Thorne stepped into the Mid-Tier Convergence, and the massive wheel at its center turned with a soft, ancient creak.

It spun slowly, impossibly, as if each rotation rewove the threads of every fate in the castle. Carved into the aged wood were thousands of runes and overlapping sigils, many too old to identify, others faintly glowing as threads of visible aether spiraled from the wheel like silver spider silk into the air.

As Thorne's boots clicked softly on the inlaid stone, the House Umbra insignia blazed to life beneath his feet, a violet flame wreathed in a ring of shadow, flickering just once before fading into the stone again.

Four bridges arched from the wheel's platform, each one guarded by its respective House statue. The one before him, the figure of a hooded man, a candle in one hand and a book in the other, watched silently as Thorne approached, unmoving, yet undeniably aware.

The bridge dipped into the shadows, and Thorne descended once again into the strange stillness that was House Umbra.

The passage into House Umbra always felt like stepping into a dream, quiet, soft-lit, and somehow just slightly removed from the rest of the world. Thorne moved through the arched corridor without hurry, the violet lanterns drifting overhead casting gentle pools of light in his wake. Shadows shifted across the carved stone, never quite still, never quite silent.

As he crossed the final threshold into the common room, the atmosphere hit him like a soft pressure in the chest, velvet and void. The sound was muffled, like a library that had forgotten it was meant to be silent. If someone concentrated, he could hear the occasional shimmer of magic or the ripple of a floating page turning itself.

House Umbra was not warm. It was not lively. It was quiet, a stillness wrapped in intellect and secrets.

But tonight, the common room buzzed.

The vaulted chamber of carved black stone and violet-crystal arches was lit by lanterns, which pulsed as students spoke, argued, or questioned. Floating tomes moved gently between bookcases that rose straight from the void-black floor.

The ritual basin in the center lay undisturbed, black as ink. Shelves glowed faintly around the perimeter, and somewhere nearby a mirror caught the edge of a memory and played it again like a ghost murmuring to itself.

But no one was alone tonight.

Students filled the chamber, sitting on benches, draped over velvet divans, leaning against bookshelves. First-years and upperclassmen mingled in clusters around floating shelves, arcane orbs, and quiet study nooks. There were murmured enchantments drifting through the air like wind, trinkets on display atop velvet cloth, animated cloaks fluttering as their wearers gestured proudly.

The students were animated, displaying magical accessories bought in Evermist, rings that sang when spun, cloaks that changed color with thought, baubles that whispered compliments or curses depending on who held them.

It was still Umbra, but excited, electric. Alive.

He didn't announce himself. He didn't need to.

He simply stepped in.

A few heads turned. Then a few more.

Some did a double-take. A pair of girls sitting near a floating study lamp nudged each other and whispered behind gloved fingers, one of them not-so-subtly dragging her gaze down the length of him and back up again.

Thorne gave them a passing glance, barely a nod.

Thorne passed a pair of students arguing over the efficiency of wand holsters versus focus rings, then sidestepped a miniature mechanical spider trundling across the carpet with a scroll in its jaws.

He spotted Lucien first, curled into a window seat, poring over a thick book with half a dozen bookmarks sprouting from the top like feathers. Next to him, Isadora lounged gracefully in one of the sunken velvet couches, cradling a steaming porcelain cup in her hands. A handful of shimmering pearls levitated above her free hand, drifting lazily in slow, hypnotic orbits.

As he approached, Isadora glanced up, preparing to offer a dry remark and then paused.

Her eyes narrowed. She sat straighter. Her cup lowered.

She blinked. And then blinked again.

"Well," she said slowly, lips curling into a knowing smile, "look at you."

Lucien glanced up. "Who... oh." He blinked, then tilted his head. "That's not suspiciously dramatic at all."

"New clothes," Isadora went on, appraising him openly. "No rags. No salt-stained linens. Hair almost tidy." She leaned back with a smirk. "Are you feeling well? Or is this a very polite impersonation?"

Thorne raised a brow. "That's your opening line?"

"You walked in here like a noble returning from war, Thorne." She sipped her drink. "It deserved commentary."

Lucien gestured with his quill. "You've leveled up your look, I'll give you that."

"Better than being mistaken for a dock rat," Thorne said.

Isadora tilted her head. "I don't know. You pulled it off well. But this? This might be better." Her gaze lingered a moment too long before flicking back to her pearls.

Thorne scoffed, pulling up a seat and settling in like he'd never been gone. "It's just fabric."

"Mhm," Isadora murmured, taking a sip of whatever dark brew she was drinking. "Tell that to the two girls over there who haven't blinked since you walked in."

Thorne followed her glance briefly, saw them looking again, then shook his head. "They probably saw the bonding ritual."

Lucien snorted.

Isadora laughed outright. "Why are men so clueless?"

Thorne smirked faintly, stretching his legs out in front of him, wand tucked neatly beneath his coat. "I'm not clueless," he said. "I just don't care."

That made Lucien look up, chuckling under his breath. "He's evolving."

Isadora leaned back with a grin. "Dangerously self-aware. It's a good look on you."

"Did you bond with something flashy?" Lucien asked, flipping a page and changing the subject. "What was it? A wand? A staff that sings opera? A grimoire with its own opinions?"

Thorne shrugged. "Something like that."

Isadora's brow arched. "That's evasion."

"I'm very good at evasion."

She laughed. "Apparently. Though I do like this version of you."

Before Thorne could respond, Isadora's eyes flicked past his shoulder, toward the far corner.

Her smile faded.

She nodded toward the shadows. "Someone's watching you."

Thorne followed her gaze.

Near the far edge of the room, partly shadowed beneath one of the floating mirrors, stood a lion beastkin. Broad-shouldered, mane neatly braided, arms crossed over a dark coat that wasn't student uniform. He wore a banded leather harness with faint aether-stitching along the seams, functional, travel-worn, too stiff for lounging and too serious for study.

He wasn't mingling. Wasn't talking. Just standing.

And staring.

Right at Thorne.

Lucien leaned over. "Who's that?"

"No idea," Thorne said, not looking away.

"He's not wearing house colors," Isadora murmured. "Not a student."

Thorne frowned slightly. The beastkin's expression was unreadable, calm, unblinking, like a sentinel waiting for some unseen cue.

"Maybe he's a parent," Lucien said dryly. "Here to drag one of us home."

"Then he's very lost," Isadora replied.

The lion didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't stop watching.

They didn't have long to enjoy the moment.

Isadora's eyes flicked past Thorne's shoulder again and her lips curled into something between mischief and curiosity.

"Oh," she said, voice bright. "He's coming over. Goody. I love dramatics."

Thorne turned slightly in his seat, just enough to see the lion beastkin striding toward them with deliberate, unhurried steps. His mane caught the glow of a floating lantern as he passed beneath it, casting long shadows across his features. His coat, still stiff and travel-worn, bore no House sigil, no student patch. He didn't belong here. Not exactly.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

But no one was stopping him.

His gaze never left Thorne.

He stopped beside their table, posture impeccable, and inclined his head slightly, not out of deference, but protocol.

"Thorne Silverbane," he said, voice like gravel smoothed by age. "Would you follow me, please."

Thorne's Veil Sense flared at the words, instinct snapping into place. A flicker of numbers, faint and sharp, whispered into his mind.

Level: 76.

Not a student. Not even close.

His hand drifted a fraction closer to where Ashthorn was hidden beneath his coat. "To where? And why?"

The lion's eyes didn't narrow, didn't blink. "My patron has extended an invitation. You have yet to respond."

Thorne's mouth twitched. "I've been busy."

The beastkin didn't answer that. He simply stood, waiting.

Watching.

Lucien had gone still, his finger paused on the edge of a page. Isadora sipped calmly but her eyes were bright with interest, flicking between the two like a spectator in a duel.

Thorne exhaled through his nose. "Let me drop my things in my room. I'll come."

The lion nodded once. "I'll wait."

He turned and returned to his previous spot, same posture, same silence, as if nothing had happened at all.

"Well," Lucien said, breaking the silence. "Someone's anxious to meet you."

Thorne frowned. The whole thing itched. An invitation from a faceless patron? Delivered by someone with that kind of level?

Too precise. Too practiced.

He didn't like walking into rooms blind.

He didn't like people knowing more than he did.

But he also knew a message like that wasn't really a request.

He stood slowly, brushing a hand through his hair. "I'll see you two later."

"Have fun," Isadora said sweetly, and then under her breath, "Try not to get kidnapped."

He gave her a look, then turned and headed toward the dorm halls, weaving between students still chatting and showing off trinkets like the air wasn't quietly shifting around him.

His room was as he left it. Modest, neat and small. He dropped his supplies carefully, stowed his new quills and potions, and with care laid the packages on top of his dresser.

Then he returned.

The beastkin stood exactly where he had been, as if he hadn't moved a muscle since they last spoke.

As Thorne approached, the lion turned and nodded once.

"If you'll follow me."

The beastkin led Thorne deep, past where the lights dimmed and the air thickened with wards. This wasn't a corridor students wandered. It wasn't even part of Aetherhold proper, though the architecture still whispered of the castle's bones.

The path ended at a heavy, rune-etched door. It swung open at the beastkin's touch without a single word exchanged.

The chamber beyond was simple, like a room that could belong to any old structure. In the ceiling however was etched a sigil, so powerful that was visible to the naked eye and lit the chamber with a soft light.

Thorne stepped in and felt his core stir.

Power.

Not in the room. In someone.

At the center was a low table of black stone, carved with whorls and constellations that glowed faintly as Thorne approached. And behind it sat a man or rather, something in the shape of one.

The figure was tall, even seated, with limbs too long and posture too perfect. His skin was grey, like polished slate, and his ears rose in long curves like knives. His hair was silver-white, pulled back in a sleek braid that draped over one shoulder, pinned by what looked like a clasp of bone.

And his eyes...

Twin rings of soft fire, white around a black center. Not glowing. Burning.

He grinned the moment Thorne entered.

"Ah," he said, voice smooth and lilting with the ghost of an accent Thorne didn't recognize. "There you are. My lion was starting to think you'd run off. But I told him, no, no, this one's far too stubborn for that. Were you being stubborn?"

Thorne didn't answer.

"Oh, excellent. You have a brooding phase." He gestured at the seat across from him. "Do sit. I get bored talking to people while they hover."

Thorne sat, cautious but composed.

"Better," the elf said, folding his hands. "Where are my manners? I am... I suppose you can call me Varo." He said it as though it were a joke only he found funny. "Don't ask what House or court. It's complicated. Everything old is complicated."

He leaned forward. "Now then. You're wondering why you're here."

Thorne met his gaze. "You asked for me."

"I did. But that's not the question, is it?" Varo tilted his head. "The real question is what I want. And whether you should be afraid of it."

Thorne didn't flinch. "Should I be?"

Varo's grin widened. "Yes. But not yet."

He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, robes rustling like dry silk.

"I collect people. Not in the literal sense," he added quickly, winking. "I've only kept one person in a jar. He was very rude, and he's fine now."

Thorne arched an eyebrow. "You're joking."

Varo's eyes gleamed. "Am I?"

A pause.

"Don't worry. I've no intention of jarring you, Thorne Silverbane. But I do… enjoy possibilities." He waved a hand, and a small flicker of magic danced above his palm, a moving constellation that twisted into a dagger, then a key, then a flame.

"You're full of them," Varo said. "Possibilities. Paths. Problems."

"You've been watching me?"

"I've been watching everyone. But you…" He clicked his tongue. "You pulled focus."

Thorne stayed silent, calculating.

Varo sighed, as if disappointed. "You're good at that. Not speaking. It's very dramatic. But I've heard all the silence before. Let's try something else."

He leaned in again, this time slower.

"What is the one thing," he asked softly, "you would burn down the world to protect?"

Thorne didn't answer. Not because he didn't know.

Because the answer wasn't safe to say.

Varo's smile flattened into something still. Like the surface of deep water. "You don't have to tell me. You already did."

A flick of his wrist, and the table shimmered, showing nothing but shadow.

"Do you know what I am?" Varo asked suddenly.

Thorne hesitated. "No."

"Good. Keep it that way."

Then, with no warning at all, he laughed, sharp and musical. "Oh, I do like you. So tense. You carry your secrets like daggers. Very old-world of you."

Thorne's hand drifted toward his coat again. Toward Ashthorn.

Varo saw it. Didn't react.

"Let's not do that," he said kindly. "You wouldn't like the mess I'd make."

Another beat. Then, calmly, "I'm considering extending sponsorship."

Thorne studied him. "Why me?"

A sharp, delighted laugh burst out of him.

"Oh, isn't it obvious?" Varo said, spreading his arms. "That little performance of yours at the binding ritual, of course. You manipulated the ancient sigils of the ritual like it was nothing. You controlled an advanced spell without conscious thought and the room's still humming with your signature.... But most importantly, you possess a black core..."

He leaned in, grinning. "Not many know what a black core means, Thorne. But I do."

Thorne stiffened.

"I've seen it before," Varo went on, voice dipping into something almost reverent. "A long, long time ago. I owned..." He paused, then corrected himself with a grin. "...mentored someone with a core like yours."

He held up a hand, swirling his fingers lazily. A thread of raw, silver aether unraveled in the air and spun into the shape of a star before winking out.

"You are gifted. Extraordinary. And I'm here to help you become something rare. Something terrifying. A shooting star, the kind that appears once in a thousand years, burning so brightly it scars the sky."

Thorne narrowed his eyes. "You know what the black core means."

Varo laughed again, this time, deeper. Almost giddy.

"Of course I do. You're a Vaelari."

The name landed like a stone in the air.

Thorne didn't recognize it, but his core did. A tight pull in his chest. A whisper of recognition from something ancient in his blood.

"You don't have a singular affinity," Varo said, pacing now, slow and fluid like smoke caught in a breeze. "You have all of them. You are capable of wielding any element, any spectrum, as long as your mind can shape it. Light, shadow, fire, wind, time, blood, it's all yours to claim."

He turned his head, eyes glowing. "If more people knew what you truly were, they wouldn't just chase you, Thorne. They'd chain you. Train you. Use you."

Thorne gritted his teeth.

He'd heard that before. Felt it. Lived it.

Uncle's voice echoed somewhere deep in his memory. You're not a person, Thorne. You're a tool. Mine.

"And you," Thorne said slowly, "aren't planning to do that."

The smile drained from Varo's face.

His expression darkened, not with anger, but something colder.

"No," he said, and for the first time, his voice held weight.

"I have tasted that treatment. A long time ago, when I was still foolish enough to trust people who wanted to make me 'useful.' I have no interest in repeating that cycle. Not as victim. Not as architect."

Thorne studied him, silent.

Then, as suddenly as it had gone, Varo's lightness returned like a flicked mask.

"But if you are what I think you are?" he said, smiling again. "Then you'd be the most spectacular protégé I've ever had. You'd rewrite what it means to study magic. The others wouldn't matter. You'd make every noble's darling look like a street performer."

He leaned one hip against the table, eyes gleaming.

"So?"

But Thorne didn't answer. Not right away.

He sat back slightly, gaze cool now. Measured.

"You speak like someone who expects the offer to be taken."

Varo blinked then laughed again, delighted.

"Oh, I like you. Finally, you bite."

Thorne tilted his head. "What makes you think I need you? There are plenty of patrons. Houses. Guilds. Actual monarchs. I've had offers."

"And you turned them down."

Thorne didn't confirm or deny.

Varo circled slowly, as if considering a piece of art from a new angle.

"You're clever. Good. You should be. You've survived by reading dangerous people."

"I'm not done surviving," Thorne said. "And I don't plan on becoming someone's prize."

"Not a prize," Varo said, stepping back into his eyeline. "An investment."

"Same thing. Just with longer chains."

Varo's smile stretched again, amused. "So what would it take? A vault of gold? Titles? I have both, though I find them dreadfully boring."

"I'm not looking for gold," Thorne said flatly.

"Then what are you looking for?"

Thorne considered it.

Then answered with a small, dangerous smile of his own.

"Freedom."

Varo went very still.

His eyes burned brighter for just a second.

And then he said, softly, "Good. That's the only thing worth chasing."

Varo's smile lingered, playful and unreadable, but his posture shifted, just slightly.

"Before I offer anything official," he said, voice low and silken, "I do need to check something."

Thorne's brows drew down. "Check what?"

But Varo was already raising one hand, the movement smooth and lazy like waving off a farewell.

He spoke then, an incantation in a tongue Thorne didn't know. The words didn't echo. They drowned.

The air snapped.

Not loud but final.

The room didn't vanish. It peeled.

The floor beneath Thorne shimmered, warped, and melted into silver reflection. The walls folded like paper soaked through with ink. The ceiling didn't collapse; it simply wasn't there anymore. The very shape of reality around him cracked, and what was left behind wasn't shadow or light, but a mirrored void, reflecting not what was, but what might be.

Everything blurred away.

Except for Varo.

And Thorne.

Only the two of them remained tangible, real in a space that didn't know what reality meant anymore.

Varo stood in the shifting ether, his long coat fluttering in wind that didn't exist, his silver hair catching some unseen glow. The mirrorglass beneath them rippled with faint constellations. It was beautiful in the way deep oceans were, gorgeous, cold, and waiting to swallow you.

His white-ringed eyes burned brighter now.

Brighter than ever.

And his smile... was no longer kind.

"Now," Varo said, almost a purr, "let's see if I'm correct in my assumption."

He didn't move.

He didn't raise his voice.

But the mirror world shuddered.

Thorne tensed. His core stirred, wild and alert.

And then...

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