The class had resumed, though the air still crackled from the residual force of Thorne's spell. Sand drifted across the training circle, caught in the wake of overactive aether. Paired students continued flinging bolts at each other, some cautiously, others with wild abandon.

Thorne stood alone.

Garridan had been hauled off, half-dragged, half-guided by the older student who'd escorted them here. His uniform, once pristine, now hung in tatters around the smoking imprint of Thorne's strike.

A woman in sea-green robes had entered the arena moments later, serene and deliberate, her silver staff glinting in the morning sun. She knelt beside Garridan without a word, laid her staff gently across his chest, and began to cast. Light wove outward in thin threads from her staff, slipping into Garridan's body like strands of silk. His charred skin shimmered, then sealed. Another incantation passed her lips and the burnt ruin of his uniform unraveled itself, stitching anew into gleaming sky-blue.

Thorne raised an eyebrow. Well… that's convenient.

From the far side of the arena, Verrian returned.

The battle-scarred instructor walked with a limp, his right foot solid against the sand while his left, a woven construct of luminous blue aether shimmered with each step. His missing arm flexed mid-air, the fingers of its ghostly counterpart trailing light as it moved in tandem with his real one. He wore his scars without apology, as if they were just another part of his uniform.

He passed a few students, occasionally adjusting the way they aimed, correcting stances with the barest flick of his hand.

Then he stopped in front of Thorne.

"Freaky eyes." His voice carried a new tone, no longer inddifferent, but amused. "You nearly turned that poor bastard into a crater. You always start your day trying to level buildings or was this special for me?"

Thorne blinked, then gave a slow shrug. "You told me to attack."

Verrian chuckled, rough and low. "I did. Can't say you don't follow instructions."

His eyes swept the field. "You're not bad with that wand. Bit of a power problem, though. Might want to practice not cooking your sparring partners unless you're planning on joining the Aetherhold Enforcers."

The word bit at Thorne's ears.

"Right," Thorne said smoothly, masking his discomfort with the practiced ease of his Mask of Deceit skill. His expression didn't shift. Not a single muscle twitched. But inwardly, his mind churned.

Verrian clapped his aether hand against Thorne's shoulder, the contact feather-light yet strangely warm. "Next class, we're starting with real magic. First spell on the roster, Barrier Forms. You'll learn to shield your bones before you break them."

He turned back toward the arena center and barked out a new order.

"Two dozen of you! And you think standing around like spell-tossing chickens is enough? Push your foci! Drain 'em dry! You don't leave this arena until your focus core's empty or you are!"

The arena flared with renewed energy. Spells soared overhead. Students shouted. The sand hissed where bolts missed their marks.

Thorne grinned faintly.

Behind him, Ronan's voice rose. Loud. Smug.

"You're not that impressive, Silverbane. What, one fancy shot and now you think you're untouchable?"

Thorne didn't turn. Yet.

Ronan's boots crunched over the sand, loud and deliberate. Thorne heard Garridan trailing behind him, quieter, likely still sore but present.

"Oi, Silverbane," Ronan called again, louder now, clearly wanting the whole arena to hear. "What do you say we settle something? You and me. One-on-one. A proper duel."

Thorne finally turned, raising an eyebrow. "Settle what exactly?"

Ronan spread his arms theatrically, wand in hand, his uniform impeccable despite the heat. "Oh, I don't know. The fact that you're a showoff. That no one's impressed by your little explosion trick. That maybe... just maybe, you got lucky."

"I incinerated Garridan's uniform," Thorne said dryly. "I'd call that a bit more than lucky."

Garridan crossed his arms. "I'm fine, by the way."

"Yeah," Ronan said with a snort. "And now you get to say you fought the most unhinged first-year in school. Congratulations."

Thorne was already tuning half of it out. This again? There was always someone who needed to prove themselves.

"And what," he asked, voice clipped, "do you want? To prove you're better?"

Ronan grinned like he'd already won. "To teach you some control."

Thorne gave a long-suffering sigh. "Fine. But just so you know, I'm not using spells."

Ronan blinked. "Obviously. We haven't learned any yet."

"I mean it," Thorne said, stepping onto the dueling platform. "What about skills?"

Ronan's grin widened for half a second. "Allowed."

Around them, other students stopped their training. A few began gathering around them. Even Verrian didn't interfere, just crossed his arms and leaned on his aether leg with a smirk.

"Begin!" someone called.

Ronan fired instantly.

Three bolts shot across the arena in quick succession, red-white streaks that cracked through the air. They weren't wild blasts, each was well-aimed, well-timed. He was good.

But Thorne was better.

He moved with unearthly grace, years of assassin reflexes guiding his body like a symphony of motion. Windborne Agility activated, his body lifted, light as vapor, twisting as though the wind had caught him. The first bolt seared past his shoulder, the second kissed the edge of his boot, the third missed entirely as he spun low.

He struck back.

The bolt he unleashed exploded from the Ashthorn wand like a cannon shot, five times thicker than any other. It shrieked through the air and slammed into the sand near Ronan's feet.

The entire arena trembled. A cloud of burning dust erupted in all directions. Students in closer to the fighting ducked, screaming.

"What the hell?!" Ronan shouted, leaping back, coughing.

Thorne didn't answer. He was focused, too focused. His eyes burned with twin rings of blue-white light. His wand glowed at the tip as he muttered to himself, trying to keep the wild aether at bay. "Not too much... not again."

But the aether didn't listen. It wanted him. It surged into his next bolt before he could isolate his bolt.

This time, when he fired, the blast was clean but massive. It spun in the air like a drill of light and struck Ronan square in the shoulder, flinging him across the arena with a brutal crunch.

The students watching lost it.

"By the dead gods!"

"Did you see that?!"

"Was that just a basic attack?!"

Ronan groaned, but stood, swaying slightly. "Not... done yet!"

He activated a speed skill, his boots flaring with light, and dashed forward, zigzagging to confuse Thorne's aim. He fired another round of bolts, each exploding in tight shotgun clusters.

Thorne ducked under one, rolled past another. Then came a direct hit, a bolt slamming into his side. Aetheric Skin absorbed the blow, but it sent pain lancing through his ribs. He staggered, barely dodging the follow-up.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Time slowed.

Deadzone Reflex.

Ronan's wand twitched, he was going for a rapid burst. Thorne moved, stepping into the pocket between two incoming blasts, his wand flaring with energy. He struck again, this time aiming for the ground beneath Ronan.

The blast lifted him off his feet in a shockwave of sand and heat.

Ronan crashed hard, his boots skidding across the arena floor. A spray of sand arced into the air, catching the sunlight like glass dust. He coughed, rolled and then snarled.

"Damn you!" he spat, furious now.

He slammed the base of his wand to the ground. A ripple of golden energy surged up his arm, Kinetic Surge, a force-amplifying skill. His body became a blur, his speed doubling.

Thorne took a step back, trying to regulate his breath. The Ashthorn wand throbbed in his grip, and once again, he could feel the ambient aether responding to him, pressing against his mind like eager hands, clawing to be let in. He clenched his jaw.

Not this time.

He closed his eyes briefly, just long enough to focus. Just long enough to listen.

The pulse of his core, the tether to his wand, the sea of aether motes in his mind's eye.

This time, when he raised his wand, he commanded the ambient aether: NO.

And for a breath, it obeyed.

He released the bolt.

It flew clean.

Still large, still bright but not overwhelming. The ground didn't explode beneath it. The air didn't fracture. It was precise. Contained.

It slammed into Ronan's left shoulder mid-dash, throwing off his footing and sending him stumbling sideways.

There were gasps from the sidelines.

Ronan roared in frustration, flicking his wand in a rapid arc. A skill-enhanced chain of three bolts ripped through the air, followed by a pulse of Force Step, sending him hurtling forward in a blink.

Thorne twisted low, narrowly dodging the first. The second clipped his shoulder, stinging but not debilitating. The third, he batted aside with a twist of his wand, a subtle counter-flick.

He took another breath.

Commanded the aether again.

The bolt formed, a bit tighter this time. Thorne could feel the tension in the air thinning, just slightly. As if the wild magic around him was watching, curious.

He released another shot.

The sand behind Ronan erupted like a landmine. He was sent tumbling through the air, rolling once, twice, before coming to a stop on his back, groaning.

Ronan's chest heaved. He coughed again and rolled onto his side. His uniform was half-singed, boots scorched at the soles. But he pushed himself up with trembling arms and screamed, "I'm not finished!"

Thorne arched an eyebrow. He had to give it to Ronan, annoying as he was, the man didn't give up easily, even with his body half scorched and bruised.

A final skill flared to life. Thorne saw the veins in Ronan's arms light up briefly with searing white light, feeding raw aether straight from his core into his next volley.

Three bolts, all fused into one.

A spear of energy.

Fast.

Thorne sidestepped, but too slow. The bolt struck him square in the chest, throwing him backward and slamming him into the edge of the arena wall. Dust billowed around him.

The crowd gasped.

Thorne blinked, his head ringing, but no pain. Aetheric Skin shimmered briefly over his body, the last layer of his defensive skill absorbing the worst of the blast. He staggered forward.

Enough.

Thorne decided it was time to stop playing. It had been fun, dragging out the fight, experimenting, practicing his dueling skills. But Ronan was starting to get on his nerves, and that last shot? It actually hurt.

That one was on him, for ignoring his skills when they screamed at him to move.

But now? Now it was over.

A smirk tugged at his lips as he shifted his stance, ready to end it.

He raised his wand a final time. This time, the aether didn't fight him. It leaned in. It obeyed.

One bolt.

Sharp.

Tight.

Silent.

It moved like a shadow and hit like thunder.

Ronan didn't see it coming. It hit him center mass and folded him in half midair before he dropped like a puppet with cut strings.

The arena went quiet.

Instructor Verrian stepped forward, his aether-formed hand crackling faintly.

He looked down on Ronan with a barely restrained smirk.

A groan.

"He's alive," the man declared. "Pity."

He turned his head. "Victory, Silverbane."

The students erupted, some cheering, some too stunned to speak. Others just stared at Thorne like he wasn't a person, but something else. Something made of fire and shadow and stormlight.

Thorne stood still, his chest rising slowly, the Ashthorne wand still humming faintly in his hand.

He'd done it.

He'd won.

And for the first time… he'd controlled it.

Just barely, but he had.

And the aether, for once, was quiet.

The crowd had begun to break apart by the time Thorne stepped off the arena's edge. The sand still clung to his boots, dusted over his uniform and the scorched hem of his pants, but he didn't mind. The air was brisk, sharp against his skin and filled with murmurs.

A few students, ones who hadn't bothered to look him in the eye yesterday, were now walking near him as the class dispersed into the cobbled paths beyond the colonnade. A boy with an angular nose and a bright orange sash jogged up beside him.

"That last shot, was that a spell enhancement? Or just the wand?" he asked, flushed with excitement.

Thorne glanced at him. "Just the wand."

"Dead gods," someone muttered behind them.

Another girl, shorter, pale-haired with glowing bracelets, leaned in. "Do you think Verrian will teach us that kind of control? The sigil compression you did mid-cast, I mean."

Thorne didn't answer. His gaze was forward, already tracking the flow of students toward the next tower where their upcoming lecture, Magical History and Arcane Law, was about to begin.

He wasn't sure if the aether around him felt lighter… or just quieter.

As the narrow path curved into view of the east wing staircases, the raised voices cut through the chatter like a blade.

"You're completely unreasonable!"

Elias.

Thorne's pace slowed. A few others did the same.

Just up ahead, at the foot of the stairs, Rowenna and Elias were squared off, facing each other with arms tense, eyes alight. Rowenna's back was stiff, chin raised, her dark hair whipping with every word. Elias stood with his arms half-lifted in disbelief, his staff strapped to his back.

"I said you were loud," Rowenna snapped, "not that it's surprising. You people have never been taught restraint."

"You people?" Elias barked, stepping forward. "I'm sorry, did you mean elves? Or is it just me you have a problem with?"

Rowenna crossed her arms. "I'm not going to pretend the last few centuries didn't happen."

Elias threw his hands up. "Gods above, do you ever stop reading history long enough to meet an actual person?"

"Maybe if that person didn't talk during every silence like they're allergic to thinking!"

Rowenna's expression twisted. "You think I don't know how this works?" she hissed, stepping forward. "You smile. You joke. Then your friends arrive. Then the favors start. Then the knives. Always the knives."

Elias blinked, thrown off by the sudden venom.

"What are you even?" he started.

"I've read the accounts," she said, louder now. "I've seen the histories. Don't pretend innocence when your kind burned our borderlands, when your High Houses turned whole villages to ash."

"That wasn't me!" Elias snapped. "I wasn't even alive!"

"You carry their blood," Rowenna said coldly. "You were born into the legacy of those who hunted us."

Elias stared at her, something close to disbelief forming in his face. "And you think that makes me what? A threat? A spy? Are you even listening to yourself?"

Rowenna opened her mouth, but for a moment no words came. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides. Her gaze flicked to the gathered students, then back to Elias, as if she couldn't decide whether she wanted to flee or double down.

Then she bit out, quieter, but no less sharp, "I don't trust you."

Students had gathered now. A low ring of first years and a few second-years who had either wandered by or caught wind of the raised voices. Some looked uncomfortable. Others were clearly enjoying the spectacle.

Thorne stepped through the crowd.

Rowenna's cheeks were flushed, not with embarrassment, but fury. Elias, meanwhile, looked both exasperated and amused, as if he couldn't decide whether to strangle her or laugh.

Thorne slipped in between them, just enough to lower the temperature.

"Should I start clapping or is there more?"

Rowenna stiffened. Elias blinked, then huffed. "Your timing's terrible, you know that?"

Thorne raised an eyebrow. "Seems perfect from where I'm standing."

Rowenna gave him a sharp glare, but it didn't carry the same venom as before. Still, her stance stayed rigid.

"She thinks I'm some sort of Thal Dorei spy or something," Elias muttered. "As if I have time for empire-building while failing basic spellcraft."

"I said nothing about spying," Rowenna snapped. "Just that I'm not naïve. Elven clans have been at war with Caledris for..."

"I'm not Thal Dorei!" Elias shot back, arms wide. "I'm from the stormcliffs, my tribe has never even seen a Caledrian coast."

The two continued trading barbs, until a second-year barked a warning from the stairs.

"Class bell's about to ring."

Thorne turned. Sure enough, the low hum of aether resonated from above. Their next lesson was moments away.

"Settle it later," Thorne said, already walking. "Or better yet, don't."

Rowenna fell silent. Elias made a face, then reluctantly followed.

They climbed the stairs, a few students casting glances at the pair as they fumed on opposite sides of the narrow stairwell.

Thorne just sighed.

Wonderful. Now he had two friends who might actually kill each other before midterms.

The classroom hummed with quiet tension.

Rowenna sat rigid in her seat, arms crossed, her jaw clenched so tight Thorne was certain her teeth would crack. Across the room, half a dozen elven students shot her sidelong glances, glares like sharpened icicles. Even the usually light-hearted Elias had gone tight-lipped and still. He stared ahead, but his pointed ears twitched, betraying his awareness of every unfriendly gaze leveled in his direction.

Rowenna didn't flinch. If anything, she welcomed their stares, her chin tilted up in that proud, defiant way of hers.

Thorne watched the exchange in silence, frowning slightly. Something's wrong with her, he thought.

She acted like a wild thing around people, sure, prickly, defensive, too blunt for most to stomach, but this? This was different. Around elves she went feral. And not just any elves, Elias.

It wasn't like her usual awkward coldness. It was something more guttural. Older. Like she was defending herself from ghosts only she could see.

And Elias… Gods, the boy could take a punch of any kind, verbal or otherwise, and throw a joke back without blinking. But even he looked wounded now. Not outwardly, not obviously, but Thorne had learned how to read cracks beneath smiles. It was a necessary skill, once.

He turned his gaze to the front, where chalk danced across the enchanted blackboard, sketching diagrams of fluctuating aether streams and leyline convergence points. The Professor, a willowy woman in flowing blue robes, spoke in a smooth monotone that betrayed no emotion, as if the very notion of drama among her students was beneath notice.

The diagrams shifted mid-sentence, showing an imbalance in the aether flow, a surge caused by overcasting, then a dead zone caused by overabsorption. The class scribbled furiously.

Thorne leaned back, not bothering to take notes. He had no trouble understanding the concepts. The balance of aether, give and take, pressure and release, the invisible current that sustained every spell ever cast. He could see it even now, with his vision peeled back. Ambient threads drifting like smoke, wrapping lazily around students and stones alike.

But his own aether refused to sit still. It pulsed beneath his skin, restless. The ambient aether responded to him with hungry eagerness, wanting to be used, to shape the world.

He exhaled through his nose. I need training. Proper training. Soon.

It wouldn't be long before his lack of control turned from a first-year curiosity into a real, visible threat.

He needed Marian.

He needed to stop playing pretend.

Across the aisle, Rowenna shifted in her seat, her stare still aimed like a blade at the back of Elias's head. Her fingers twitched.

Thorne looked away.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.