The room sat frozen for a heartbeat.

No one wanted to be the first.

Quills hovered in the air. Books fluttered, half-forgotten. Aether buzzed faintly, as if the very air had expectations of its own.

Thorne exhaled slowly, feeling the Ashthorn Wand at his side vibrate with an eager hum, as if urging him forward. His gloves flexed, faint lines of defensive aether waking along the knuckles. Around him, he sensed others stirring. Some nervously adjusted their uniforms. Some whispered hurried prayers.

A few desks down, Ingrid Valara moved first, calm as ice. She lifted her slender wand with mechanical grace, her every motion practiced and deliberate. The luminescent sigil trailed briefly in her wake.

"Lux," she intoned.

A crystalline globe of light blossomed into existence at her wand's tip, cold and sharp as a winter moon.

Dozens of students immediately began fumbling after her, a frantic scattering of motions and half-formed words.

Some tried too quickly, their gestures sloppy, their incantations rushed.

Sputtering flashes of dull gold, flickering sparks, or wisps of faint glow danced over the crowd, many failing almost as soon as they began.

The air filled with the scent of burnt parchment and the sour tinge of misaligned aether.

Professor Vorr stalked between the platforms like a hawk among field mice, her floating crystal bobbing sharply whenever someone made a particularly egregious mistake.

"Slower, Cadren."

"Focus, Mara. You're leaking aether like a cracked cask."

"You. Redhead. Say the word like you mean it, not like you're ordering breakfast."

Thorne rolled his shoulders once. Let his heart slow. Let the noise fall away.

He centered himself, finding that deep inner well where his aether churned and pulsed with raw power. It was more volatile than it should be, coiled like a beast waiting to be unleashed. But he remembered Vorr's words, offered, not forced.

He did not move yet.

Instead, he sat with the book open before him, scanning the fine, neat instructions Professor Vorr had assigned:

Spell: Illumination (Tier 1 Basic Light Spell)

Spell Classification:

Tier: 1

Type: Utility / Basic Elemental Manipulation (Light)

Difficulty: Beginner

Objective:

To manifest a small, stable orb of light through structured aether weaving, serving as the foundation for more complex elemental spells.

Incantation:

Primary Word:

"Lux"

Language: Aetheric Speech (Root-Word Variant)

Note: Word must be spoken with clarity, intent, and internal aether guidance.

Wand Gesture:

Initiate with a spiral ascent motion (start from waist height, move upward in a smooth corkscrew pattern).

Close the spiral tightly at the apex with a sharp wrist flick.

Purpose: The spiral channels raw aether upward, stabilizing it into a condensed form. Closing the spiral locks the energy into a fixed orb.

Aether Weave Instructions:

Draw aether from the core slowly and evenly.

Rotate the aetheric flow internally in a clockwise spiral matching the wand movement.

Bind the flow at the apex by mentally "sealing" the weave with intent.

Common Mistakes:

Overdrawing aether

: Leads to unstable, explosive results.

Incomplete spiral gesture

: Causes light to flicker or sputter.

Incorrect incantation pacing

: Speaking too quickly or too slowly disrupts aether binding.

Weak core connection

: Results in faint, ineffective light.

Training Tip:

Remember: The word shapes the intent. The gesture binds the form. The weave sustains the manifestation. All three must be executed in harmony.

On Incantation Cadence:

"The power of 'Lux' lies not merely in its utterance but in its tempo. It should be spoken neither hastily nor drawn out. Aether responds best to deliberate, rhythmic intention."

On Internal Aether Circulation:

"The core must guide, not force. Beginners often 'push' their aether outward, but true weaving invites the energy upward with calm certainty. Think of coaxing a reluctant flame rather than throwing wood onto a fire."

Rowenna, sitting just to his side, glanced up from her own scroll, tapping her wand lightly against her knee.

"Doesn't sound too complicated," she said under her breath, though there was a slight tightness in her voice.

Thorne made no comment. His vision was shifting, tilting, as the aether stirred under the growing noise of attempts.

With his Aether Vision active, the world shimmered.

He could see them. The raw, flickering aether-sigils students were trying to form in the air. Dozens of tiny glowing diagrams, incomplete, twisted, broken. Some looked like cracked spiderwebs, others like erratic constellations collapsing on themselves.

The shapes hovered briefly above each student's wand tip before fraying apart.

The aether in the room grew restless, like water disturbed by too many stones.

It pressed against Thorne's skin, hungry, sensing his core's dormant potential. His Ashthorn wand vibrated faintly at his side, almost as if urging him to move.

He gritted his teeth and clamped down on the instinct.

His eyes, unseen beneath the soft fall of his hair, pulsed brighter. A soft blue-white hue bled outward from his irises. Rowenna shifted beside him, glancing his way in confusion, but he ducked his head quickly, pretending to re-read the spell instructions.

Across the amphitheater, more students were trying.

Fizzle. Pop. Crackle.

Half-spells bloomed and collapsed.

Frustration thickened the air. Lucien, two rows down, cursed softly under his breath, gripping his wand like he wanted to snap it.

Even Ingrid Valara's second attempt, a perfect sigil structure, flickered and wavered before stabilizing only weakly.

Thorne's pulse thrummed in his ears.

The aether called to him. Yearned for him to weave it properly. His fingers twitched toward his wand unconsciously.

He re-read the instructions once more, forcing himself to be methodical. Precise.

There were too many moving parts for a novice: the gesture, the incantation, the aether weave, the internal shaping. It wasn't like triggering a Skill, where instinct and brute will sufficed. This was deliberate craftsmanship.

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He inhaled slowly.

Thorne had just raised his wand, feeling the aether coiling eagerly at the edge of his focus, when the classroom doors slammed open with a loud, echoing bang.

Heads whipped toward the entrance.

There, half out of breath and looking thoroughly disheveled, stood Elias.

His uniform was wrinkled beyond saving, one sleeve somehow half torn, and a faint scorch mark trailed across the front of his tunic. His brown hair stuck up wildly as if he'd just lost a fight with a lightning spell and judging from the smoking, blackened end of the staff clutched in one hand, maybe he had.

A long, painful pause stretched across the amphitheater.

Professor Vorr slowly turned her head toward him, her empty eyes looking downright terryfying.

"...Mr...." she paused waiting for an answer.

Elias looked pale, like he wished a calamity would befall him so that he wouldn't have to face his new professor. "Greenleaf..." His voice was barely audible.

Vorr smiled. "How kind of you to join us." She said, her voice soft, dangerously polite.

A few muffled snickers traveled through the seated students.

Elias, to his credit, rallied quickly. He snapped into a clumsy bow, almost dropping his ruined staff in the process.

"Apologies, Professor!" he said, straightening and flashing a wide, strained smile. "There was... a mishap. With my staff."

He lifted it, sheepishly, for all to see. The end was blackened and splintered like overcooked wood. It gave off a faint trail of smoke.

"I, uh, thought I should prepare for today. So I tried polishing it. You know, make a good impression! Except the wood didn't like the polish. And then I thought maybe I could channel a little aether to... smooth things out... and, um." He gestured vaguely at himself. "Well. It backfired."

Another ripple of laughter moved through the students.

Thorne fought the urge to bury his face in his hands. Of course it would be Elias.

Professor Vorr's mouth twitched. Whether in amusement or rage was unclear.

"I see," she said crisply. "Since you are already so eager to work with your staff, Mr. Greenleaf, you will be the first to demonstrate our spell today."

Elias paled.

"But..." he started.

Vorr silenced him with a glance that could have frozen an ocean.

"Approach."

Groaning under his breath, Elias stumbled forward to the center platform. He shot Thorne a desperate look, which Thorne ignored, folding his arms and leaning back in his seat.

Professor Vorr patiently walked Elias through the steps, her voice slow and deliberate as if speaking to a child.

"Feel your aether. Shape it. Remember the phrase. Trace the spiral upward, not outward. Focus."

Elias muttered under his breath and gave it a try. He raised his half-burned staff, shouted "Lux!" far too enthusiastically, and...

Bang.

A tiny explosion of light burst from the staff's tip, throwing him back a step. The class howled with laughter.

Vorr's floating crystal shot blue sparks in the air, restoring silence instantly.

"Again," she said.

Elias scowled but obeyed, this time muttering the incantation more cautiously.

A flicker of light, not an explosion, just a trembling wisp emerged.

From Thorne's seat, he watched with his aetheric sight. He could see the delicate threads of aether trying to form into the correct sigil, failing, reforming again. Each time Elias got a little closer. His frustration was raw but strangely honest, he wasn't quitting.

Professor Vorr finally raised a hand.

"Enough for today, Mr. Greenleaf. Sit before you combust entirely."

Gratefully, Elias scurried back to the first row of seats, slumping into an empty chair.

"You did great," Thorne mouthed with a smirk.

Elias shot him a dirty look and muttered something about "treacherous wood" and "sabotage."

Professor Vorr turned back to the class.

"Let this be a lesson," she said, voice sharp. "Mastery is not granted to the eager. It is earned by the disciplined."

She gave the class a long look.

"Now, all of you. Proceed."

Thorne closed his eyes briefly and centered himself, feeling the thrum of aether around him, no, not just around him, pressing against him, yearning to be woven.

When he focused inward, he could feel the strands of his own aether coiled neatly within his core, waiting for command. Drawing on it, even delicately, felt as natural as breathing. His fingers tightened around the Ashthorn wand. He murmured the incantation under his breath, shaping the aether as the textbook had described.

A shimmer bloomed at the tip of his wand, the beginnings of a sigil taking form.

But that was when it happened.

The ambient aether, the wild, free energy that most mortals couldn't even touch, responded to him.

It didn't just hover.

It surged.

Thorne's aetheric vision flared, and he could see it: strands of raw, uncontrolled magic latching onto the forming sigil, trying to assist him, trying to merge with the aether from his core.

Just like during the Binding Ritual.

His heart kicked against his ribs. No, not now...

He fought it, reining it back with sheer will. His core, his aether, not this wild, alien thing that wasn't supposed to be touched. His wand trembled slightly in his grip, light burning at the edges of the still-forming sigil.

His eyes already faintly glowing, blazed brighter, the pale blue-white light escaping in thin streams like mist.

He nearly had it.

Spiral upward, shape the conduit, form the anchor...

A small twitch of hesitation, a wrong curve of his wrist and the delicate web of aether unraveled.

The forming sigil collapsed, the gathered magic dispersing with a low hiss, like steam evaporating.

Thorne cursed under his breath and lowered his wand. Around him, the aether still buzzed, reluctant to leave him alone. His head throbbed faintly from the strain.

He drew a slow, steady breath, trying to center himself again.

"Control, not power," he reminded himself. "Control first."

Beside him, a triumphant little pop drew his attention.

Rowenna was staring at the tip of her wand with wide, stunned eyes, where a small ball of light, a true Lux manifestation, hovered unsteadily.

For a heartbeat, it floated.

Then it flickered and winked out.

She let out a frustrated breath through her nose and muttered something unkind under her breath.

"Not bad," Thorne said quietly, offering a half-smirk.

Rowenna turned to him, visibly annoyed. "It lasted two seconds."

"Longer than anyone else so far," he pointed out.

She looked like she wanted to argue then seemed to think better of it, settling for a grim nod instead.

Further down the rows, Professor Vorr had drifted toward Cassian Ravenaire, who was lazily twirling his wand between his fingers as if deciding whether to actually make an attempt or not.

Thorne could feel the subtle tension in the room.

Students were succeeding, barely, but success wasn't coming easily. Every flicker of light was a small triumph, a hard-won victory against an art that demanded absolute precision.

He tightened his grip on his wand again.

No rushing, he thought, setting his jaw. No shortcuts.

Thorne's breathing evened out.

He refused to lose control again.

He felt the wild aether circling him, eager, almost pleading to be woven into the spell.

This time, he embraced the challenge, holding firm against it, like a rider taming a bucking horse. His wand moved with slow, careful precision. Every line, every curve of the sigil in the air formed with crystal clarity.

But they were too bright.

Too sharp.

Too potent.

His core, burning strong, wanted to give more.

The Ashthorn wand, thrumming in his hand, wanted to give more.

The ambient aether, desperate and untamed, wanted to become more.

It was like fighting on three fronts at once, pulling and pushing, feeding and starving, commanding and begging.

He gritted his teeth, feeling the strain along his arms, through his jaw, his chest tight with the effort.

And then, when the spell structure reached a breathless, perfect stillness.

He whispered, barely audible, "Lux."

The result was immediate.

The sigil ignited.

Power rushed along his wand in a blinding arc.

And a sphere of pure white light burst into existence at its tip, radiant and impossibly flawless.

A collective gasp swept through the amphitheater.

Heads turned.

Exclamations rang out.

The ball of light didn't flicker like the others. It didn't struggle to stabilize.

It burned. A perfect, roaring star held captive in his hand.

Too perfect.

The heat kissed his face instantly, a dry blast like standing before a forge. The ball pulsed once and grew larger, expanding unnaturally.

It roared.

A miniature sun blooming into existence, fierce and unstoppable.

At first, it hovered at the tip of his wand like the spellbook described.

Then it swelled.

Growing, doubling, tripling in size. Until it was larger than his own head.

The temperature in the amphitheater spiked violently.

The desk under his hands creaked and smoked.

The stone beneath his boots crackled with thermal stress.

The sphere's brilliance was painful to look at, a searing white orb that washed out everything else in the room, casting deep black shadows against the walls and floor.

A low, vibrating hum filled the air, the sound of compressed aether shaking against the edges of reality itself.

Panic rippled through the rows.

Students shielded their eyes with their arms.

Some fell from their benches, blinded and disoriented.

Others stumbled backward, tripping over scattered chairs and desks.

Pained cries rose. Rowenna's hair ignited at the tips, curling into brittle black strands as she staggered away, coughing.

Lucien cursed, dragging a younger boy down into a crouch.

Across the aisle, a girl shrieked as her robes caught fire, desperately patting at the flames.

It was chaos. Pure and immediate.

Thorne's heart slammed against his ribs.

Too much, he thought.

It's too much.

The ambient aether still poured into the spell, feeding it like a ravenous beast.

He could feel the core of the spell straining, bloating, like a star about to collapse under its own weight.

The sphere pulsed again, and the very air of the amphitheater warped around it.

If he didn't stop it...

If he let it grow any further...

He didn't want to think about the consequences.

Snarling under his breath, Thorne ripped the connection to his core apart with a violent effort of will.

The flow of aether snapped.

The sigil fractured, scattering into dust.

And the light.

The burning sun he had birthed...

Imploded with a soundless shockwave, blasting out a ripple of hot, dry air that snuffed out the smaller fires and sent papers and scrolls skittering across the floor.

The room plunged into a smoking, stunned silence.

Only the aftermath remained.

A blackened, smoking desk where he had been sitting. The ashes of what had once been the standard-issue spellbook fluttering gently to the floor. The students closest to him bore scorched robes, reddened skin, and expressions of awe-struck horror.

Professor Vorr approached at a measured pace, her robes fluttering around her like storm clouds.

She stopped a few paces away, surveying the damage with cool, assessing eyes.

"Well," she said after a long moment, her voice cutting through the haze. "That was... ambitious."

Somewhere behind her, someone whimpered softly.

The heavy smell of burnt hair and singed parchment hung in the air.

Thorne straightened slowly, his wand trembling slightly in his hand. The heat of the spell still prickled against his skin.

And all around him, the realization settled in.

He hadn't just made a mistake.

He had announced himself loudly, blindingly to every single person in the room.

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