They moved past the bodies in silence.

Thorne paused long enough to gather the swirling motes into a tight sphere, forcing them into cohesion. The corruption resisted, fighting to seep into every current it touched, but he held it fast, shaping it into something dense and terrible.

A ball of rotting aether hovered above their heads, shedding faint, sickly wisps into the air.

Beside him, Zarash walked like a man half-dreaming. His gaze kept drifting to the sphere, then back to Thorne, eyes shining and unreadable.

They reached the heavy double doors, cold iron, etched with lines of script and warding circles.

Thorne didn't slow. He stopped only long enough to glance at Zarash, voice low.

"Open it."

Zarash blinked, as if pulled from a stupor.

"There are no defenses?" he asked warily.

"Yeah," Thorne said, jaw tight. "I deactivated them when I came in."

He nodded to the handles.

"Now open the door."

He was straining, every thought focused on keeping the corrupted motes contained. The power wanted to unspool, to spread into the walls, the air, anything it could touch.

Zarash hesitated only a heartbeat before he stepped forward. His claws wrapped around the handles, and with a grunt, he pulled.

The doors creaked open, a gust of cold night air rushing in to meet them.

Thorne didn't wait. He slipped through the gap, the ball of motes drifting behind him like a malevolent lantern.

Once Zarash was clear, he released his hold.

The corrupted motes spilled outward, dispersing through the doorway in a slow, roiling cloud.

Anyone who tried to follow would find the same end as the others.

Zarash stepped into the open air and stopped, head tilting back.

Above them, the sky stretched out black and endless, spattered with stars. Aetherhold loomed overhead, its lower tiers glinting with lights that looked impossibly far away.

Zarash inhaled deeply, as if he couldn't quite believe it was real.

His voice was low when he spoke.

"I have to admit," he said slowly, "I never thought I'd be free again."

He looked over, golden eyes reflecting the starlight.

"No one escapes the Purifiers."

He paused, studying Thorne's face.

"Thank you," he said finally. "The Sathal Enclave owes you a debt."

The last words were spoken with quiet, absolute seriousness.

Thorne inclined his head in return.

"We should get going," he said. "No doubt more will be coming."

But Zarash didn't move.

He watched Thorne in a long, measuring silence.

"Thorne," he said at last, "your ability to manipulate the aether is… astonishing. I've never seen anything like it. The faction leader would want to meet you. An elderborn like you..."

He let the words trail off.

Something in Thorne went still.

And then rage, sharp and sudden flared in his chest.

He took a single step forward, every motion deliberate.

His eyes brightened, blue light spilling over Zarash's startled face.

"You will tell no one about me."

Zarash stepped back, hands rising in surrender.

"Okay, okay! I won't!" His voice cracked. "I swear on the dead gods."

The rage shivered in Thorne's chest, hungry. For a moment, he almost let it burn through him.

Then he forced a slow breath past his teeth.

He reined it in.

"Good," he muttered.

He turned, scanning the platform.

"Now let's get the hell out of here."

But Zarash didn't follow.

A faint smile crept over his face, tired and strangely warm.

"This is where our paths separate," he said.

Thorne frowned.

"You're not coming along?"

Zarash shook his head.

"Nah." He glanced back at the vault doors. "I have to make my own way out of here. Maybe it's hard for you to believe, but I'm pretty good at it. I had practice my whole life."

Thorne studied him for a long moment.

"You do know," he said flatly, "you're on a floating mountain. Inside a school where every inch is spelled and warded."

Zarash chuckled softly.

"Oh, you care about me. That's touching."

His grin widened when Thorne narrowed his eyes.

"But don't worry," he said. "Now that I'm out of that place, I can find my way."

Thorne folded his arms.

"I care about you being an idiot," he said evenly. "An idiot who would get captured again and spill my identity."

Zarash looked almost affronted.

"I would never betray one of us," he snapped. "I will protect your identity with my life. Even if you are a scary bastard."

Thorne scoffed.

"Says the lizard man."

Zarash bared his teeth in a wide, sharp grin.

"I'll see you again, elderborn."

He turned and started running, moving with a fluid, animal grace that belied his bulk.

Within seconds, he vanished into the shadows.

Thorne stood alone in the cold night air, watching the darkness where Zarash had gone.

He drew a long, steady breath, feeling the last tension ease out of his shoulders.

Then he turned his back on the vault and started walking.

Thorne woke with a start.

For a moment, he didn't know where he was.

His eyes traced the ceiling, plain white plaster, a single hairline crack branching above the narrow bed.

The events of last night pressed in at once, vivid and surreal.

Marian's pale smile. The Red Waste with its endless shifting dunes. The howls of the aether beasts circling in the dark.

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The vault.

Zarash's rough-scaled hand gripping his arm. The battle mages crumpling like puppets with cut strings. The taste of raw power, cold and addictive, unspooling in his blood.

His new ability.

Entropy Breath.

Even remembering it made his heartbeat shift, a slow, dangerous thrum in his chest.

He swallowed, turning his head to the window.

Twilight bled across the sky, that same impossible spectrum of color, violet and ochre, streaked with the pale glimmer of distant stars and moving planets. The Umbra house never truly knew day or night. Only this perpetual, enchanted dusk.

It looked almost peaceful.

He blinked sleep from his eyes, forcing himself upright.

Somehow, he still couldn't say exactly how, he'd made it.

He had survived the vault.

Walked the length of the eastern causeway with nothing but a torn coat and the memory of twenty dead mages at his back.

Every step he'd expected to hear the tramp of boots behind him, the bark of orders. To feel cold iron slam around his wrists.

But the Purifiers never came.

He'd slipped through the halls of the academy, past silent chambers and dozing ward-lights, until he reached the common room, so normal it almost hurt. A low fire guttering in the hearth. The common room deserted.

No one saw him as he crossed the threshold.

No one saw the corruption clinging to his skin.

He was still free.

He let out a slow breath, pressing a palm to his chest as if to reassure himself the moment hadn't been a fever dream.

A knock shattered the fragile quiet.

He jerked upright, hand already reaching for a dagger that wasn't there.

Instead, his fingers closed around Ashthorn, the wand cold and familiar against his palm.

He stood, moving in silence to the door.

He cracked it open just an inch, the wand hidden behind the frame.

His heart slowed when he saw what waited.

A humanoid aether construct stood in the corridor, seven feet tall, vaguely human in shape, its surface a smooth lattice of pale motes and brass fittings. Soft light pulsed where its face should have been.

It held a polished metal tray in both hands.

On the tray sat a single envelope.

Thorne let out a slow, careful exhale.

"For me?" he asked.

The construct didn't respond. It simply stood there, motionless.

He supposed it couldn't answer.

With a muttered curse, he pushed the door wider and plucked the envelope from the tray.

The construct didn't so much as tilt its head.

"Thanks," he added dryly, though he doubted it understood.

The moment his fingers closed around the letter, the construct pivoted with fluid, silent precision and began gliding down the corridor.

He watched it until it turned the corner and vanished.

Only then did he shut the door, sliding the bolt into place.

He crossed to the small wooden desk tucked against the wall. The single chair creaked under his weight as he sat, laying Ashthorn within easy reach.

He studied the envelope.

No seal. No name.

Just a single strip of red wax, pressed flat.

His thumb hesitated over the flap.

What now?

But there was no sense waiting.

He tore it open and began to read.

[Letter One: The Empire of the First Light – Formal Sponsorship Offer]

Imperial Seal of the First Light Imperial Sponsorship Edict — Article 47/22

To Thorne Silverbane,

Upon thorough examination of your talents, conduct, and emergent affinities, the Empire of the First Light hereby extends formal sponsorship under Imperial Charter. You are invited to accept this patronage and, by doing so, bind yourself to the privileges and expectations enumerated herein.

Confirmed Benefits upon Acceptance:

Immediate relocation to the Imperial Wing of Aetherhold, including a private suite and adjoining study sanctum.

Assignment of a personal retinue of three (3) bonded servants to attend your daily requirements.

Access to the Imperial Archives, including restricted vault collections.

Weekly instruction from certified Magi Primaris in the following disciplines: Temporal Aetherics, Null Geometry, Runic Sovereignty, and Elemental Sovereignty.

Annual stipend of ten thousand imperial aurei.

Conferment of an estate in the Imperial Capital, with hereditary rights.

The formal rank of Initiate-Savant, recognized throughout all Imperial territories.

A personal escort of two Imperial Wardens when traveling beyond sanctioned grounds.

Quarterly excursions to Imperial territories and ancient Convergences specifically selected to accelerate personal leveling and skill progression, with priority access to rare aetheric anomalies.

A personal Aetheric Artificer assigned to craft and maintain custom weapons, attire, and focus implements to complement your evolving abilities.

Invitation to the Imperial Symposium of Ascendant Magi, an exclusive gathering held once per year where the most powerful practitioners exchange techniques, rare spellforms, and sealed knowledge not available in any archive.

Mandated Commitments and Conditions:

Attendance at the Imperial Curriculum, including no less than twelve hours of structured study per day.

Mandatory participation in all ceremonial functions and assemblies pertaining to the Empire's interests.

Restriction of unsupervised contact with students or visitors affiliated with rival powers, including but not limited to the Kingdom of Anserath, the Free Dominions, and the Collegium of Dawn.

Obligation to wear sanctioned Imperial attire and sigils denoting your allegiance at all times while in public spaces.

Submission to quarterly Evaluative Scrutiny, including core resonance assessments.

Prohibition from engaging in any unauthorized study or practice of classified aetheric branches.

Commitment to adhere to Imperial decorum and conduct, as set forth in Imperial Doctrine 92.

Consent to Imperial recall at any time deemed necessary for State interests.

Your signature below will confirm acceptance of this sponsorship and all stipulations attached thereto.

We await your favorable response.

May your service illuminate the way. — Archmagus Cael Otheryn, Imperial Scribe of Patronage — First Consul Idran Vey, For His Radiance the Sovereign

Imperial Seal affixed below in scarlet wax: a rising sun over the Crown of Thorns.

[Letter Two: Varo's Personal Note]

Dearest Thorne,

I trust this little package finds you in suitable spirits, though I do imagine your head must be rather crowded this morning.

You will note the enclosed document, so resplendent in its wax and flourish, so eager to make your acquaintance in every corner of your life. I should commend them for efficiency. They are very good at counting what they own. You should be flattered.

Still, some among us find that lists of expectations and parades of titles are not always the best fit. There are other arrangements. Quieter. Older. More… adaptable.

Consider, if you will, that you were never fashioned for corridors and ceremonies. Some doors are made to open. Some to be broken. Others… well, others never quite shut behind you.

You have certain aptitudes, aptitudes that no curriculum can refine. Needs you have not yet named. A hunger you will pretend not to feel until the hour you do.

When last we spoke, the threads of your fate were a delicate braid. In the interim, you have… tangled them impressively. It took no small effort to ensure your extracurricular endeavors were unencumbered by consequence.

Ah, but the blood remembers, doesn't it? And sometimes it is wiser for the mind to forget.

For what it is worth, you were quite remarkable, even from a distance.

I would counsel you, softly, that declining the Empire's generosity may prove… unwise. Not simply for your potential. But for your continued pulse.

After all, even a star requires a horizon to climb.

I remain, as ever, a curious observer of your ascent.

Varo

Third Light of the Empire

Thorne stared at the first letter for a long time.

The thick parchment smelled faintly of sage and old ink, like something pulled from a vault that hadn't felt daylight in centuries.

He read the benefits twice, each line more absurd than the last.

A private suite. Personal servants. A stipend big enough to buy half a city block. An estate in the capital. A title. An artificer on retainer. Invitations to gatherings where the most dangerous people in the Empire whispered secrets over crystal goblets.

On the surface, it was everything any young mage could dream of.

Power. Access. Prestige.

And all it would cost was everything that made him himself.

He could see it too clearly, the life they wanted him to live. Twelve hours a day of sanctioned lessons, of recitations and supervised duels and decorum drills. Obligatory dinners with prattling nobles. Gold-threaded robes and jeweled sigils marking him as property.

A very well-kept, very pampered prisoner.

His jaw flexed.

He set the first letter down and picked up the second.

Varo's precise, elegant handwriting was foreign and yet instantly familiar. He read it slowly, though the words felt more like a voice whispering directly into the back of his mind than anything truly written.

Some doors are made to open. Some to be broken.

He exhaled through his nose.

Even on paper, Varo had that same unsettling quality, too perceptive, too smooth. The letter was a net woven from compliments, riddles, and quiet threats.

The mention of his "extracurricular activities" sent a fresh, cold weight sliding down his spine.

He'd told himself that surviving the vault had been his doing. His planning. His will.

The idea that it might have been otherwise... That someone had been observing him from the dark, tracking every step he took, anticipating every decision...

Made something in his chest twist.

He replayed the night in his mind, the way the corridors had seemed emptier than they should have been, the way no alarms ever reached him, the uncanny silence when he slipped back into the common room as if nothing had happened.

Was that really luck?

Or had Varo been there, unseen, pulling threads Thorne never noticed?

Could he track him so easily? Watch him? Hear him?

Had every choice been shadowed by another hand?

The thought didn't bring relief.

It didn't even bring anger.

It brought something quieter, deeper. A dread that felt like a hollow under his ribs.

Because if Varo could intervene without leaving a trace...

If he could tilt the scales so subtly Thorne never realized...

then nothing he did was ever truly his alone.

And the thought that he might have walked out of that vault alive not because he was clever or strong but because someone else had decided he should…

That was worse than any defeat.

Thorne's mouth tightened. So Varo had been watching. Probably more closely than he could guess.

And that final line...

Declining the Empire's generosity may prove… unwise. Not simply for your potential. But for your continued pulse.

His pulse was steady now, but his core wasn't. It thrummed in his chest, a dull, restless ache, like it remembered Varo's touch and hadn't decided whether it craved it or despised it.

He looked again at the Imperial sponsorship.

Everything in his life had taught him the same lesson, nothing offered freely came without a chain attached.

And yet…

Part of him, the part he hated most, wondered what it would feel like to stop running. To have rooms and books and tutors. To grow stronger without having to steal and murder and crawl through shadows.

He ground his teeth and set the papers side by side.

Freedom, he thought. He promised me freedom.

But which of them had meant it?

The Empire, with its contracts and gilded cages?

Or Varo, with his smiling menace and unspoken promises?

He didn't trust either.

And he couldn't ignore either.

Thorne rubbed a hand over his eyes, exhaustion creeping back in now that the adrenaline was gone.

You've tangled them impressively, Varo had written. The threads of your fate.

No. Not tangled. Snarled.

And whichever thread he pulled next…

He suspected it would unravel the rest.

He drew a slow breath, folding the letters carefully.

Whatever he decided, he knew one thing.

He was running out of time to choose.

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