Thorne shuffled behind a cluster of first-years, his footsteps slow and dull against the stone. He hadn't slept.

Not really.

He'd dozed. Maybe. He couldn't tell anymore. After what Marian had told him the night before, after what he'd seen, what he'd learned, sleep had felt like a foreign concept. His thoughts were too loud. Too heavy.

No. He shook the thoughts loose as they crept in again. I'm not going there. If I don't think about it, then none of it was real.

The round room with the sigilwheel was quieter than usual, only a couple dozen students gathered there, following a tall fourth-year who had clearly drawn the short straw as guide. They were heading to their first class of the day: Battle Magic & Spell Augmentation. An elective, but a popular one… or so he'd thought.

Apparently not.

The group was small. Only two dozen students at most. A far cry from the usual hordes he'd seen in Arcane Fundamentals or Magical History. And even more surprising, neither Isadora nor Elias were among them. He knew Isadora had signed up for this elective, but apparently her schedule had placed her in a different group. Thorne was, for now, alone.

Not completely alone.

A few paces ahead, Gariddan and Ronan walked in stony silence. Gariddan hadn't looked back once. Ronan, however, made a point to glare every so often over his shoulder, like he couldn't decide whether he was angry, wary, or just petty.

Thorne rolled his eyes. Childish.

They exited the sigilwheel chamber and crossed into new territory, a section of Aetherhold he hadn't yet explored.

The air changed here.

It smelled different. Felt different. The castle's high arches and crystalline corridors gave way to open sky and shifting marble paths, like a small city had unfolded around them with no walls, no doors, no end. White buildings stood without corners, flowing seamlessly into each other, domed and spired, with open courtyards that buzzed with motion.

Older students wandered freely here, some dueling, others laughing, a few sitting cross-legged mid-air as they discussed aetheric convergence patterns or raw spell syntax like it was lunchtime gossip. Spellcraft wasn't a thing to study here.

It was something lived.

The fourth-year led them along a sloping path that weaved between colonnades and fountains. Finally, they reached a wide circular structure at the end of a hill. Giant pillars towered around it, holding nothing but open air, a crown of stone framing the morning sky.

"Here," the fourth-year called lazily over his shoulder. "Don't die."

Then he vanished with a casual teleport.

Thorne stepped through the columns, and his boots met sand.

An arena.

A real one. Not like the polished dueling rings or the mock-training halls they'd seen before. This was ancient stone and weathered grit. Sunlight poured in from the open ceiling, and the stands rose in high concentric rings, climbing like the petals of a stone flower. The marble under the sand pulsed faintly with buried sigils, the kind meant to catch errant firestorms or slow a particularly fatal fall.

And in the center stood a man.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. He was just… there. Silent, like the still before a storm.

Thorne narrowed his eyes.

Definitely the instructor.

He stood in the center of the arena like a statue, arms crossed, waiting for the last student to step through the colonnade. The sun cast long shadows across the sand, and the white marble gleamed faintly from beneath the dust, laced with warding sigils just barely visible to Thorne's aether-sight.

The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and visibly older than most instructors Thorne had seen so far. Not elderly, just hardened. Worn down like old steel.

He had no left hand.

Or left leg.

In their place, threads of woven aether shimmered faintly in the daylight, forming the ghostlike shape of a limb in motion, a leg that shifted with translucent precision, an arm whose fingers twitched with faint pulses of energy. They reminded Thorne of the aether constructs that wandered Aetherhold's halls sweeping staircases or ferrying scrolls. But these weren't mindless helpers.

These were weapons.

His body bore the rest of the tale. Scars across his jaw, a deep gash through one brow, and burn marks that vanished beneath his uniform. A survivor. Not a theorist. Not a lecturer.

A man who had seen real wars. And lived.

When he finally spoke, his voice cut through the air like a blade.

"My name is Verrian," he said. "And this..." he swept his wand in an arc, the sand beneath them momentarily lifting and swirling like mist, "... is where you'll learn to fight. To win. To dominate."

The words echoed against the arena's marble walls. The students quieted.

"You're here because you chose this elective," Verrian went on. "Because something in you wanted more than spellbooks and scrolls. Good. That's what this place is for. We train duelists here. Combat mages. People who know how to take a hit and give back twice as hard."

He began to pace slowly in the sand, the ethereal leg leaving no footprints.

"The spells I teach will not heal. They will not purify, or calm storms, or light candles. They are meant for one thing: harm. Or to stop harm."

He paused, turned.

"And if you're very, very good… maybe one day, you'll join the ranks of the Aetherhold Enforcers."

That word struck like a needle.

Thorne's instinct was to frown. But his skill, Mask of Deceit, had already activated. His expression remained impassive. Blank.

Enforcers? he thought, the word curdling in his stomach.

After what Marian had told him last night about the true nature of Aetherhold, its control over aether and the quiet war being waged from within, the word took on a darker weight.

Enforcer now sounded less like protector and more like executioner.

Verrian raised his wand. Not a finger, not a gesture of raw will, a proper wand, old wood reinforced with silver bands, worn from use but precise in its execution.

"In today's lesson," Verrian continued, "you will not be casting. Not yet. You'll be learning how to use your new foci. Your wands, your staves, your orbs, your grimoires. Your tools."

He held up his wand, and with a flick, a translucent display appeared above the arena, the outline of various focus types hovering, shifting.

"These are not decorations. They are not accessories. They are not crutches. Your focus is your strongest ally. It channels you. Amplifies you. If you don't understand your focus, you don't understand your magic. Period."

He lowered the wand and looked around the arena. "Who here wants to attack me?"

His eyes looked eager, and slightly deranged.

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Noone dared to move, only looking at the confused and bewildered faces of the others. Then Ronan stepped forward.

"Me sir. I happen to be an excellent duelist. I have been training since I was seven." He moved forward with swagger, already clutching his wand with an air of complete confidence.

Verrian gave him a small smile. It wasn't comforting.

"Show us then."

Ronan straightened, puffing slightly. "Of course."

"Good. Attack me."

The class went still.

Ronan looked unsure for a split second but then smirked. "You're certain?"

"I'm already bored," Verrian replied.

Ronan flourished his wand. It extended slightly, the tip glowing with a hot orange pulse. He swung it down, sending a sharp arc of kinetic fire toward Verrian.

The teacher barely moved. A flick of his wand, a twist of his aetheric arm, and the arc dissipated midair, unraveled like thread.

Before Ronan could react, Verrian had crossed the distance in a single step.

Thorne saw only a blur.

The wand came down once, not with power, but with precision and Ronan staggered back, his wand clattering to the sand, a glowing welt blooming on his forearm.

"Control," Verrian said calmly. "Not power. Not anger. Control."

Ronan grimaced but nodded as he retrieved his wand.

Verrian turned back to the class.

"Let that be your first lesson," he said. "Your focus doesn't obey rage. It obeys purpose. Learn to wield it properly… or it will betray you when you need it most."

Thorne's hand shifted slightly to the wand at his side.

He already knew what betrayal looked like. But for the first time in a long while, he was curious about something else entirely:

What did it look like… to have that kind of control?

"Pair up!" the instructor called. "No pair, no progress."

Students moved quickly, nervously, forming pairs across the sandy floor. Wands were drawn, staves held tightly, grimoires flung open with hopeful fingers.

Thorne didn't move. He already knew who would find him.

Sure enough, a few paces away, Garridan Draymore stood staring, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he stepped closer, wand already in hand.

"Garridan," Thorne said with a nod.

"Silverbane," the other replied coolly, as if they were squaring off for a duel of honor and not a class exercise.

Thorne drew the Ashthorn Wand from its holster. The moment it touched his hand, it pulsed, eager, wild. The grain of the ancient wood shimmered faintly with inner fire, its tip already aglow with a low burn of potential.

Then the ambient aether responded.

It came to him like mist, curling around his arms and shoulders, dancing in his lungs. It had waited. Always it waited. The moment his intention sharpened, it gathered.

Too fast, he thought. Too eager.

Verrian's voice rang out again.

"Drain them," he commanded. "Your foci hold aether. Use it. Empty them. That's your task. Point and shoot. Again and again until they spark and sputter like dry leaves."

With that, the arena exploded into motion.

Students began firing their basic aether bolts. Most were raw, unaligned, blue-white spheres of energy that zipped through the air like stars. A few flared with elemental affinities. Fire. Ice. Wind. Ronan, unsurprisingly, launched streaks of searing red fire, grinning as they crashed into the protective arena walls.

Thorne stood still.

His wand trembled faintly in his grip, hungering. The ambient aether pressed harder, whispering through his ears, itching to be channeled.

But he remembered what happened last time.

Garridan didn't wait.

Garridan's wand snapped up and fired a crackling bolt of pale-blue aether tearing through the air. Thorne didn't flinch.

He moved.

Not with hesitation, not with flourish but with the mechanical efficiency of someone who had lived his life threading through shadows and blades. Burst of Speed activated in a heartbeat, and the world seemed to slow.

His body twisted, weight shifting to the balls of his feet as the bolt sizzled past his side. His clothes snapped in the air, but no contact was made. Another flash. Garridan cast again, this time aiming lower, trying to compensate for Thorne's quick footwork.

Thorne ducked, not just low but fluid, a motion so practiced it looked like water folding in on itself. His shoulder skimmed the sand as he pivoted, sliding into a roll before springing upright again just in time to sidestep another shot. His breathing remained steady. Unrushed.

This wasn't instinct. This was programming.

Garridan's eyes widened with each dodge. His lips tightened into a determined line. Again, he fired.

Each twitch of his muscle, each turn of his ankle had been carved into his nerves by a childhood steeped in survival and precision. Uncle hadn't trained him to fight like a soldier or duel like a mage. He had been trained to end fights before they began.

The evolved Combat Reflexes, Deadzone Reflex layered itself over his perception, slowing time even further. Thorne's mind split into pieces, one tracking Garridan's stance, another memorizing the tempo of his spellfire, a third calculating trajectory based on elbow angle and wand tilt.

Garridan fired again, frustration creeping into his grip. Thorne didn't dodge this time, he ghosted. One step to the side, almost casual, and the bolt hissed harmlessly past his shoulder.

A fourth shot came, wild, too quick and Thorne simply wasn't there anymore.

The onlookers had stopped casting. Some openly stared. Not because of anything flashy, but because of the quiet, terrifying efficiency of it.

This wasn't a student learning to dodge spells. This was a man who had dodged death for a living.

Bolts hissed past his shoulders. One fizzled harmlessly as it missed his head by an inch. Another scattered against the sand where he'd just stood.

Even if he had stood still, half the bolts wouldn't have landed. But Thorne didn't give them the chance.

More students began to watch.

Then...

"You with the freaky eyes!" Verrian's bellow cracked through the cacophony.

Thorne froze mid-step.

The instructor stalked toward them, his aether-leg flickering as it moved through the sand. "This isn't a dance class! You want to spin and dodge, go to the Conservatory of Bards. Attack!"

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Ronan's snort carried clear across the arena.

"Maybe he's afraid of breaking a nail," someone muttered.

Thorne's fingers tightened around his wand.

He didn't move.

Garridan stopped firing, lowering his wand slightly, chest heaving from effort. "What's your problem?" he demanded. "You afraid you'll hurt me?"

Thorne said nothing. The Ashthorn Wand pulsed in his hand, alive with caged power.

I can't lose control again, he thought.

But the ambient aether kept crowding closer.

Pushing. Begging.

Use me.

All around him, students were firing. Some barely managing to cast. Others misfiring, or letting bolts sputter midair. No one mocked them. No one stared.

But Thorne?

He was too perfect to fail and too dangerous to trust.

He drew in a slow breath. The burning air filled his lungs.

Still, he didn't raise his wand.

Garridan stepped forward, eyes hard. "If you're not going to try, don't waste my time."

Thorne's expression remained impassive, but something inside him coiled. Tight. Quiet. Waiting.

The Ashthorne Wand trembled.

Waiting too.

Thorne's fingers tightened around the Ashthorn wand. The polished black wood pulsed, alive with hunger, sensing his resolve shift. No more hesitation. He wasn't going to get better by playing it safe.

He glanced at Garridan, who was squaring up again, wand raised, determined to land at least one strike.

Thorne smirked. "You might want to brace."

Before Garridan could process the warning, Thorne swiped his wand sideways through the air, a smooth, deliberate motion that stirred the ambient aether like a predator waking.

His eyes ignited.

Twin suns, glowing with fierce, white-blue radiance, cast eerie light over the sand and Garridan's pale, startled face. The aether responded like a tide pulled toward a moon. Rushing, gathering, demanding to be used.

Ashthorn sang in his grip.

The wand surged, drawing not just from Thorne's core but from the surrounding aether, absorbing it like breath after drowning. The bolt it shaped was monstrous, a roiling sphere of concentrated magic that hissed and crackled with raw tension. It swelled five times the size of the others', threads of light coiling around it like serpents.

Thorne's focus snapped into place. He grit his teeth and reined it in.

"That's enough," he whispered.

With a sharp downward flick of the wrist, the spell fired a beam of radiant energy laced with unnatural speed and accuracy. The bolt streaked across the sand like a comet and struck Garridan center-mass.

A shockwave thundered across the arena.

Garridan was lifted off his feet, arms flailing, wand tumbling from his fingers. He sailed backward through the air and hit the sand with a heavy thud that echoed off the stone walls. Smoke curled off his ruined uniform or what remained of it. The front had been scorched black, cloth incinerated, leaving bare skin dusted in soot.

Silence.

A dozen students stood frozen, mouths agape. The only sound was the faint crackle of heat dissipating in the air, and the slow, steady hiss of Thorne lowering his wand.

Instructor Verrian hobbled forward, his aetheric limb clicking against the stone. He looked down at Garridan, prodding him lightly with his glowing blue foot. Garridan groaned and shifted, barely conscious.

"He's alive," Verrian announced dryly. "Charred, but breathing."

Then he turned slowly to Thorne.

The man's gaze raked over him, assessing, calculating, interested. His mouth twitched, not quite a frown, not quite a smile.

Thorne gave a half-hearted shrug and a crooked grin. "What? You told me to attack."

The students burst into whispers. Some laughed nervously. Ronan scowled, deeply unimpressed. But a few looked at Thorne with something new in their eyes, not confusion, not disdain.

Apprehension.

And maybe… a flicker of awe.

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