpening into form. A thin point of fire hissed into being at its tip, a single, gleaming Flame Needle, flickering like molten glass.

It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough for his fury.

He drew deeper, feeding more mana from his core. The aether surged, the spell straining, fracturing, and then, with a crack of heat, the single needle split into three. Each one hovered in a tight orbit at the tip of his wand, rotating in perfect unison, identical in size and brightness. A triad of burning precision, waiting for command.

He marched forward.

Someone stepped into his path, a hand raised, a voice shouting, but Thorne didn't even look. He shoved with all the strength that he always tried to keep in check, and heard the sharp crash of a body striking the stone behind him. Gasps rippled through the crowd.

The young noble at the edge of the circle looked panicked now, his confidence evaporating in the golden glow of Nyssha's blazing sigils and the red shimmer of Thorne's spell. His eyes darted from one side of the room to the other, measuring exits, searching for escape.

Thorne didn't let him move.

The flame needles shot forward in a sharp streak of light, then froze, suspended a hair's breadth from the man's throat. They rotated around him in a perfect ring, a collar of fire, close enough that the heat licked his skin and made him flinch back against nothing.

Murmurs rose all around. Some fearful, some breathless with excitement. The circle was silent otherwise, every eye locked on the confrontation.

Thorne closed the distance one step at a time, Ashthorn extended in his other hand, its edge gleaming black. The flame needles followed his stride, circling faster, tightening their orbit.

He stopped a pace away, his voice even. Calm. Devoid of rage, devoid of panic, the kind of voice that cut deeper than a scream.

"What did you give her?"

The noble stared at him, sweat beading on his brow, his throat twitching against the flames. His lips parted, stammering, but the words stuck. His eyes, wide and frantic, searched for help in the crowd and found none.

Thorne relished the panic in the young noble's eyes, the way his breath hitched with every flicker of the flames. With a flick of his wrist, he pushed one of the needles closer. It hissed against skin, the scent of scorched flesh rising in the air.

The man cried out, jerking against the collar of fire, eyes wild with terror.

A hand closed firmly over Thorne's wand hand. Cool, steady. Amira.

"My lord," she breathed, her tone smooth as poured wine. "It is not prudent to cause a spectacle." Her eyes glinted like emerald glass. "I know the vial he gave her. A party favor. Nothing more." She tilted her head, smile sharp. "It is meant to delight, not destroy."

Thorne rounded on her, his wand still steady, Ashthorn extended, the flame collar still whirling inches from the boy's throat. His voice cut sharp.

"You call this harmless?" His voice was low, even, but it cut like steel. "She can barely breathe. Look at her veins."

Amira's lips curved. "I have seen worse, and I assure you this is far from dangerous." Her pupils narrowed, points of green fire, a pressure slipping against his thoughts like coils. "She will recover. But if you scorch the flesh of a noble in front of half the academy…" She let the thought hang, heavy with implication. "The story they tell tomorrow will not be of your gallantry, Thorne Silverbane."

Amira's smile did not waver, but her eyes narrowed, pupils pulling into pointed slits like a serpent's. The pulse of her skill pressed faintly against him, hypnotic, insistent.

Thorne's jaw locked. "It is not the time for games, Princess. Don't even think about using your skill right now."

The pressure faltered.

He turned back to the noble, who now had a raw burn mark along his neck, red and angry against pale flesh. The boy's eyes were wet, his throat bobbing as he tried not to sob.

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Amira's tone sharpened, gritted with the effort to remain calm. "Truly, she will be well. In a few hours, the influence of the glint will fade."

Thorne's eyes flicked back to her. "Glint?"

She inclined her head, her smile returning like a mask. "A little indulgence. A surge of aether that floods the veins, quickens the heart, makes every breath taste sweeter. Harmless. A spark to make life… vivid."

The words stopped him cold.

Aether surge.

It struck too close. The name, the effect, all of it echoed his own aetheric skill, the pulse that surged through him when he drew the ambient aether. The way it sharpened the world, made him burn with life.

And they were drinking it. Selling it. Feeding it to Isadora.

His grip on Ashthorn tightened, fury threatening to flare...

Then Nyssha's voice slid into his mind. There is no point in torturing that man further. Focus on your friend.

He looked across the heads of the crowd. Nyssha stood taller than most, her golden veins still blazing faintly, her obsidian body now back to normal, the glowing sigils long gone. Her gaze was steady, fixed on him.

It would not be prudent to escalate further, she continued, her telepathic voice edged with strain. Your aim was diplomacy. If you continue, you will cause a scandal that will echo beyond these walls. Better to leave, before the situation deteriorates further.

Thorne's anger sealed shut like a door slammed closed. In an instant, it was gone, hidden, contained, smothered.

He cut the flow of mana. The flames hissed out, the air cooling as the needles vanished into nothing. The noble stumbled back, clutching his throat, gasping in ragged relief.

Thorne turned smoothly to the princess, Mask of Deceit sliding into place, a calm smile painted over the storm inside him. "Your invitation was most kind," he said, voice warm. "And I appreciate the effort you made into entertaining me." His lips curled in a faint smirk. "Truly."

He inclined his head. "But I am afraid I must take my leave, to tend to my friend. I do hope, however," he lifted her hand, brushing her knuckles with a light kiss, "that this will not be the last time we meet."

Every word was laced with his skill Echoes of Truth, and sounded like they carried weight, infused with gravity. Those who heard them felt their sincerity as if spoken from the soul.

Amira stared at him, her eyes wide, lips parted. For the first time that night, she seemed dazed, uncertain, caught off-balance, as though she could not decide whether she had been the hunter or the prey.

Thorne gave her one last smile, sharp and deliberate, before he turned away.

His steps carried him back through the parted crowd, straight toward his friends.

Thorne turned his back on Amira, his fury folded beneath Mask of Deceit like a knife hidden in velvet. He crossed the emptied circle and knelt beside Isadora. Her skin was clammy, her chest rising and falling shallowly, the glow in her veins faint but stubborn, pulsing out of rhythm with her heartbeat.

Without a word, he slid an arm under her shoulders and another beneath her knees, lifting her easily. She was lighter than she should have been, her body slack against his chest.

"Come on," he muttered. "We're done here."

Nyssha fell into step behind him immediately, her golden veins dimming, the sigils on her skin fading like embers. Lucian scrambled up from the floor, his hair mussed, his clothes disheveled, lips bruised as if he'd been at war with too many mouths at once. Elias appeared out of the crowd at the last moment, still flushed, tugging nervously at his shirt as if he'd only just escaped the clutches of Amira's glittering courtiers.

Together they left the tower, the sound of murmurs and music falling away behind them as the staircase carried them down into the cool night air.

It was Lucian who broke the silence first, his voice too loud in the stillness. "Thorne… truly, it isn't dangerous. Glint. I've had it before. It's just..." he shrugged, running a hand through his hair, "... a rush. Aether singing in your blood. Makes the world feel sharper. You ride it, then it's gone."

Thorne shot him a look as they walked. Lucian wasn't lying. Other than his glazed eyes and the faint flush on his skin, he looked fine. But Isadora in his arms was another story, her breathing uneven, her body trembling faintly with each pulse of sickly light.

"She doesn't look fine," Thorne said flatly. "We're getting her to the infirmary."

Elias tried a smile, glancing between them nervously. "Well… I mean, she always said she wanted to stand out. Maybe glowing veins are her thing now?"

Thorne's glare snapped to him, sharp enough to cut. Elias's words trailed into silence, his ears burning red at the tips.

No one spoke again until Nyssha's voice slipped quietly into Thorne's mind, cool and controlled. I watched carefully. Many drank from those vials tonight. Too many. And I saw the glyph that guarded their storage. It was advanced. A pattern only available to senior enchanters… or licensed ritualists.

Thorne almost stumbled at the words. His breath hitched, but he smoothed it instantly, shifting Isadora higher in his arms as if that had caused his falter.

This means, Nyssha continued, her tone as steady as stone, that this is not smuggled in from outside. It is coming from within the school. Or higher.

He nodded imperceptibly, never breaking stride. Out loud, his voice was steady, casual enough to mask the weight of her revelation.

"I'll take Isadora back to her room," he said. "She'll need rest before anything else."

The others only nodded, falling into step behind him as the cold air of the courtyard wrapped around them, the distant hum of Aetherhold's towers watching in silence.

Thorne carried Isadora through the quiet halls of Umbra House. She stirred once or twice against his chest, but never woke, her head lolling limply against his shoulder. When he finally reached her chamber, he nudged the door open with his boot and stepped inside.

Her room was warmly lit, faint incense clinging to the air, the bed already turned down. He laid her gently onto the sheets, tucking the blankets over her trembling frame. For a moment he stood over her, jaw tight, watching the glow in her veins pulse faintly in the low light.

Nyssha and Elias had excused themselves at the convergence chamber, vanishing toward the Aegis common room with little more than nods. Lucian lingered now, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, silent for once. He stayed for a while, saying nothing, watching the rise and fall of Isadora's chest. Then, with an uneasy sigh, he murmured something about needing air and slipped out, leaving Thorne alone.

Alone with her.

He pulled a chair close to the bed and sat, Ashthorn leaning against his leg, his eyes never straying far from her. At some point, exhaustion stole him. His head dipped forward, sleep dragging him under.

He woke to a hand shaking his shoulder.

Thorne jerked upright, hand instinctively brushing Ashthorn before he caught himself.

Isadora stood beside the bed, her hair tangled from sleep, eyes bleary but clearer than he had seen them the night before. The faint glow was gone; her veins were back to normal, her skin warm and flushed with life.

She blinked down at him, puzzled. "Thorne? Did you... did you fall asleep here?"

He stared at her for a long moment, then rose slowly from the chair. "You don't remember."

"Remember what?" She tilted her head, then laughed lightly, waving a hand. "Oh, last night? I was a little gone, sure. Too much to drink, maybe. Nothing serious."

His jaw tightened. "Nothing serious?"

She flopped down onto the bed, tucking her legs beneath her. "Everyone drinks too much once in a while. You don't have to look so grim about it."

"Isadora..." his voice was sharp now, low and cutting "... you collapsed. Your veins were glowing. You were barely breathing."

She blinked at him, then shrugged with a lazy smile. "And yet here I am. Perfectly fine. Guess it wasn't so bad after all."

Anger flared hot in his chest, though he smothered it behind clenched teeth. He'd carried her through the whispers, stared down nobles, nearly lost himself to Amira and here she was, treating it like a harmless adventure.

"You don't understand," he said quietly. "It wasn't just drink. You were given something."

She rolled her eyes, settling back against her pillows. "So what? I feel fine now. Stop hovering."

For a moment he wanted to shake her, to make her see. Instead, he turned his face away, exhaling hard.

Unrepentant. Casual. Like nothing had happened.

***

Later that day, after the weight of classes and the constant murmur of gossip that trailed him through the halls, Thorne found himself in the simulation room of the Arcanum Ring.

He sat cross-legged on the cold, veined stone floor, the high walls of the chamber curving up into a dome where faint sigils glimmered like stars. Practice dummies hovered within reach, drifting along invisible rails, their spines glowing faintly with the aether woven into them.

Half a dozen books already lay open in a half-circle around him, their aether infused pages flickering with diagrams and runes that shifted when touched. He brushed his fingers across one, and the image of a flaming arc lanced through the air above the page before dissolving in sparks. Another whispered the structure of a shielding lattice into his thoughts before vanishing like smoke.

His focus narrowed. He wasn't here for theory. He needed his next battle spell. Something sharp. Something that could be used to finish fights as cleanly as his Flame Needle.

The echo of Isadora's collapse still lingered in the back of his mind, Amira's serpent smile still fresh in his memory. He felt the tightness in his chest, the restless burn of needing control, of getting prepared to face the monsters of this school.

He flipped through another tome, lips moving silently as he traced the sigils, weighing every cost, every weakness. His core hummed faintly inside him, restless as though it too was eager to be shaped into something new.

The room was quiet, save for the rustle of pages and the occasional flicker of light from the tip of his wand as he tried new spells. Outside, the noise of the academy faded into nothing, leaving only Thorne, the books, and the endless hunger for more.