Thorne dressed in silence.

His uniform felt too bright, too precise for the way he was thinking.

Sky blue wool, crisp and severe. The sigil of Aetherhold stitched over the heart in silver thread, a wand crossed with a sword, encircled by a seven-pointed star.

He fastened the high collar, feeling the smooth fabric under his fingers, and thought about the vault. About the blood. About the way the corruption had flowed so easily to his hand, as if it had been waiting for him all along.

He thought about the sponsorship letter, and the gilded leash it offered.

He thought about Varo. About the way that letter had felt like a hand pressing lightly against the back of his neck.

He was so lost in it he nearly forgot to breathe.

With a slow exhale, he turned to the narrow table by the window. His satchel was already packed, thick leather, intricate stitching. He tucked in his quills, the old ledger he'd taken to using as a notebook, the thin case of powdered chalk.

Last of all, he lifted Ashthorn from its resting place, running his thumb along the etched length of the wand.

He didn't know if it was reassurance or a new habit.

The holster on his thigh closed around the wand with a soft click.

Only then did he swing the satchel over his shoulder and step into the hall.

He barely saw where he was going.

The common room of House Umbra was alive with motion. Students in dark coats and drifting violet sashes moved in small groups, carrying stacks of tomes or whispering incantations to floating quills. A darkling girl with hair like polished onyx had a brace of tiny animated orbs hovering around her head, each flickering with shifting runes. A boy in spectacles traced symbols in the air, coaxing his satchel to levitate obediently at his shoulder.

Someone brushed past him with a murmured apology, their books bobbing in the air like fat, docile birds.

He passed through the common room, its violet lanterns shedding soft pools of light over the familiar furniture. A dozen conversations tangled around him, none of them loud enough to drown out the noise in his own head.

They could still find out.

They could be waiting right now.

His heart gave a small, traitorous lurch.

He kept walking.

The threshold of the Convergence Room yawned before him, vast and echoing. The great sigil wheel turned overhead in slow, ponderous silence, its runes shedding faint, shifting light across the inlaid floor.

It was only when he crossed into the open space that he realized he was hungry.

His steps faltered.

The bell hadn't sounded yet. He still had time.

Fine.

He turned, adjusting his grip on the satchel strap, and set off for the Astral Hall.

The corridors grew wider as he walked, ceiling vaulting high above columns carved with ancient script. Older students streamed past in small knots and pairs, bright in their house colors. A red-haired boy in the red emblem of Ignis flicked a finger, sending a row of battered textbooks floating neatly into the air behind him. A girl in the black and teal of House Aegis gestured at a parchment that hovered obediently over her shoulder, the ink adjusting itself line by line as she dictated under her breath.

A pair of upperclassmen strolled by, their boots never touching the ground, each standing on a polished disc of hardened aether that carried them along like a drifting platform.

If Thorne hadn't been so exhausted, he might have laughed.

All this magic, and they still used it for convenience.

The Astral Hall's vast doors were already open, a soft buzz of voices and the scent of warm bread drifting into the corridor.

He stepped inside, scanning the rows of long tables.

Isadora and Lucien were easy to spot, settled at the Caledris table among a crowd of familiar silhouettes. Vivienne sat with them, her hair pinned up in elaborate coils, and Ronan leaned back with that self-satisfied smirk that made Thorne's teeth itch.

No.

He didn't want to talk to them today.

His gaze flicked further, searching...

... and found Elias.

The elf was seated alone at the Aegis table, long fingers cradling a cup of tea. He looked up now and then to watch the morning commotion with a wry, distant interest.

A few seats down, Rowenna was reading with one hand and munching something crusty with the other. She waved her wand absently, rotating slowly as she whispered something under her breath.

Without thinking too hard about it, Thorne started toward them.

He reached Elias's side and dropped into the empty space on the bench.

The Aegis students nearest them stilled, their conversation faltering into an expectant hush.

Thorne looked at them in challenge, one brow arched.

"I'm an Aegis honorary student during breakfast," he announced flatly.

Several blinks. A cough.

Then Elias chuckled, low and warm, shaking his head.

"You know," he murmured, amusement dancing at the corner of his mouth, "I'm beginning to think you might actually enjoy causing a stir."

Elias set his teacup down and leaned an elbow on the table, studying Thorne with an expression that was far too knowing.

"So," he drawled, "are you planning to explode the classroom again today, or will you save that for a more dramatic occasion?"

Thorne made a face. "It was one time."

Elias's brows lifted. "Twice, if we're being technical. The demonstration in Arcane Fundamentals & Spellcasting didn't exactly stay contained."

"That was a containment circle failure," Thorne protested. "Not my fault."

Elias nodded solemnly, though his mouth twitched. "Mmm. So you say."

"Are you enjoying this?"

"Immensely." Elias sipped his tea with exaggerated delicacy. "I don't get to witness a rising legend up close every morning. Some of us have to live vicariously."

"Tragic."

"Truly." Elias leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "If you do decide to obliterate the classroom again, could you please warn me? I'll need time to retrieve my books."

Thorne pressed his lips together, trying not to smile. He lifted a hand, catching Rowenna's attention a few seats down. She looked up from her book, blinking at him.

He gestured for her to join them.

Her gaze flicked to Elias, then back to Thorne. Slowly, she shook her head.

And turned her back, pointedly.

Thorne sighed. "You're making friends wherever you go, I see."

Elias lifted his cup in a toast. "It's a gift."

Before Thorne could reply, the Astral Hall doors slammed open with a sound like a thunderclap.

He jolted, nearly knocking over the salt cellar.

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A hush fell across the chamber, as though every student had forgotten how to breathe.

A small army of battle mages stepped through the doorway, at least two dozen, clad in white aetherweave, each bearing silver insignia. Their faces were smooth as carved stone, eyes scanning the hall with unsettling calm.

They stood there for a long moment. Watching.

Thorne's pulse lurched, slamming against his ribs so hard he thought he might be sick.

They're here for me.

They know.

They've come to drag me out in chains.

He fought to keep his expression smooth, reaching instinctively for the skills he had worn like armor all his life, Acting and Mask of Deceit.

On the outside, he was motionless, the picture of mild curiosity.

Inside, he was a single heartbeat away from bolting.

Elias speared a forkful of eggs and chewed thoughtfully, watching the mages fan out.

"What do you think this is about?" he asked in the same tone one might use to discuss the weather.

Thorne forced a shrug, though he thought his shoulders might crack under the tension. "No idea."

From the corner of his eye, he saw the professors arriving, half a dozen figures in sweeping robes and stoles embroidered with aetheric sigils. They entered with measured calm, ignoring the battle mages as though they were nothing more than an inconvenient draft.

Among them was Marian, her silver hair was standing on end as if she had been on the back of a dragon and hadn't had the time to comb through them, her stride measured.

Thorne's gaze locked on her, searching for any flicker of recognition, any shift in her expression that would tell him whether she knew.

But her face was carved from serenity. If she noticed the soldiers or the way half the hall was watching her, she gave no sign.

She took her seat at the professors' table, folding her hands neatly on the polished wood. A moment later, she leaned in to murmur something to the older man beside her. He chuckled, as if she'd shared nothing more consequential than an observation about the breakfast rolls.

The hush in the hall deepened.

The battle mages began to move, weaving through the rows of tables in small, silent groups. They walked with the unhurried deliberation of predators, their eyes sweeping the benches, pausing now and then on a face before moving on.

They passed so close to Thorne he could see the faint gleam of runic etching on the iron circlets at their throats.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Every student seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the moment when one of those heavy gauntlets would descend on someone's shoulder.

Any second now, Thorne thought. Any second, they'll call my name.

But the mages kept walking.

And no hand came.

He stayed as still as the dead, pulse hammering in his throat.

The minutes stretched thin and sharp.

And still, no one spoke his name.

The battle mages left as abruptly as they'd arrived.

One moment they were circling the hall like wolves. The next, they were filing back through the great doors in perfect silence, the heavy panels swinging shut behind them.

It was as if someone had lifted a glass dome off the entire room.

All around him, students exhaled in unison, a collective, ragged sigh of relief.

Thorne's shoulders loosened by a fraction. He scanned the professors' table again, searching Marian's face for any hint she'd known why the mages had come. But she was already leaning toward the older professor beside her again, her expression composed, lips moving in what looked like easy conversation.

If she knew anything, she wasn't sharing it.

At the far end of the Aegis table, Rowenna stood, slipping her book into her bag with precise, clipped motions. Without looking back, she started toward the exit.

"Let's go," Thorne muttered, already standing. He needed to move. Sitting still any longer would drive him mad.

Elias groaned as he pushed himself up. "Fine," he sighed. "Let's go destroy a classroom."

Thorne quickened his steps to catch up with Rowenna, weaving around a trio of murmuring Caledris students. Elias trailed after him, muttering under his breath about "self-righteous short women with death glares."

Thorne caught up just as Rowenna passed through the archway into the corridor.

"So," he asked, keeping his tone casual even as his pulse refused to settle, "what do you think that was about?"

Rowenna looked over her shoulder, brows arching.

"Who knows? It's the Enforcers. Could be a million different things," she said, ticking them off on her fingers as she walked. "Someone smuggling contraband aether. A failed summoning in the lower labs. Or maybe they just came to scare everyone into behaving."

Elias snorted behind them. "Or maybe they were here to collect a Caledris student who couldn't help but cause a scene. It does seem to be your specialty."

Rowenna's steps slowed. She turned her head just enough to glare at him. "Excuse me?"

He smiled pleasantly. "You all do have a reputation for… dramatics."

Rowenna's mouth flattened into a thin line. "Says the Thal Dorei who think wearing silver embroidery makes them better than everyone else."

Elias lifted a brow, his voice still smooth as cream. "It's not the embroidery. It's the fact that we have standards."

"Standards," she echoed, her tone poisonous. "Is that what you call never getting your hands dirty while other kingdoms bled for the borders you claimed?"

Thorne felt the air tighten.

Elias's smile sharpened. "Careful. We might be at peace in this place, but history has a long memory."

Rowenna's eyes gleamed. "Good. Maybe you'll remember which side you were on the next time your High Council decides to pretend it never happened."

The silence between them pulsed, sharp as a blade's edge.

Thorne exhaled slowly, fighting the urge to knock their heads together.

Thorne rubbed at his temple. "Get a room already," he muttered.

Somehow, because of course they did, they both heard him.

Two pairs of eyes swung to glare at him in perfect synchronization.

He ignored them, lengthening his stride.

They reached the classroom for Arcane Fundamentals & Spellcasting just as the last of the students were filing inside. Thorne stepped onto the hovering platform, finding a seat near the back.

Rowenna took the chair on his left, dropping her satchel with a dull thud. Elias slid into the one on his right, still pretending to nurse an injured sense of dignity.

For reasons he couldn't fathom, the seats directly in front of him remained conspicuously empty.

It happened only once, Thorne thought, scowling. Once.

Professor Nayeli Vorr emerged from the curtained archway at the front of the room, her pale robe whispering over the polished floor.

Her sightless eyes, though Thorne was fairly certain they weren't truly sightless, swept the class in a slow, deliberate arc.

"Today," she began, her voice carrying with the effortless authority of someone who had never needed to raise it, "we will begin practical exercises in levitation."

A ripple of apprehension passed through the room.

"Mastery of the illumination spell is expected, but it will have to be done on your own time," Vorr continued calmly, folding her hands at her waist. "Though I remind you, mastery does not mean perfection. It means understanding. You are to practice until you can summon light without… incidents."

Her gaze drifted across the students, finally coming to rest on Thorne.

Her blank eyes fixed on him with unnerving precision.

"At the very least," she added, her voice mild as drifting snow, "you will refrain from setting your classmates on fire."

Thorne felt something in him shrivel.

Oh, come on.

To his right, Elias made no attempt to hide his laughter, his shoulders shaking.

Thorne slanted him a look that promised retribution.

Elias just smiled beatifically and rested his chin on his hand.

Professor Vorr lifted one long-fingered hand.

"Open your primers," she intoned, "to page thirty-two."

There was the soft rustle of parchment and the occasional muffled groan as students flipped to the correct spot.

Once the noise subsided, Vorr began to pace slowly across the hovering platform, her sightless gaze moving over them all.

"The levitation spell," she began, "is a foundational cantrip you will encounter in nearly every discipline, from Elemental Manipulation to Combat Theory. Mastering it is not simply a matter of academic pride; it is a matter of basic competence."

She lifted her hand again, demonstrating the first movement, slow and precise.

"Your gestures," she continued, "must be fluid but deliberate. Any hesitation will disrupt the shaping of the aether. The incantation is simple, only two words, but your pronunciation must be exact. Sloppiness will result in misfires or, worse, uncontrolled discharge."

Her expression remained serene as she walked.

"The benefits are obvious: the ability to lift and manipulate objects at a distance. Initially, you will manage only small, light things, a quill, a parchment, a candle."

She paused, letting her gaze sweep the benches.

"But with practice, you will increase your capacity. Heavier weights. Longer durations. Finer control."

A faint smile touched her mouth, humorless and dry.

"Of course," she added, "you will not be levitating mountains. Or your classmates. Or yourselves. Attempting any of these will earn you a week in Detention and, likely, a visit to the infirmary."

A low chuckle rippled across the room, though Thorne didn't join in.

He was still thinking of the Enforcers, their silent circling of the hall.

Vorr turned to the board behind her and extended a hand.

She didn't pick up a piece of chalk. She didn't need one.

Her fingertip trailed luminous lines across the dark surface, letters forming in graceful strokes of aether-light:

Levitation (Basic Form) — Gesture Sequence — Incantation: Vir Ascend — Focal Sigils

Below the headings, she added neat columns of instructions, short notes on posture and concentration, and finally the two sigils themselves, interlocking crescents wrapped around a single vertical line.

"Begin," Vorr said simply.

Thorne exhaled, rubbing his temples.

He looked down at his book, only half-seeing the diagrams.

His quill scratched across the page in slow, distracted lines as he copied the instructions. When he finished, he read them over twice before the words began to actually register.

Gesture. Chant. Trace the first sigil in your mind. Draw aether. Anchor.

He studied the symbols, committing their shapes to memory. They were straightforward enough, nothing particularly elegant, just the clean geometry of a beginner's spell.

Beside him, Elias was already at it, moving his large staff in cautious arcs as if afraid he might break something.

Thorne propped his chin on his hand, watching the tip of Elias's staff waver.

With a sigh, he straightened, pointing his wand at the quill beside his primer.

"Vir Ascend," he murmured, his voice low but clear.

He traced the first sigil in the air, feeling the faint pull as his core responded. The second followed, the lines glowing briefly in his aether vision.

Ambient aether crowded around him, brushing up against the surface of his awareness, eager to assist.

Not today, he thought sourly, shooing it away.

He preferred to rely on his own power.

With a final flick, a thin burst of aether leapt from the tip of Ashthorn.

The quill lifted into the air, hovering a few inches above the table.

He jolted, not because of his success but what came next...

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