The moment Thorne stepped through the portal, the world shifted violently.

For an instant, there was nothing. No light, no sound, no sense of weight or direction. Just the raw pull of magic wrapping around his very being, twisting and stretching his existence across space.

Then...

Cold.

A brutal, biting cold, sharp as a dagger, crashed over him. It stole his breath, coiling around his exposed skin like an iron vice. His feet struck solid ground, but instead of stone or earth, they sank.

A strange crunch filled his ears.

He looked down.

Snow.

Pure, undisturbed snow, stretching out in every direction. It clung to his ankles, shocking in its starkness against the rough fabric of his salt-stiffened trousers. A numbing chill spread through his legs, seeping into his very bones. His breath turned to mist the second it left his lips, and a violent shiver wracked through him.

His arms instinctively wrapped around his body as his muscles tensed against the freezing air. His thin shirt offered no protection, and he was suddenly, painfully aware of how unprepared he was for this place.

The wind howled.

It wasn't like the winds in Alvar, thick with ash and damp from endless rain. This wind was raw, untamed, tearing through him with enough force to make his teeth clatter.

He had never felt anything like this before.

Then, the realization hit.

He was standing on a mountainside plateau, high above the world.

The very air was thinner here, crisp and clear, the sky a breathtaking shade of deep blue, streaked with rolling clouds that wrapped around jagged peaks of dark stone. Those peaks loomed around him like silent sentinels, their sheer size almost overwhelming.

Far below, he thought he saw a faint shimmer of light, perhaps a distant river, or... No. The view was obscured by mist and swirling snow. Aetherhold was nowhere in sight.

Instead, his attention snapped to the people already gathered.

They had been waiting.

They stood in a loose formation, a handful of individuals, all dressed in heavy furs and thick cloaks. Their breath curled into the air in misty clouds, their boots packed deep into the snow, yet even bundled as they were, they shivered against the frigid air. But more than the cold, it was their expressions that caught Thorne's attention.

The moment their gazes landed on him, their faces shifted, not with surprise, but with something closer to discomfort.

A young woman with raven-dark hair and sharp emerald-green eyes wrinkled her nose in open distaste. Her fur-lined cloak was fastened with a golden clasp, and her posture alone spoke of noble blood. She barely suppressed the sneer on her lips as she cast a glance toward the man beside her.

That man, broad-shouldered, with ash-blond hair and a strong, angular jawline did not react immediately. He stood relaxed, though there was something in his posture, in the sharpness of his pale blue gaze, that reminded Thorne of a swordsman evaluating an opponent.

Further back, another young man stood apart from the others, watching with an air of idle amusement. He was lean, with sharp cheekbones and ink-black hair neatly tied at the nape of his neck. His long, gloved fingers toyed with the hilt of a dagger at his belt, the motion casual, almost lazy. His cloak was embroidered with silver thread, his boots polished. Aristocratic through and through.

They were watching him.

Not with curiosity, but discomfort.

And then disdain.

Thorne realized, in an instant, why.

They were cloaked in furs, their gloves thick, their boots lined for the cold.

He was wearing thin, salt-stiffened clothes meant for a voyage at sea.

Barely dressed.

Half-frozen.

Thorne barely spared them a glance before his focus sharpened on two men standing apart from the others.

One of them was older, his lined face partially hidden beneath the hood of his deep blue cloak. His uniform was adorned with the crest of Aetherhold a wand and sword crossed over a sky-blue field. In one gloved hand, he held a parchment, and he was currently engaged in quiet discussion with the younger man beside him.

The other man was perhaps in his early twenties, with sharp, angular features and dark hair neatly combed back. He had the lean build, and his polished boots and pristine cloak spoke of wealth and status.

Their conversation stopped the moment the young noble noticed him. His brows shot up, his gaze flicking over Thorne's half-frozen form with something between disbelief and amusement.

Then, with a scoff, he turned toward the older man.

"Are we taking in common filth now?" The words were spoken casually, but the smirk on his face dripped with condescension. "I thought Aetherhold only recruited the best."

A few muffled chuckles came from the gathered students.

Thorne didn't react.

His expression remained blank, cold, unreadable.

He had dealt with men like this before. Nobles who thought their blood made them superior. Aristocrats who had never fought for their survival, who had never had to.

They expected a rise.

He gave them nothing.

He simply turned away.

Dismissive.

The reaction was so effortless, so absolute, that the aristocrat's smirk twitched, faltering slightly.

Before he could say anything else, the older man standing nearby finally spoke, his gaze settling on the parchment in his hands.

"I presume you are Thorne Silverbane?" His voice was formal, stiff, neither welcoming nor unkind.

Thorne nodded.

"Letter of admission?" the man asked.

Thorne had been clutching his letter like a lifeline.

Wordlessly, he raised his half-frozen hand and offered it forward. His fingers trembled from the cold, but his grip was steady.

The man accepted the letter, briefly skimming over its contents.

Behind him, the black-haired aristocrat huffed, clearly unimpressed, and turned away, muttering something under his breath as he rejoined the group.

Thorne caught glimpses of them as they shifted, whispering among themselves.

The man with the ash blond hair stood with arms crossed, his sharp, noble features set in a mask of practiced disinterest, though Thorne could feel the weight of his evaluating gaze.

The woman made no effort to hide her disdain, her lips curling as she cast a glance toward her companion, as if sharing some silent joke at Thorne's expense.

Thorne ignored them.

"We will wait for the late arrivals," the Aetherhold representative announced, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "It should not take long."

The announcement was stiff, devoid of warmth.

Thorne simply nodded.

Then, seeing no reason to linger in the hostile atmosphere, he took a few steps away from the group.

The cold bit into him relentlessly.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He folded his arms across his chest, trying to trap what little warmth remained. His hands burrowed beneath his armpits, his fingers already numb.

The wind picked up.

The snow around them swirled in tight vortexes, the storm of ice and wind growing wilder by the second.

Aether stirred in the air, tempting him, coaxing him to reach out, to tap into its warmth, to shield himself.

But no.

Not in front of them.

His teeth clacked together.

So, Thorne waited.

Frozen, silent.

And completely alone.

Thorne didn't have to wait long before another portal flared into existence.

The air rippled with power, distorting the snowfall, and for a brief moment, a sensation like static crackled through the plateau.

Then, stepping through the shimmering rift, came a short but striking young woman.

She landed lightly in the deep snow, boots sinking into the frost, and a shudder passed through her body as the bitter cold set in.

Despite the discomfort, she adjusted quickly, standing upright and scanning the surroundings with sharp, grey eyes.

She was beautiful in a fierce, understated way, not the delicate beauty of noblewomen groomed for court, but the sharp elegance of a huntress. Her long mahogany hair, unbound, spilled over her shoulders like a cloak, the strands turning white as the snowfall clung to them.

Grey eyes scanned the surroundings.

She took everything in, the cluster of students, the man in the blue uniform holding a parchment, and the lone figure standing apart from the others.

Her gaze briefly met Thorne's.

There was no immediate disdain or curiosity, only a brief flicker of confusion.

Her clothes were practical, meant for travel rather than display. A thick woolen tunic, a belt lined with pouches, and a dark cloak wrapped around her shoulders.

There was nothing ostentatious about her.

No embroidered sigils of noble houses. No excessive furs. No jewelry.

A commoner?

Thorne narrowed his eyes slightly, watching the way she moved. Too confident. Too composed.

No, not a commoner.

She carried herself with quiet authority, her posture straight, her steps purposeful. Not stiff, like a noble trying too hard, nor casual, like someone unaware of etiquette.

She had the bearing of nobility, the ease of someone who had been raised among power.

And the others noticed, too.

This time, there was no sneer from the well-dressed nobles. No snide whispers.

Even the black-haired woman, who had been glaring at Thorne earlier, said nothing.

The Aetherhold representative turned his attention to her, his voice crisp and formal.

"Rowenna Caerwyn?"

She nodded.

"Your letter of admission?"

With smooth efficiency, she reached into her coat, producing a neatly folded parchment.

The representative took it, skimming its contents, then gave a short nod.

"We await one final arrival before our departure."

Rowenna dipped her chin in understanding and stepped aside.

But she did not join the well-dressed nobles.

Nor did she approach Thorne.

Instead, she remained alone, standing a short distance from both groups, seemingly content in her solitude.

And then they waited.

The minutes ticked by excruciatingly slowly.

The wind continued its relentless assault, tearing through the plateau, making even the fur-cloaked nobles curse under their breath.

Thorne, on the other hand, was beginning to lose sensation in his fingers. He clenched his jaw, forcing his muscles to lock, refusing to let his body shake.

Even the Aetherhold representative seemed impatient, though the cold did not seem to touch him at all.

Thorne narrowed his gaze.

No wind disturbed the man's dark hair. No snow clung to his coat. His skin remained untouched by frost, his breath did not mist in the air like everyone else's.

Aether.

Thorne relaxed his eyes, letting his Aether Vision slip into place.

And what he saw made him tense.

The representative was covered in pulsing symbols, woven intricately into his very skin.

Their glow was so faint, so refined, that Thorne had not sensed them until now.

A ward of some kind, a spell so subtle and sophisticated that it made him wonder just how powerful this man truly was.

As if sensing his scrutiny, the representative's gaze flicked toward him.

Thorne immediately looked away.

Just when it seemed the final student might not arrive, the air rippled one last time.

The portal blazed into life, a gateway of swirling energy, and out of it stumbled a woman.

No.

A vision.

She wobbled slightly as she emerged, as if stepping from a dream or more likely, from an extravagant party.

Her gown, long, flowing, utterly impractical, immediately dragged in the deep snow, the hem darkening as it soaked through.

She was breathtaking.

Her golden-blonde hair shimmered, woven with tiny diamonds, the jewels glittering even in the dim, stormy light.

And in one delicate hand, she held a flute of sparkling wine.

Thorne blinked.

Aetherhold was moments away, and she had come through the portal drinking?

The cold hit her immediately, and she gasped dramatically, clutching herself.

"Oh, dear gods!" she exclaimed, her voice rich with theatrical distress.

"It's deathly cold!"

Then, with a casual flick of her fingers, one of the many rings on her hand flashed with aether.

A white fur coat materialized out of thin air.

She placed her wine glass gently into the snow, as if handling something precious, then wrapped herself in the coat, nuzzling into it with a deep sigh.

"Much better."

Every single person on the plateau stared at her.

Some in awe.

Others in exasperation.

The Aetherhold representative, for the first time, showed a flicker of amusement.

"Lady Isadora Valienne."

She beamed.

"You arrived just in time!" The representative offered with a small, indulgent smile.

Isadora gasped, placing a hand to her lips.

"No, no! I am inexcusable!" she declared.

"I got so caught up in the moment, I completely forgot Aetherhold was today! Silly me!"

Then, with a teasing smile, she added,

"I will have to scold Rhaelen the next time I see him. He's such a terrible influence."

A silence fell over the plateau.

A different kind of silence.

The well-dressed nobles froze.

Even Rowenna, who had been so composed, so calm, visibly tensed.

Thorne's eyes narrowed.

Who was Rhaelan?

Everyone else seemed to know.

The parchment appeared in her hand, much like her coat, and she handed it to the representative with a graceful flourish.

"Please accept my sincerest apologies."

The man waved it off.

"No need, Miss Valienne. A legacy like yourself is allowed a small delay."

He gave her a measured look.

"I'm sure your schedule is full, meetings with politicians, master mages."

Isadora's silver eyes gleamed.

She tilted her head slightly, smiling.

"You could say that."

A scoff came from the nobles, but Thorne couldn't tell who it was from.

"Please give my regards to your parents."

Isadora nodded absently.

Then her gaze landed on Thorne.

Her expression softened into deep concern.

"Oh, dear!"

"You must be freezing! That is not proper attire for a place like this."

Thorne, half-frozen, barely found the energy to arch an eyebrow.

"You don't say."

She nodded sagely.

"You should put on something warm before you freeze to death!"

Then, her attention shifted, and her eyes lit up with delight.

"Lucian! Garridan! You two are going to Aetherhold too? Goody!"

She clapped in excitement.

Thorne noted that she did not greet the black-haired noblewoman or the other man standing with her.

The dark-haired woman's expression flickered, shifting into something bitter.

"Isa," the ash-blond nobleman, Garridan apparently, tsked.

"Were you drinking again?"

The other man, Lucian, shook his head.

"And we already told you we would be attending together."

Isadora giggled.

"Oh! Of course you did!"

A disturbance in the aether.

Thorne's attention snapped to the Aetherhold representative.

Something was about to happen.

The nobles continued their chatter, their voices light with amusement as they gravitated toward Isadora. Her presence seemed to draw them in effortlessly, her infectious energy filling the cold, desolate plateau.

Even the ones who had been silent before, the pale-haired young man, the dark-haired aristocrat, now engaged with her, smirks pulling at their lips.

It was as if the cold and tension from earlier had been forgotten.

All except for Thorne.

He remained apart from the conversation, his focus elsewhere.

On him.

The Aetherhold representative stood completely still, composed.

Not a single movement. Not a shift of weight, not a flex of fingers.

And yet Thorne had felt it.

A ripple of aether, pulsing outward like the faintest heartbeat in the air.

It had been so subtle, so refined, that no one else seemed to notice.

Then he heard something.

Something that didn't belong to the frozen silence of the plateau.

A distant, rhythmic beat.

His heightened senses immediately picked up on it, faint at first but growing louder.

Wings.

Large ones. Powerful ones.

His gaze snapped to the sky.

No one else reacted at first.

They were still talking, laughing, exchanging pleasantries.

But Thorne was already looking up, his sharp eyes scanning the cloud-filled heavens.

Then he saw it.

A dark speck in the distance, cutting through the stormy sky.

It was growing larger.

Fast.

Thorne's breath caught.

It was a carriage.

But unlike any he had ever seen.

Massive, regal, soaring through the sky.

Drawn by four winged creatures.

Not horses.

Not exactly.

The sound of wings grew deafening as the creatures swept down, their enormous leathery appendages beating against the wind.

The others finally heard it.

Conversations stilled.

A murmur rippled through the group, heads snapping upward as the carriage descended.

Even the Aetherhold representative finally lifted his gaze.

The carriage swept lower, circling once before it landed with a heavy, dull thud, sending flurries of snow billowing around them.

The creatures hissed, their misty breath curling from their nostrils as they stomped against the ice-packed ground.

They weren't horses.

Not entirely.

They had the build of stallions, but instead of fur, their bodies were covered in shimmering, iridescent green scales.

Their heads were elongated, ending in sharp, curved beaks.

Their hooves were talons, razor-sharp claws digging into the frost.

And their wings reptilian, with a thick membrane stretched between bone and muscle, twitched restlessly, the single curved claw at the arch of each wing flexing.

A hush fell over the group.

Even the nobles, so full of confidence and arrogance before, were stunned into silence.

Thorne was no different.

But what truly caught his attention wasn't just the creatures.

It was the carriage itself.

Every inch of it was woven with power.

Thorne's Aether Vision flared instinctively, and what he saw made him draw in a slow, controlled breath.

The carriage blazed with aether.

Intricate sigils and symbols were etched into the very wood, pulsing with energy, forming an interwoven web of arcane craftsmanship.

This was no ordinary enchanted object.

It was a masterpiece.

A beacon of power.

For a moment, he simply stared.

Then the Aetherhold representative spoke, his voice ringing over the howling wind.

"Now that all of you have gathered, it is time for us to depart."

He took a measured step forward, surveying the group with an assessing gaze.

"You are the students accepted into Aetherhold from the kingdom of Caledris. The seven of you have been granted the privilege to study in the most prestigious magical academy in the world. Some of you come from legacy families, following in the footsteps of generations before you. Others enter these halls with ambition, seeking knowledge, power, and status."

His eyes swept across them, lingering briefly on Thorne.

"Regardless of your origins, once you step into Aetherhold, you leave behind your old lives. What matters within those walls is your aptitude, your discipline, and your will."

A pause.

Then his voice hardened slightly.

"Aetherhold is not kind. It does not coddle. Many who enter its gates do not make it to graduation."

The wind whipped violently around them, as if responding to his words.

"You will be tested. You will struggle. Some of you will fail."

The silence stretched, heavy.

Then, in a smoother, almost lighter tone, he finished:

"Now, board the carriage."

Thorne exhaled slowly.

Then, without another word, he stepped forward.

And the next stage of his journey began.

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