Thorne slid through the opened door, careful to ease it closed behind him. The latch clicked into place with a soft finality.

He stood still for a moment, letting his eyes and aether-sense adjust. The air here felt heavier, thick with stagnant power and the faint undercurrent of something older, fouler, than any magic he had felt in the academy's halls.

He shouldn't be here.

One wrong step, he thought, and they'll find me. Not just killed, expelled, named criminal, cut off from every lead I have left.

His fingers flexed around the hilt of the dead dagger, feeling the brittle chill of spent aether. He tucked it away before it could crumble and continued forward.

The corridor was dimly lit by a line of lanterns suspended in glass globes, each flickering with sickly blue light. They cast thin, crawling shadows over the walls, walls lined with iron-barred windows, narrow slits just wide enough to see what lay beyond.

He glanced in the first cell.

A creature, vaguely human in shape, lay sprawled on a pallet of cold stone. Its skin was the color of wax, eyes sunken and lidless. An array of runes carved into its flesh pulsed in time with its shallow breaths.

Thorne looked away before it could open its mouth and speak.

This place was worse than any dungeon he'd ever crept through. Worse even than the back halls of Uncle's strongholds, where silence and death had been everyday companions.

He walked on, each step slow, measured. Shadow Meld and Veil of Light and Shadow slid back over him like a second skin.

At every turn, he reminded himself he was insane.

Absolutely insane.

You're risking everything, he told himself. Your place here. Your chance at a life beyond knives and shadows. Your only hope of finding Bea.

And still he kept going.

Because in his marrow, below reason, below instinct, he knew he was meant to. He couldn't have turned back if he'd tried.

He passed another cell. This one held a cage lined with etched glass, containing a mass of glimmering insects fused into a single heaving shape. Its hundreds of glittering eyes tracked him as he moved, though he knew it couldn't see him.

He swallowed and forced himself past.

A flicker of motion up ahead made him stop cold.

Two battlemages patrolling the vault with the ease of men who had done this for years. They walked side by side, wands resting in loose grips. Their robes shimmered with woven protection spells.

Thorne pressed himself against the wall, breathing shallowly.

One of them glanced back, scanning the corridor behind them. He felt the prickle of detection spells brushing over him like cobwebs. He held still, calling on every ounce of control to keep the shadows clinging tight.

They passed without slowing.

Only when their footfalls faded did Thorne allow himself to exhale.

Mad.

He was mad.

Any one of them could end me with a word. And here I am, crawling in the dark.

He didn't turn back.

Instead, he moved on, deeper into the vault. Past cages that whispered to him, past doors barred in iron and rune-script. Each step felt more certain than the last.

I don't know how I know, he thought, but the one I'm looking for… they're here.

And he would find them.

No matter what it cost.

He moved like a phantom through the vault's labyrinthine corridors, his steps silent, his breath measured. The deeper he went, the colder the air became, tinged with the reek of old aether and something fouler. A damp, iron smell that clung to the back of his throat.

This place was a graveyard, though the bodies here still lived.

He passed row upon row of cages, each illuminated by a wavering lantern bound to the ceiling with chains etched in runes. Some cages held things that might once have been men, bodies bloated with tumors of living crystal, limbs replaced by chitinous growths that twitched and clattered against iron bars. Others held creatures he had no name for, only the certainty that they should not exist. One cell, half shrouded in darkness, held a mass of writhing tendrils, each tipped with a glistening human eye that tracked him as he passed.

His skin crawled, but he didn't stop.

None of them, he thought, a certainty settling over him like a weight. None of them are the one.

He didn't know how he knew. Only that he did.

His boots brushed a shallow layer of dust. Every so often, he felt the tug of wards woven into the walls, searching for intruders. But he was careful, letting the shadows cling to him. Shadow Meld softened his presence. Veil of Light and Shadow twisted the air to blind watching eyes. The illusions lapped over him like cold water.

Somewhere deeper. He had to go deeper.

He slipped around another corner, hugging the stone, and froze.

Two battlemages in dark robes walked abreast down the corridor, their footsteps crisp, their faces on alert as if they already knew someone was there.

Keep moving, Thorne willed them silently. Just keep...

One stopped.

His eye turned to slits glimmering as he studied the gloom.

A prickle crawled up Thorne's spine.

The mage lifted his wand and murmured something. Pale light pulsed, spreading like a ripple through the corridor.

The illusions clinging to Thorne, his safety shattered. The shadows peeled away, leaving him naked under their gaze.

All three of them froze.

His senses sharpened to a blade's edge.

Veil Sense flickered to life.

Level 81.

Level 59.

His throat went dry. He gripped his ashthorn wand tighter, the other hand shifting the balance of the dagger in his palm.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Two experienced battle mages against one...

Elderborn...

For a heartbeat, he considered surrender. But the thought was hollow before it finished forming. He'd rather die here than be dragged into one of those cages, studied, carved, unmade.

How fitting, he thought, a flicker of grim humor in the back of his mind. That I'll have to show them what they hunt.

The moment stretched between them, taut as a drawn wire.

One heartbeat.

Then the taller mage moved.

His wand carved a quick, precise arc in the air. A ring of runes flared to life around the tip, too fast for Thorne to read. His body reacted before his mind caught up, he dove sideways, rolling behind the curve of a stone pillar just as the air where he'd been detonated.

The blast punched through the corridor with a roar, heat licking his cheek even through the cover. Shards of splintered rock rattled across his shoulders. He landed on one knee, vision swimming, and heard the second mage call out in clipped, calm syllables. Another spell, this one meant to trap him, to bind his limbs in place while they finished the job.

Move.

He surged upright, snapping his free hand toward the floor. Threads of ambient aether wove between his fingers, answering his call. They lashed outward, not as weapons, but as anchors. He used them to wrench himself bodily behind another support beam, skidding across the cold flagstones in a blur of motion.

Light flared again. A net of brilliant blue crashed into the pillar where he'd crouched, burning holes through the stone. The heat prickled his skin, the edges of his cloak curling in the sudden wave of power.

They were coordinated. Efficient. Not wasting a moment.

Thorne's heart slammed against his ribs, but his mind was cold. Clear.

If they pin me down, I'm dead.

He raised the ashthorn wand, flicking it in a short motion that drew a crescent through the air. The ambient motes gathered along its length, pulled from the shadows, coiling around the tip.

The taller mage's head turned sharply, as if realizing too late what he was doing.

Thorne snapped his wrist down.

A burst of white-hot aether lanced toward them. Not a refined spell, just force, pure and vicious, enough to crack stone. It struck the floor between their feet, erupting in a shockwave that threw them both back. Robes flared around them as they stumbled, momentarily out of formation.

He didn't wait.

He lunged forward, knife reversed in his grip. Aether blurred the air around him, heightening every sense. He saw the taller mage plant his boots, raising his wand in a defensive sigil.

No.

Thorne willed the motes clinging to his skin to lash out, a ragged whip of force that struck the wand just as the mage spoke the final syllable of his incantation. The spell imploded in the mage's palm, searing his glove. The man grunted in pain, but didn't drop the weapon.

Before he could recover, Thorne drove low, slashing for the mage's thigh. The blade bit through enchanted fabric, scoring flesh beneath.

It wasn't deep enough.

The mage hissed and lashed out with his free hand, catching Thorne across the jaw with a backhand that rattled his skull. He reeled, ears ringing, but kept hold of his knife.

Keep moving.

He ducked as a line of crackling green energy flashed past his shoulder, the second mage had recovered.

The taller mage lifted his wand again, eyes narrowing. This time the incantation was longer, more deliberate.

Thorne knew he couldn't let it finish.

He braced himself and called on more.

Aether rushed to him, filling his veins like molten glass. The corridor brightened, motes swarming around him.

He raised his wand in return, teeth bared in a snarl.

The air exploded as the mages raised their wands, casting in unison. Twin spears of emerald light raced toward him, binding spells designed to cripple and paralyze. Thorne hurled his will out like a net, drawing the ambient aether in the corridor to him. The motes screamed across his skin, bright and hot, and collided with the spells.

A flash of green and white. The projectiles shredded into sparks.

The mages stiffened.

They hadn't expected a student to deflect battle spells. Not here. Not like that.

But Thorne didn't give them time to wonder.

He lunged forward, targeting the weakest of the two. The battlemage raised a hand, drawing a circle in the air, a shield in the making.

Too slow.

Deadzone Reflex.

The world lurched to a crawl. Color drained from everything. Sound faded into a low, throbbing heartbeat.

He had maybe two seconds.

His dagger flared as he poured the last of the ambient aether into it, Aether Binding, raw and imperfect.

He willed it into one purpose: Break.

The moment time snapped back, he hurled the blade.

The shield came up, brilliant and solid, and vanished as the dagger passed through it like a knife through gauze.

It struck the mage between the eyes. The man's mouth opened in a silent scream, and then he hit the floor without a sound.

A scream tore the air.

The second battle mage, the Level 81, thrust his wand forward. A river of condensed red aether surged for Thorne, hot enough to sear flesh from bone.

Thorne braced, ready to counter...

But the ashthorn wand in his hand reacted on its own.

It flared black and white, jets of spiraling aether racing down its length. They didn't meet the red beam head-on. They curved around it, strangling it, smothering it before it could touch him.

Thorne and the mage stared at each other over the sudden silence, both equally shocked.

The mage was the first to move.

But Thorne was faster.

Invisible Threads lashed out, Aether Manipulation, drawn fine as hair. They wrapped around the mage's limbs, binding him tight. He yanked the man forward, so hard his boots skidded over the stone.

The scream never came.

Thorne's hand rose, palm open.

A condensed Aether Burst exploded into the man's face.

Blood welled from the mage's nose, eyes, mouth. His wand clattered to the ground.

Still breathing.

Not for long.

Thorne drew another dagger from his boot, his own breath ragged. He stepped in close, shoved the blade into the man's eye, and twisted.

The skull gave with a crunch.

Then there was only silence again.

For a long moment, Thorne stood over the bodies, breathing in ragged gasps. The iron tang of blood mixed with the sour sting of spent aether. His hand trembled as he pulled the dagger free, the steel slick and dark.

Two battlemages.

Two men he had just slaughtered in cold blood. Not street enforcers or guild muscle, Aetherhold's own.

And worse, he hadn't been subtle. The corridor was scorched and cratered, crackling with fading strands of disrupted wards. Anyone with half a shred of talent would sense the disturbance.

He swallowed, the taste of copper rising in his throat.

You should run.

His pulse thundered as the weight of it settled over him. The reality. The consequences. No clever lie or hidden sigil would erase this. Even if he slipped out tonight, Aetherhold would comb every stone of the mountain until they found out who was responsible.

They would hunt him.

You should leave.

He turned away from the corpses, forcing his shaking legs to move. He should be heading for the exit. Should be climbing back toward the surface, already plotting how he would cover his tracks.

Instead, he broke into a run, deeper into the vault.

No time for stealth now.

He sprinted past black-iron doors etched in warding runes, past cells that reeked of old rot and worse things. The lanterns blurred by, trailing pale light. He didn't look into the cages anymore. Couldn't.

But even as he ran, something in him knew, this was right. This was why he was here. Why he had risked everything.

Because that invisible thread was still pulling at him.

Find them.

He rounded a corner and his stride faltered, nearly tripping.

There were fewer cages here, but the things in them were worse.

One cell held something that might once have been a man but had long since lost any claim to humanity.

It crouched low on the floor, its limbs grotesquely elongated, each finger ending in hooked talons that scraped against the stone. Its skin was patchwork, stitched seams of different textures and colors, some scaled like a lizard, others pale and pocked with black sigils that pulsed faintly with sick light. Where its face should have been, there was only a mass of overlapping bone plates, cracked and re-fused over and over, as if someone had broken them apart to see how many ways they could heal wrong.

The thing lifted its head as he passed, the seams of its skull creaking. From somewhere deep in its mismatched chest came a shuddering, wet rasp, like an exhale that had forgotten how to end.

For one frozen moment, Thorne thought it might lunge against the bars or spit some curse in a voice stolen from a hundred broken throats.

Instead, it only watched.

He stumbled past, heart thudding so hard it hurt.

Keep going.

Deeper. Always deeper.

The passage narrowed into a corridor lined on both sides with cells cut straight into the rock. Simple iron bars, dark with age. Hundreds of tiny runes etched into every inch of the metal, glowing faintly with dormant power.

Most were empty.

He slowed, forcing himself to breathe, to listen.

No alarms yet. No shouting. But he could feel time running thin, seconds bleeding away.

At last he stopped in front of the only occupied cage.

Every part of him went still.

He didn't know how he knew, only that he did.

This was the one.

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