The room was silent now. Still.

Thorne stood in the center, hands in his coat pockets, facing the resonance crystal. From a distance, it looked like a simple artifact, an inert slab of translucent quartz inset into the wall, faintly faceted and unremarkable.

But in his aether vision, it was alive.

A web of radiant threads coiled within it, pulsing slowly like a slumbering heart. Hidden within those threads were micro-runes, runes nested within runes, like a spellbook folded into itself a hundred times. He counted at least six layers of enchantment, enough to scan his output, his affinity, and maybe even his emotional state.

He could also see the rest of the room.

Wards. Traps. Safeguards. Interwoven through the walls, beneath the floorboards, laced in the air itself like strands of spider silk. The moment he flared too hot, too fast, they would have activated. Some were defensive. Others... not.

Evermist does not trust easily, he thought.

Then the door opened behind him.

He turned.

The assistant entered first, shoulders drawn tight like someone bracing against wind. She stepped in quickly, then stepped aside.

And through the door came Argessa.

At first glance, there was nothing particularly unusual about her. She wore a long, dark robe of deep black velvet, its edges stitched with subtle silver threadwork in curling, root-like patterns. Her staff, which doubled as a cane, was long and thin, topped with a pink jewel the size of a closed fist, mounted in an intricate spiral of metal that looked too delicate to hold it, but did.

She moved slowly, her gait unhurried, measured. Her posture was slightly stooped, the curve of her spine suggesting age, but not frailty. If anything, it was the posture of someone who had long since stopped pretending to be anything other than exactly what she was.

And yet...

There was something strange about her.

Her face had no obvious tells, no deep-set lines or parchment skin. No gleam of youthful vitality either. She looked like she could have been fifty or five hundred, and you wouldn't have been able to argue with either guess. Her hair was thick and silver-white, coiled in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, with a few strands escaping to frame her angular face.

Her eyes, though, her eyes were ancient.

Violet, yes, but fractured with subtle veins of silver around the iris. They glinted faintly, as if reflecting not just light but truth. He had the immediate and unsettling impression that they were not just looking at him, but into him.

She exuded no power.

Not in the way most mages did. There was no blazing aura. No pressure. No hum of unstable energy in the air.

But Thorne's Veil Sense flared anyway pinging her, scanning instinctively for threat.

It came up empty.

Not quiet. Not dormant.

Empty.

Like his senses had simply been turned away at the door.

He didn't like that.

He had spent years working in shadows, reading danger in the twitch of an eyebrow, the cadence of a voice, the shift in a footstep. Reading people was second nature. Even when he didn't know their names, he knew who was a threat, who was hiding something, who might one day try to kill him.

But Argessa?

She was a void. A locked door in the middle of a field. A book with no title, no author, no spine.

And somehow, that unsettled him more than any power flare or violent aura ever could.

"Leave us," she said without looking at the assistant.

Her voice was soft but final, as if the decision had been made long before she entered the room.

The assistant blinked, startled, then snapped to attention with a quiet "Yes, Lady Argessa," and left, almost forgetting to close the door behind her.

The door clicked softly shut.

Argessa stepped farther into the room, her gaze never leaving Thorne's face. Her staff clicked gently against the floor, the jewel at its tip casting faint glimmers of light like starshine caught in a drop of rose quartz.

She said nothing at first.

She studied him. His eyes.

Not as a curiosity.

Not as a threat.

As a puzzle.

Thorne met her stare, doing his best not to let his expression shift. Her presence didn't crowd the room, it defined it. When he focused, he could feel her core, vast and deep and measured. It reminded him of the Red Mage from Alvar, not as blazing or powerful, perhaps, but colder. Older. More carved into shape.

He didn't know if she could feel his core in return, but he had the distinct feeling that she'd already guessed what kind of storm churned under his skin.

Without a word, she lifted her staff, pointed toward the wall behind him.

The air shivered.

And with a soft burst of displaced aether, a two-seat sofa appeared, its fabric an out-of-place, flowery print, like something that belonged in a grandmother's sunroom rather than a high-tier resonance chamber.

She lowered herself into it with a quiet plop, sighing as she positioned her staff across her lap.

Then finally, she spoke.

"Now," Argessa said, her tone dry and expectant, as if they were simply picking up a conversation that had already begun, "let's talk."

Thorne stood still, hands loose at his sides, watching the woman seated on the flowery conjured sofa across from him.

She made no effort to speak at first. She simply studied him, head tilted, staff resting across her lap. Her face was unreadable in the traditional sense, but her silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was assessing, but not predatory. Measured. Like someone flipping through the pages of a book they'd already read but wanted to revisit anyway.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"You look like someone who's spent most of their life waiting for the other shoe to drop," Argessa said, as casually as someone commenting on the weather.

Thorne said nothing.

She gave him a sideways glance and added, "You're very calm for a boy who just shattered two enchanted foci and scared my assistant half out of her robes."

He shrugged once. "Didn't mean to."

"I know. That's the worrying part."

A pause. Her expression didn't change, but her voice softened slightly.

"You've got the look," she said finally.

Thorne blinked. "What look?"

"The one that says you've lived through things you're not old enough to have lived through." She waved a hand vaguely, as though brushing smoke from the air. "Eyes like quiet storms. Too still. Too sharp. You don't flinch when people leave the room, but you always notice when they do."

He shifted, just slightly. "Is that your professional assessment?"

"It's my personal one," she said, tone dry as bone. "Professionally, you're a liability with a promising yield."

He almost laughed. Almost.

"I take it I'm not the first anomaly to walk through your door."

"Oh, stars no," she snorted. "But you're the first in a long while to pretend so badly at being ordinary. Most of the powerful ones try to peacock. You're just… trying to vanish."

He said nothing. The silence stretched.

Argessa let it linger before speaking again, this time softer. "You come from somewhere difficult, I'd guess. You've got that tightness in your shoulders, like you're waiting for the floor to fall out beneath you."

"It usually does," he said, too quietly.

She nodded as if he'd confirmed something. "And the way you stand, guarded, but not defensive. That's trained. Someone taught you how to be forgettable."

His fingers twitched at his sides.

"And yet," she continued, folding her hands over the top of her staff, "you're not forgettable. Not to anyone with aether in their veins. You shimmer, boy. You walk into a room, and the walls listen."

Thorne wasn't sure what to say to that.

Argessa leaned back slightly into the conjured sofa, adjusting her staff across her lap.

"Tell me something boy, what did you expect when you walked into this shop? That we'd give you a polished stick, wave you through, and tell you how special you are?"

Thorne shrugged one shoulder. "I didn't expect much of anything."

"Hah. The way you burn through foci like firewood, I'd say you expected something." She narrowed her eyes slightly. "Or maybe you just didn't care. People like you, burnt out, wound tight, you get used to things breaking around you. Don't even flinch anymore."

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That landed a little too close.

Thorne's jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

"Where are you from?" she asked casually.

"South."

"Of course," she said, sighing. "Vague and mysterious. Stars forbid anyone give a straight answer in this city."

She gave him a side-eye, almost fond. "I suppose you think it makes you interesting."

He blinked, dry. "Is it working?"

She snorted. "Not even a little."

She let the silence stretch again, then asked, more softly this time, "Family?"

"Complicated," Thorne said automatically.

"I asked if you had any," she said, not unkindly.

His eyes flicked to the resonance crystal again.

"No," he said finally. "Not anymore."

"Mm." She didn't press, but her lips thinned slightly. "Someone should've taught you not to hold your power like a blade all the time. It's exhausting, keeping that sharp an edge."

"I didn't have much choice," he replied.

"Oh, there's always a choice," she said lightly. "It's just that the good ones are expensive, and the bad ones come quicker."

She reached into the folds of her robe and pulled out a wrapped candy, unspooled it with wrinkled fingers, and popped it in her mouth. "Studied at Aetherhold myself," she said, voice muffled slightly. "Back before the towers floated and the students had more attitude than talent."

Thorne raised an eyebrow. "And now?"

"Now they have more money than talent," she muttered. "Progress, I suppose."

She glanced at him again.

"You're not like the rest of them."

Thorne didn't answer.

She nodded to herself. "Didn't think so. You're sharp. Coiled like a spring. Probably taught yourself to read a room before you could read a book. Which means you've survived things you shouldn't have."

Her tone turned light again, but the weight remained beneath it.

"Just one problem with surviving boy, it's not the same as living. You know that?"

He didn't respond right away.

But the truth was, he did.

She gave a small, knowing smile and gestured at him with the tip of her staff. "You're strong. That much is obvious. But strength doesn't mean much when no one's taught you how to use it properly. And I mean that in the boring way. Foundations. Safety. Spells that don't explode."

She leaned forward slightly.

"More importantly… someone's gotta be in your corner. You got anyone like that?"

Thorne hesitated, just a breath. Then shook his head once. "No."

"Well," she said, easing back, "that's stupid."

He blinked. "Sorry?"

"You heard me. Stupid. Arrogant, too, if you think you can get through Aetherhold alone. Even the prodigies crash and burn without backup."

He stared at her.

She waved a hand. "I'm not offering to adopt you. That sounds like work. I'm just saying, if you need someone in your corner, well… I'm sitting down, not dead yet, and I've got more resources than I know what to do with."

He frowned, trying to piece her angle.

She saw it and grinned.

"Oh don't squint at me like that. I'm not here to dig into your dark past or sell you out. I'm here to make sure you don't break anything else in my store."

Another pause. Her voice dropped.

"And maybe… maybe because I've seen boys like you before. Angry. Guarded. Ridiculous hair."

Thorne glanced upward instinctively. "What's wrong with my hair?"

"It's like someone weaponized a stormcloud. It's trying to be intimidating. You're not fooling anyone."

That earned the ghost of a smirk.

"See?" she said, satisfied. "Progress."

She smiled, wry and unapologetic. "Don't look so surprised. I don't offer kindness often, and never for free. But I recognize the shape of you. You've got raw edges where there should be polish, and secrets piled behind your ribs. You don't trust easily. That's fine, I don't ask for trust. I ask for honesty."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"No," she said, sharp now. "Trust is a gift. Honesty is a deal."

Thorne met her gaze, and for the first time, something unspoken passed between them. A recognition. Two people who'd lived lives shaped by survival, not safety.

She stood then, slowly, using her staff for balance. "Now. You've danced around questions long enough. Time for the fun part."

And with a whisper to her staff, she turned to face the resonance crystal and murmured something under her breath, a sharp, clipped incantation in a language he didn't recognize.

The air pulsed.

The crystal shivered, then vibrated violently.

With a cracking noise like ice splitting under pressure, a piece of the crystal broke free, hovering mid-air, glowing faintly. The broken face still hummed with raw aether, but instead of damage, the remaining crystal shifted and flowed like water, reforming itself seamlessly. The main body was whole again in seconds.

Argessa turned and with a flick of her staff, guided the floating shard toward Thorne.

It hovered just before his chest.

"Catch," she said.

He lifted a hand, and the crystal settled into his palm, warm and heavy, almost alive.

"I want you to pour your aether into it," Argessa said, voice suddenly quiet. "All of it."

He frowned. "All of it?"

"Yes. No tricks. No holding back. No clever concealments. Just you. Raw and honest."

Thorne tensed. "And if I break this one too?"

"I'll make another." She shrugged. "I own the shop."

His jaw clenched slightly. "I don't usually... show people."

"No, I imagine not," she said, her tone suddenly dry again. "But those eyes of yours? They don't lie. Neither do my wards. Or my enchanted walls. You're not fooling anyone in here, least of all me."

She gave a short, raspy chuckle. "Go on then. Let the storm out. I've seen boys like you before."

Thorne hesitated.

The shard in his hand pulsed softly, like it was waiting.

And Argessa...

She didn't look nervous. Or curious. Or impressed.

She looked... settled. Like someone watching a river rise, knowing the banks would hold.

He didn't know why that steadied him, but it did.

So, he exhaled.

Closed his eyes.

And let go.

The first surge of aether came in a rush. Not a stream, but a flood, coiling from his core like it had been caged too long. It struck the crystal with force, but the crystal didn't shatter. It pulsed harder, brighter, drinking it in like dry soil taking rain.

So he pushed more.

And more.

Until his hands shook.

Until silver light spilled from his eyes, bright enough to cast shadows on the walls.

Until the resonance shard vibrated like it was singing a note only the aether could hear.

And still, he poured.

Until the room itself felt too small.

Until the wards around the walls flickered once, not activating, just... acknowledging.

He was a storm in a teacup.

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn't holding back.

The crystal shard in Thorne's palm pulsed.

Then it linked.

A crackling bridge of energy shot from the fragment in his hand to the larger crystal on the wall, a beam of pure, undiluted aether that carved through the air like a lance of light. The resonance crystal surged in response, straining to absorb the onslaught.

The wards flickered.

For a moment, the room itself stuttered, the carefully layered protections around the walls pulsing wildly, off-beat. The air went thick and sharp, like it was cutting itself on the aether.

Thorne didn't flinch.

His eyes, already glowing, became twin suns, white-blue light pouring from them in steady, radiant streams. Aether sang through his veins, wild and exultant, and for the first time since arriving at Aetherhold, he didn't feel restrained or cautious or coiled like a spring.

He felt free.

He was smiling.

Across the room, Argessa sat in her conjured sofa, utterly composed, watching as though this were a minor parlor trick. A gentle bubble of energy shimmered around her, protecting her clothes from the gale-force magic now flooding the chamber.

The crystal in Thorne's hand began to heat, its glow turning reddish at the edges. Fine cracks appeared, like frost breaking glass in slow motion.

Then Argessa moved.

She lifted her staff and thumped it once on the ground.

Her voice, steady and sharp, spoke words that made the very air ripple.

A sigil erupted before Thorne, towering over him like a god's brand: a circular construct of interwoven runes, too complex to read, too vast to comprehend. Its presence was overwhelming, not because of its violence but its authority.

Then, in a blink, the sigil contracted inward, shrinking to a single point...

... and vanished.

At the same instant, the crystal in his hand went dead. The beam between the two was cut. The power vanished. And the remaining energy he'd been drawing inward had nowhere to go.

His core jolted in protest.

His eyes flared brighter, trying to vent the still-swirling force inside him, until Argessa's voice cut through the haze:

"Rein it in."

The command snapped him back.

"Control it." Her voice was sharp now, steel wrapped in silk. "Aether is here to serve us, not command us."

Thorne gritted his teeth. His pulse roared in his ears. His magic was still pressing at his ribs, scratching at his lungs, hungry to move.

He closed his eyes.

Control it.

The rush of wild power slowly ebbed as he dragged it back inward, wrapping it tight around his core, forcing it into stillness. It fought him briefly, but not maliciously. It was just used to freedom.

And then it quieted.

His body calmed. The light behind his eyes dimmed to a soft glow. His fingers flexed, no longer buzzing with unstable charge.

He drew in a breath.

Checked himself.

No exhaustion. Barely a twinge of tiredness.

Then the realization hit him.

His core, his eclipsed core had replenished nearly all the energy he'd just unleashed.

Even now, it was still working, drawing from the ambient aether without disturbing it, refilling his reserves quietly, seamlessly.

His heart kicked. That changes everything.

He wouldn't have to risk pulling wild aether again, not in the open. He wouldn't have to fear exposure. His core, whatever strange hybrid thing it had become, had given him an escape.

I'm not trapped, he thought, almost giddy. I'm not...

"Sit down," Argessa said, cutting into his thoughts with a snap of her staff.

An armchair appeared beside him, faded floral pattern, matching hers.

Thorne looked around the room.

It looked like a tornado had passed through.

Half the boxes had dislodged themselves, piles of focus cases lying open, rattled. The wards were still humming out of sync, the air thick with static tension.

He sat, sheepish.

Argessa, catching his expression, let out a dry chuckle. "Don't you worry."

She waved her staff lazily once in the air, and across the room, boxes began to lift and rearrange themselves with clockwork grace, each one snapping back into place. The runes lining the walls flared, blinked twice and then resumed their calm, steady pulse.

"Well," she said, exhaling. "That was quite something."

She gave him a sideways glance. "I'll be honest, I expected sparks. Maybe a scorched rug. That was… a performance."

Thorne didn't say anything.

Argessa tapped her staff lightly against her knee. "I have good news and bad news. Which would you like first?"

He gave her a look. "Bad."

"Very well." She shifted to face him properly. "You need a focus of tier three or higher. Minimum. But frankly? I'm not even sure tier three will cut it."

Thorne's stomach sank slightly.

"I've got a few tier fours in the vault," she added, "but the enchantments on those require specific attributes."

He stared at her. "And?"

She raised her eyebrows.

"You won't be meeting the requirements for some time. Just a hunch."

He slumped into the chair, groaning quietly.

Argessa smirked.

"Now, now. Despair doesn't suit you." She thumped her staff twice, and the air in front of her shimmered.

A tall, narrow cabinet shimmered into being, made of dark oak, its surface covered in faintly glowing glyphs.

She rose and walked over, muttering to herself. "Let's see, where did I put... no, not that, oh, a Black Doe draught, that could be useful later... dead gods, what is this? A cursed thimble? Useless. Mm."

Thorne watched, bemused, as she disappeared up to her waist, rummaging through drawers that made no logical sense. From within, he heard more muttering. "Where are they... I swore they were behind the antique astrolabe... oh! What's this? No! still the cursed thimble..."

Finally, with a triumphant "Aha!" she straightened, holding two velvet-covered boxes.

She turned and marched back toward him, dropping the boxes onto a conjured side table between them.

"These," she said, patting the lids, "are very rare. Very expensive. And absolutely not for sale to the general public. I shouldn't even have these in stock."

Thorne raised an eyebrow. "So what's the catch?"

She gave him a grin that showed just a hint of teeth.

"You're going to pay me back. With interest. But don't worry, we'll discuss that after we see if either of these two likes you."

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