Thorne stood at the threshold, hesitating.

The open door of the carriage yawned before him, revealing a warm, golden interior. He could hear the others inside. Excited voices, hushed laughter, the occasional murmur of admiration.

Only the Aetherhold representative remained by his side, silent but watchful.

Thorne could feel the man's impatience growing, but he didn't care.

Something about this carriage, this thing, felt wrong.

It was brimming with aether.

So much aether had been woven into its frame that it made his skin prickle, a feeling like standing too close to a charged storm.

It crawled against his skin, an invisible hum pressing against his senses, setting his nerves on edge.

His past experiences with too much aether in one place had not been pleasant.

He flexed his fingers, trying to shake the sensation.

The crunch of snow snapped him back to the present.

One of the reptilian creatures shifted, clawed feet scraping at the ice-packed ground. Its massive, scaled wings twitched as it let out a low, rumbling breath, mist curling from its nostrils.

"I assure you," the Aetherhold representative finally spoke, his tone calm but clipped, "the carriage is perfectly safe. It has been enchanted by the brightest and most powerful minds of our time."

His gaze flicked to Thorne, measuring.

"It is a marvel of magic."

Thorne swallowed.

He could hear the barest hint of impatience and irritation beneath the man's calm words.

Still, he hesitated for one more second.

Then he took a breath and stepped forward.

The first step onto the carriage felt normal.

The second...

Cold.

It hit him like a wave of icy water.

For a single, breathless moment, he felt like he had stepped into a void, as if the world around him had collapsed into an abyss of raw aether. His vision blurred, his body tensed...

Then, it was gone.

The sensation vanished, like a ripple smoothing over still water.

Thorne blinked.

All his reservations, all his tension, fell away the moment he stepped inside.

The inside of the carriage was… impossible.

From the outside, it had looked large, but now that he was inside, it felt far bigger than it should have been.

The space stretched unnaturally wide, like stepping into a grand lounge rather than a mere transport.

The first thing he noticed was the warmth.

It wrapped around him like a comforting embrace, gentle but not oppressive, perfectly balanced against the winter's chill outside.

There was no fire, no visible source of heat.

Yet the air was pleasantly warm, a steady temperature maintained by unseen enchantments.

The walls and ceiling were made of dark, polished wood, but strange runic veins of silver and gold wove through the surface, pulsating faintly with living aether.

Soft glowing lights floated in the air, orbs of magic suspended like miniature stars, their radiance shifting between hues of deep blue and soft gold.

Along the sides of the carriage were long, luxurious seats, upholstered in plush midnight-blue velvet with delicate embroidery of celestial constellations.

The seats were arranged like an elegant lounge, not rigid rows, inviting conversation and comfort.

A low, floating table sat at the center, hovering inches above the floor, its surface engraved with arcane sigils that shimmered faintly in response to movement.

At the far end of the carriage, there was a massive panoramic window, except it wasn't made of glass.

It was pure aether.

A seamless, transparent view into the sky itself, allowing them to see the world beyond without any distortion.

Through it, Thorne could see the stormy peaks of the mountains, the vast open sky that stretched beyond the horizon.

The other students were already settled inside, their voices hushed as they admired the carriage.

Rowenna sat quietly near the window, gazing out, her expression unreadable.

Lucian and Garridan had taken the center lounge, looking relaxed, though their eyes flicked toward Thorne as he entered.

Vivienne sat with perfect posture, one leg crossed over the other, her gloved hands resting neatly in her lap as she observed everything with calculating eyes.

Isadora, of course, was lounging comfortably, already making herself at home as if she owned the place.

A delicate tea set floated nearby, steaming cups pouring themselves effortlessly.

A small plate of sweets hovered in the air, balancing just within her reach.

"Well, it took you long enough," she said cheerfully, grinning at Thorne.

Then she patted the empty seat beside her.

"Come, come! Take a seat. You must be frozen stiff."

Thorne hesitated.

And before he could decide...

The carriage lurched slightly.

Then, with impossible smoothness, it lifted off the ground.

A faint hum of magic vibrated through the space, and the window revealed their steady ascent.

The plateau fell away below them.

The stormy peaks of the mountains sank into the distance.

The Aetherhold representative lowered himself into a nearby bench, exhaling as a floating tray of steaming tea drifted toward him. Without even looking, he plucked a delicate porcelain cup from the air and took a slow sip, his sigh of contentment barely audible over the low murmur of conversation.

Thorne barely noticed.

His gaze was drawn to the back of the carriage, where the world outside had become a blur of motion. The mountain peaks that had once loomed over them were already distant shadows, and the storm clouds below churned like a restless sea.

They were moving fast.

Much faster than any carriage should be able to travel.

The sheer speed of their movement was unnatural, and yet, inside the carriage, everything was eerily smooth. There was no rocking, no lurching, not even the faintest jolt that should have accompanied such rapid travel. It was as if they were gliding on an invisible stream of magic.

His mind barely had time to process the implications before a sneering voice cut through the air.

"Well, well, well," a smooth, arrogant tone drawled from the other side of the cabin.

Thorne's body tensed instinctively before he even turned.

The speaker was the black-haired noble with slicked-back hair, lounging with a posture of casual superiority, his sharp gaze flicking over Thorne like he was some distasteful street rat who had wandered into a noble's parlor.

"It seems we've picked up a stray."

A few quiet chuckles rippled through the group.

Thorne turned his head slowly, deliberately, willing himself to stay calm.

The noble's gaze raked over him, taking in his plain, travel-worn clothes, the lack of any visible insignia, any indication of noble birth. His lip curled as if he had smelled something foul.

"Tell me," the noble continued, his smirk widening, "did you take a wrong turn on your way to the servant's quarters?"

A few of the other students laughed, though some simply watched, waiting to see how Thorne would react.

He considered several responses.

A cold retort? A mocking one? A threat?

In the end, he settled for none of them.

Instead, he simply ignored the noble entirely, turning away as if he wasn't worth acknowledging.

Silence.

The laughter faltered.

For someone like this man, someone clearly desperate to prove his superiority, being ignored was more insulting than any response Thorne could have given.

Without another glance, Thorne made his way toward the back of the carriage, settling himself near Rowenna, who sat quietly by the large aether window.

For a moment, he simply took it all in.

The sheer luxury of the space still unsettled him.

Magic, in his life, had never been something so delicate, so effortless.

His only encounters with magic had been in battle—brief flashes of destructive power, spells meant to kill, skills meant to maim and overpower.

But here, it was woven into everything, from the floating lights to the seamless warmth, from the enchanted tea trays to the very air that thrummed with unseen energy.

A tray drifted past him, filled with steaming porcelain cups of a rich, brown liquid.

Chocolate, he guessed.

He ignored it.

He was too uncomfortable to eat or drink anything.

Across the carriage, Isadora let out a delicate grimace, holding her teacup at arm's length as if it had personally offended her.

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She made a displeased huff before glancing around the carriage with a languid flick of her silver eyes.

"Isn't there any wine?"

The Aetherhold representative, still sipping his tea, simply gestured toward a polished sideboard.

"Of course, Miss Valienne. You'll find refreshments there."

Isadora let out a delighted coo, gathering her long, flowing gown as she gracefully floated across the room.

She plucked a crystal decanter from the sideboard, pouring herself a generous serving of deep red wine before taking an unapologetically long sip.

"Ah, much better."

Thorne barely had time to process the moment before he felt eyes on him.

It was a familiar, burning glare, one filled with pure hostility.

He glanced up to find the sneering noble staring daggers at him.

The intensity of his glare was almost comical, like Thorne's very existence was a personal insult.

Thorne met his gaze evenly, expression unreadable.

"…What?"

His voice was flat. Cold.

But it carried just enough edge to make the entire cabin pause.

Ronan's sneer deepened.

"How did you get into Aetherhold?"

He looked Thorne up and down, his open disgust barely concealed.

"Do you have a sponsor? Because it's obvious you don't have a drop of noble blood."

For the first time, Thorne stilled.

The question hit him like a knife to the gut.

He had never questioned the invitation.

In his determination to reach Aetherhold, in his obsession with getting inside, not once had he stopped to wonder…

How?

As far as he knew, entry required noble blood or a powerful sponsor.

He had neither.

The implications sent a sharp unease curling through him.

Before he could dwell on it...

"I'd much rather know who you are."

Isadora's playful tone cut through the air, drawing all attention back to her.

She still held her glass of wine, her silver eyes sharp as they locked onto Ronan.

"I've never seen you before, and I know everyone."

Ronan's face turned crimson, part rage, part embarrassment.

"I am Ronan Castane!" he snapped.

Isadora tilted her head, expression unimpressed.

Seeing her blank look, his frustration only grew.

"My father is Lord Castane, and my mother..." He squared his shoulders. "He is the steward of Edmenton!"

A beat of silence.

Then...

Isadora's lips curled in amusement.

She turned to Lucian and Garridan, mouthing the word "Steward?" with mock confusion.

Then, turning back to Ronan, she let out a small, knowing chuckle.

"Well, that explains a lot."

Ronan's face darkened further.

"You're an upstart peasant yourself, aren't you?" she continued, voice like silk. "Feeling the need to belittle others just to reassure yourself?"

She stepped forward, her gaze almost pitying.

"A true noble does not need to insult his inferiors."

She smiled, slow and deliberate.

"He already knows his worth."

Thorne wasn't sure if he should be flattered or offended.

He had just been called an inferior, a peasant, and worthless, all while she was, presumably, trying to defend him.

He shook his head and leaned back in his seat, the movement placing him directly in Rowenna's line of sight.

She was watching him.

Assessing.

Before the moment could stretch too long, another voice entered the fray.

"Actually, I'm more interested in the other addition."

The black-haired noblewoman, who had been watching the exchange in silent amusement, now turned her sharp gaze on Rowenna.

"Lady Rowenna Caerwyn, is it?"

Rowenna's shoulders tensed slightly.

"It's clear you descend from noble blood. And yet," the woman's smile sharpened, "I have never heard your family name."

A slow, pointed pause.

"Perhaps a new house?"

Then, her gaze turned predatory.

"…Or an illegitimate daughter?"

The air crackled with tension.

Rowenna didn't react immediately.

For a moment, she was utterly still beside Thorne, her body tense but composed. Her grey eyes, which had been calm and assessing all this time, darkened with something far sharper.

The black-haired noblewoman who had thrown the accusation, Vivienne, as Thorne recalled from earlier introductions smiled with the ease of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

Her words had been calculated, deliberate, waiting to see what cracks might form in Rowenna's composure.

Thorne found himself watching, waiting.

Would Rowenna snap? Would she laugh it off? Would she ignore it, as he had ignored Ronan earlier?

A long silence stretched between them.

Then Rowenna inhaled slowly, deeply.

When she turned to Vivienne, her face was unreadable, her expression smooth as glass.

"If I were a bastard," she said calmly, "I would still outrank you."

A sharp intake of breath.

Vivienne's predatory amusement faltered for just a moment.

Rowenna didn't wait for a reply.

She simply turned away, back toward the aether window, as if the conversation had already ceased to matter.

The dismissal was so effortless, so final, that even Thorne found himself half-impressed.

For the first time, Vivienne looked genuinely irritated.

Before she could push further, however...

Thorne sighed loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Ugh."

The attention that had been on Rowenna immediately shifted back to him.

He shook his head, almost casually, before leaning back further into his seat.

"The aristocrats where I come from," he murmured, his voice edged with mocking amusement, "have so much more class."

Silence.

Then a subtle shift.

He could feel it, the moment the atmosphere changed.

His Veil Sense flared instinctively, a habit honed through years of survival, deception, and battle.

What he sensed made his lips twitch.

They were all below level thirty.

Every single one of them.

These nobles, with all their wealth, their training, their bloodlines, they weren't even worth considering as threats.

For a brief moment, he had forgotten who he was.

Forgotten that he was not some commoner among equals.

Forgotten that he had survived battlefields, assassins, and monsters.

Compared to what he had faced in the past, these nobles and their petty squabbles were nothing.

His white-blue eyes glowed faintly, pulsing like living embers of aether.

He let them see it.

Let them feel the weight of his presence.

A predator among house pets.

Something in the way he looked at them made several of them shift uncomfortably.

Lucian, who had been quiet for most of this, finally lifted his gaze.

Rowenna, despite having been caught in the middle of their verbal sparring, was watching him again, measuring him.

And the Aetherhold representative, though he had remained silent throughout, was now gazing at Thorne with faint contemplation.

He doesn't know, Thorne thought to himself.

The man didn't know what Thorne was, didn't know the truth behind his existence, but…

He would have to be careful.

Thorne narrowed his eyes slightly.

A thought struck him.

How powerful was this man?

His Veil Sense flared again, subtle and controlled, reaching toward the representative, searching.

A heartbeat later, he felt it.

Level 92.

That was… far beyond what he had expected.

A force to be reckoned with.

Before he could process further, a ripple of aether surged through the air.

The Aetherhold representative raised a hand slightly, a wand held between his fingers, and a translucent barrier flared around him, cutting off Thorne's Veil Sense.

"It is not proper to use identifying skills on someone without their consent."

His voice was polite, measured. But there was a warning beneath it.

Thorne tilted his head slightly, unconcerned.

He let the moment linger, let the man watch him, as if daring him to dig deeper. As if inviting the man to try and unmask him, to make sense of the enigma sitting before him.

Then, with deliberate ease, Thorne leaned back, reclining as if none of this concerned him in the slightest.

The silence in the carriage stretched.

Every noble in the cabin was waiting for his reaction, expecting something, indignation, anger, a defensive excuse.

Instead, Thorne took his sweet time.

With all the laziness of a cat stretching in the sun, he crossed one leg over the other, reclining further into his seat, his long fingers tapping idly against the armrest.

When he finally spoke, it was slow, deliberate, his voice edged with a mocking, detached amusement.

"Are you all so insecure that you must challenge each other at every opportunity?"

It wasn't even a question.

It was an observation, one spoken with the tone of someone who had seen this kind of childish posturing a thousand times before.

Someone who had already won before the game had even begun.

A beat of silence.

The reaction was immediate and varied.

Some of the nobles stiffened, their faces twisting with indignation.

Others simply watched him more closely, their eyes narrowing, not with anger, but with something more calculating.

And then, of course, there was Ronan.

His face turned an alarming shade of red, his rage bubbling over into something unrestrained, reckless.

His boots scraped violently against the polished wood as he shot to his feet, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

"How dare you, you filthy peasant!" he snarled.

His voice was shaking, not with fear, but with sheer humiliation.

Thorne didn't blink.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't even acknowledge Ronan's fury as a real threat.

Instead, he barely moved at all.

He simply tilted his head slightly, his white-blue eyes flaring with cold amusement, glowing just faintly, a warning, a promise.

And when he spoke, his voice was low, soft but sharper than a blade.

"Try it."

Ronan froze mid-step.

The words weren't spoken like a challenge.

They weren't taunting.

They were a statement.

An inevitability.

There was no bluff, no hesitation, no rising tension.

Just the absolute certainty that if Ronan took even one more step, he would regret it.

And the worst part?

Thorne didn't even look remotely concerned.

He was still lounging, still reclined as if this entire situation was an afterthought.

Ronan's rage was now laced with hesitation.

The silence stretched longer than it should have.

Then...

A quiet sound.

A slow, deliberate clap.

Everyone turned.

Isadora was applauding.

It was mocking, playful, but there was an undeniable glint of delight in her expression.

"Oh, what fun!" she purred, taking another sip of her wine as she studied Thorne with open curiosity.

"I knew this trip would be entertaining, but I wasn't expecting this level of drama."

She tilted her head toward Thorne, her silver eyes gleaming.

"I rather like you, mystery man."

The attention shifted again.

For the first time, Lucian who had remained silent for most of this spoke up, his voice measured, cool.

"That makes two of us."

Thorne turned his head slightly, meeting the man's piercing gaze.

Lucian wasn't mocking, nor condescending.

There was a strange, unsettling interest in his eyes.

Like a scholar who had just found a puzzle worth solving.

Thorne filed it away in his mind, just another thing to watch out for.

Before Thorne could respond, he felt a shift in the aether.

A quiet, nearly imperceptible ripple.

He recognized it immediately.

The representative was trying to scan him.

Trying to gauge his level.

But...

A familiar warmth flared against his chest.

His necklace.

The probing skill bounced harmlessly away.

Thorne smiled slow, amused.

He turned his gaze back to the representative and said, voice smooth as silk...

"It is not proper to use identifying skills on someone without their consent."

The representative's lips twitched.

Thorne held his gaze.

Neither of them spoke.

But the message was clear.

Isadora's silver eyes gleamed with delight, flicking between Thorne and the Aetherhold representative, as if she had just witnessed the most entertaining show of the evening.

Then, she turned fully to Thorne, tilting her head in a way that made her golden earrings sway, her lips curving into an eager, almost hungry smile.

"Oh, I so hope you pass the Spellbinding Ritual."

Thorne's brows furrowed slightly, the words setting off an immediate sense of unease.

Before he could ask what she meant,

"What is the Spellbinding Ritual?"

Ronan's voice cut through the moment, sharp with something that wasn't quite panic but wasn't far from it, either.

The shift in his tone was noticeable, a stark contrast to his earlier bravado.

Isadora's smug grin widened.

"Oh, you don't know?" she drawled, leaning forward slightly, as if savoring every second of the revelation.

Her fingers curled delicately around the stem of her wine glass, and she took a slow sip before continuing, drawing out the moment.

"Not everyone gets to attend Aetherhold," she said, voice almost mockingly sweet. "In order to be accepted, you have to pass the Spellbinding Ritual."

Ronan's eyes turned comically large.

He whirled around toward the Aetherhold representative, his expression shifting from disdain to something edging dangerously close to actual fear.

"Is that true?"

His voice was strained, the confidence from earlier crumbling away.

The representative, who had thus far been watching the conversation unfold in silence, simply nodded once.

A simple confirmation.

No elaboration.

No reassurances.

Nothing to soften the weight of the truth.

Ronan sputtered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

For once, he had nothing to say.

The tension in the carriage shifted yet again.

A new uncertainty settled over them, not just over Ronan, but over everyone.

Even the nobles who had seemed so confident, so untouchable, now sat a little stiffer, eyes flickering toward one another in fleeting concern.

Whatever the Spellbinding Ritual was…

It was not to be taken lightly.

And for the first time since the journey began...

Thorne found himself very, very interested.

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